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Karma of Untruthfulness I
GA 173a

10 December 1916, Dornach

Lecture III

In order to examine, from our point of view, the subject we are dealing with at present, we must never lose sight of the manner in which spiritual-scientific observation—with all its significance for mankind's development in the fifth post-Atlantean period and for the preparation of the sixth—makes its appearance. For without paying attention to how materialistic man today is negligent with regard to a spiritual-scientific observation of the world, we cannot proceed to the source of present-day events. As a starting point for further discussions I want to show you the manner in which, in some individuals, a kind of compulsion comes about to look up to those worlds with which our spiritual science is concerned. It is important to realize that this compulsive winning-over of these people to a certain view of the world is only sporadic so far. Yet, even so, there is much in it that is extremely characteristic.

A short time ago I mentioned to you that a certain Hermann Bahr had published a drama, The Voice, in which he attempts—though rather after the manner of the Catholics—to link the world that surrounds us and is accessible to our physical senses with spiritual events and processes. Not long before writing this drama, Hermann Bahr wrote a novel Ascension and this novel is really in some respects a historical document of today. I do not want to overstate its artistic and literary merit, but it is certainly a historical document of our time. As is the way with karma, it so happens that I have known Hermann Bahr, an Austrian, for a very long time, since he was a young student. This novel, Ascension, describes a romantic hero, as literary criticism would say. He is called Franz and he seems to me to be a kind of likeness—not a self-portrait, but a kind of likeness—of Hermann Bahr himself. A lot of interesting things take place in this novel, which was written during the war. It is obviously Hermann Bahr's way of taking issue with present-day events.

Imagine that the hero of this novel represents a kind of likeness of a person living today, now fifty-two or fifty-three years old. He has joined in all the events of his day, being involved very intensely from a young age in all sorts of contemporary streams. As a student he was sent down from two different universities because of his involvement in these various streams, and he was always intent on joining his soul forces to all sorts of spiritual and artistic streams. This is not a self-portrait; the novel contains no biographical details of Hermann Bahr's life. But Bahr has definitely coloured his hero, Franz. A person is described who endeavours to come to grips with every spiritual direction at present to be found in the external world, in order to learn about the meaning of the universe. Right at the beginning we are told about all the places Franz has frequented in order to gain insight into universal matters.

First he studies botany under Wiesner, a famous professor of botany at the University of Vienna. Then he takes up chemistry under Ostwald, who took over from Haeckel as president of the Monist Society. He studies in Schmoller's seminar, in Richet's clinic, and with Freud in Vienna. Obviously someone who wanted to experience present-day spiritual streams would have to meet psychoanalysis. He went to the theosophists in London and he met painters, engravers, tennis players and so on. He is certainly not one-sided, for he has been in Richet's laboratory as well as with the theosophists in London. Everywhere he tries to find his way about. His fate, his karma, continues to drive him hither and thither in the world, and we are told how here or there he notices that there is something in the background behind human evolution and discovers that he ought to pay attention to what goes on behind the scenes. I told you yesterday about one such background and I now want to show you how someone else was also won over to recognize such things. So I shall now read a passage from the book. Franz has made the acquaintance of a female person. She is particularly pious—Klara has her own kind of piety—but just now all I want to do is point out that this is of importance to Franz:

‘It was more important at the moment to decide whether he should reply to her and what he should say. Should he decline politely and then wait calmly till chance should bring her into his vicinity? Or should he follow her advice and turn to one of the pious men, and then take this as an occasion to write to her once more?’

The pious men in this connection are Catholic priests, and he does attempt to discover whether their opinions and knowledge can help him find his way in the affairs of the universe. The book continues:

‘But first and foremost he ought to make up his own mind as to what it was that he himself really wanted. Was he merely in love, and was therefore his inclination to turn pious nothing more than a hidden wish to please her? He had certainly not lied on purpose, but it could be that his feeling for her, which cast a brightness over everything, made all her attributes and ways desirable to him. Instinctively the lover longs to resemble his beloved, so that what she loves and values is lovable and valuable to him too. No, this did not apply in his case! Was he not on the way to believing before he ever met her? It was, indeed, unlikely that he would ever have made her acquaintance had that strange, to him inexplicable inner urge not drawn him gently into the church where he found her before the saint, herself almost a saint. Otherwise he would hardly have noticed her; did he perhaps not love her at all but merely the appearance through her of his own longings? So was what he now felt not love, not what love had meant to him hitherto, but the bliss of piety? But was he pious? He only knew that he wanted to be, but somehow still did not dare to, perhaps from fear of deceiving himself once again, since hitherto every desire had deceived him and, if he were to be disappointed yet again, there was no further wish he could aspire to! He longed to be pious, but whether he was capable of it was indeed questionable. Could he be as pious as those beggars in whom he so envied the staring bliss of their stolid worship? He doubted it. For that, he had tasted too much of the tree of knowledge. Could he be as pious as Klara? He was no longer in a state of spiritual innocence. But was there not perhaps a kind of second innocence—innocence regained? Was there not the piety of the one who knows his limitations, of the humble intellect, the faith of one who knows, the hope of desperation? Had there not lived, in every age, wise men, hidden, secluded from the world, associating with one another by secret signs, silently working wonders with their almost magical power, living in a higher region above nations, above creeds, above limitations, in the region of a purer humanity that was nearer to God? Were there not still in the world today, widespread yet hidden, knights of the Holy Grail? Were there not disciples of a white lodge, invisible perhaps, not to be entered, existing only in feelings, yet working everywhere, reigning over all, guiding destiny? Was there not ever on earth an anonymous company of saints, unknown to one another, not knowing of one another, and yet working on and with each other through the rays of their prayers? In his theosophical phase he had already been much exercised by such thoughts, but evidently he had met only false theosophists; maybe the true ones could not be known.’

He had met a canon who had shown himself to be a man with few prejudices in any direction.

‘Suddenly he wondered whether the canon might not perhaps be one of those true masters, one of those hidden spiritual rulers of the world, a secret guardian of the Grail? Only now did he realize that the canon had always attracted him, seeming to promise great revelations, as though he might be a repository of the words of life. The regard in which this priest was held; the timidity, the awe with which people spoke about him, the obedience shown even by those who disliked him, the deep solitude that surrounded him, the mysterious power he was reputed to have with which he could help his friends and damage his foes—though he smilingly denied that he deserved either the gratitude of his friends or the rancour of his enemies—all this went far beyond the importance, the power, the dignity of his office, of his external position. Some explained all this as stemming from “his good connections”, others by his rumoured descent from an exalted personage; and yet the magical power of his glance, his presence, indeed even his mere name, remained unexplained. There were dozens of canons in the city, but he was The Canon. If anyone spoke of the canon, he was meant. Someone asking for His Excellency was not immediately understood. They still could not accustom themselves to call him that. To them he remained the canon. In processions he paced modestly behind the cardinal, yet he it was who commanded all the attention. If he did not appear at a certain hour for his customary walk, the whole town whispered: The canon has gone away! And later when word went round: The canon is back; this seemed to be of the utmost importance for the whole of the city. Franz remembered a conversation years ago in Rome,’

forgive me for reading this, but Hermann Bahr wrote it

‘a conversation with an Englishman who, after travelling the whole world, had settled in the holy city because, he maintained, he had found nothing more mysterious than the monsignori. One who could understand them would possess the key to the destiny of mankind. He was an intelligent man of mature years, of good family, wealthy, independent, a bachelor and a proper English gentleman; sensible, pragmatic, unsentimental, totally unmusical, inartistic, a robust and jolly man of the flesh, angler, oarsman, sailor, given to hearty eating and drinking, a high liver whose enjoyment of life was disturbed by a single passion, a thirsty curiosity to see everything, to know everything, to have been all over the place. There was really no other reason for this than to have the satisfaction of saying, whatever town in question: Ah, yes! Cook's put me in that and that hotel and I saw such and such and met this or that person of high position or renown. To make his travels more comfortable and ensure an entree wherever he went, someone had recommended that he become a Freemason. He praised the usefulness of this association until he thought he had discovered that there must be a similar but better managed and more powerful organization. Then he was determined to become a member of that, just as he would have turned to a different, better Cook's if such a thing had existed. He could not be dissuaded from believing that the world was ruled by a tiny group of secret leaders. History was supposed to be made by these hidden men who were unknown, even to their closest servants, who in turn were unknown to theirs. Following the trail of this secret world government, this true Freemasonry, of which the other was no more than an exceedingly foolish copy possessing inadequate means, he claimed to have discovered its seat in Rome among those very monsignori, though of course most of these were unaware of their role as a crowd amongst whom the four or five true rulers of the world could conceal themselves. Franz still had to smile at the comical despair of his Englishman whose misfortune it was never to find those he sought; instead, ever and again coming up against none but supernumeraries. Yet he never allowed himself to be put off entirely. Indeed, his respect for such a well-guarded, impenetrable society only grew. He wagered that in the end he would be admitted to its ranks, even if he had to remain in Rome to the end of his days, become a monk or even have himself circumcised. For since he had everywhere sniffed out the invisible threads of a power which enmeshed the whole world, he was not disinclined to esteem the Jews to a considerable extent. Occasionally he seriously posed the supposition that in the last, inmost circle of this hidden world-wide web, rabbis and monsignori might be found joined in utmost concord. He would not have minded this in the least if only they would let him join in their magic workings.’

You see, he is searching! We are shown a person who is a seeker. And although this is not an autobiography you may be quite certain that Hermann Bahr met this Englishman! All this is told from life.

‘Even in those days Franz had asked himself from time to time whether there might not be a grain of truth in the Englishman's foolish idea. Life, both that of the individual and that of nations, appears at first glance and from close to, to be nothing but a confusion of coincidences; yet seen from a little distance, from a higher vantage point, it is ever well planned and firmly guided. If we do not want to assume that God Himself takes a direct hand in bending man's folly, the mad arbitrariness of his actions, to serve His purposes, then there is nothing for it but to imagine a kind of middle realm which mediates His will. Perhaps there is a circle of men who rule in seclusion, through whom God works upon the world; stages of divine power and wisdom, sending forth rays into the murky darkness of mankind, so that in the end all is once more purposefully ordered. These lenses of God's light, gathering the creative spirit and scattering it forth into the world, these secret organizers, these hidden kings, they it must be who transform all madness into sense, all passion into stillness, who render chance into necessity, give chaos form and bring light into darkness. Who in his life has not encountered people who seem indeed to possess a remarkable majesty and distance, who reputedly have the power to curse or bless with a glance, and who, however still they may seem, none the less appear to exercise their power far and wide? Often their lives are simple. They may be shepherds, country doctors, village parsons; often they are old women or precocious children who die young. There is something about them all that makes them uncanny to ordinary folk, something that gives them great power over man and beast, or indeed, it is always maintained, over all nature, over springs and minerals, weather, sunshine and rain, hail and drought. When our paths cross with theirs we sense with absolute certainty, at that very moment perhaps, or maybe years later, that the meeting has been decisive for our own life. They themselves, it seems, feel their power to be more of a burden, even a curse, but always a definite obligation. They live in obscurity and are glad to be left in peace. It is not hard to imagine them all linked together throughout the world, communicating by signs, or perhaps passing on the signs of even more mighty secret princes. Maybe they are quite unconscious of all this, or only partly conscious, fulfilling inner commands, obeying by instinct rather than acting from their own initiative; for they seem indeed to be not in control of their own power but rather overwhelmed by it. All these capacities appear when consciousness is dulled or even extinguished. In his youth, Franz had known people like this; they are not rare in the mountains. The Englishman's visionary fancies reminded him of them. Very much later it had occurred to him that perhaps even someone not born with these capacities might come into their possession; possibly by education and training they could be acquired. But he had soon been disappointed by the theosophical exercises. He had only been reminded of all this by the sight of the ecstatic worshippers in the dark church. Through practice these people had reached a stage in which sorrow, distress and envy were stilled; composed, comforted and strengthened they returned from prayer.’

As you see, Franz did not want to undertake these theosophical exercises; he did not want to find a transition to knowledge of the spiritual worlds by this means. But something about which we had to speak yesterday is beginning to dawn. People are being won over into recognizing the course of certain threads and they are beginning to notice that certain people make use of these threads. If only people like Hermann Bahr would approach this matter even more seriously than they do. Even the canon encountered by Franz did so more seriously. Franz was once invited to the home of this canon together with some rather unusual company which is described. We discover that the canon associates with all sorts, not only pious monks but also cynics and frivolous people of the world. He invites them all to his table. Franz noticed a number of things. The canon led him into his study while the others were conversing together. As we know, when dinner is over, something else always follows. So the canon led him into his study:

‘The niece had retired, but the guest of honour, Uncle Erhard and His Excellency, seated in comfortable chairs and devoutly given over to the process of digestion, had still not reached a conclusion. The tales waxed increasingly risqué, the mockery more audacious, the allusions more obvious; nothing was spared and it seemed as though the whole world consisted of nothing but anecdotes. Disgusted, Franz turned to the library. It was not large, but very select indeed. Only the bare essentials as far as theology was concerned:’

of course a canon needs theology least of all for himself

‘the Bollandists, many Franciscan writers, Meister Eckhart, the spiritual exercises, Catherine of Genoa, the mysticism of Görres, and Möhler's symbolism. Then philosophy; there was more of that: the whole of Kant including the papers of the Kant Society, Deussen's Upanishads and his history of philosophy, Vaihinger's Philosophy of the As If, and a great many works on the theory of knowledge. Then there were the Greek and Latin classics, Shakespeare, Calderon, Cervantes, Dante, Machiavelli and Balzac in the original; of German writers there were only Novalis and Goethe, the latter in various editions, that of his scientific writings in the Weimar edition. Franz took out a volume of these and found in it many annotations in the canon's hand. The latter at that moment left the young monk and the Jesuit to join Franz. He said, “Nobody knows Goethe's scientific writings. Alas! The old heathen he is supposed to have been appears in quite a new light in them, and they help you to understand the ending of Faust as well. I could never bring myself to believe that he was suddenly just pretending to go all Catholic” ’

We can forgive the canon, can we not, for wanting everything to be ‘Catholic’; what is important for us is that he has turned to the natural scientific writings of Goethe.

‘ “merely for the sake of the pictorial effect. My respect for this great writer is too great, indeed so is my respect for any writer, to believe that any one of them would dress up in a costume just when he is about to pronounce his last words. But in the scientific writings every page shows how Catholic Goethe was,” ’

Let us forgive the canon.

‘ “without knowing it perhaps, and certainly without the courage of his convictions. When you read them you seem to be listening to someone unfamiliar with Catholic truths who has discovered them all on his own. Of course he does violence to some of them and there are some wonderful eccentricities, but by and large nothing crucial, necessary or essential is missing, even that hint of superstition, magic, or whatever you might like to call it, that a born Protestant finds so suspicious about our holy doctrine! Often I could hardly believe my own eyes! But once you are on the track of Goethe, the unavowed Catholic, you soon find him everywhere. Observe his trust in the Holy Spirit, though he prefers to call Him Genius,” ’

Goethe has good reason for this, of course!

‘ “observe his profound feeling for the sacraments, of which he considers there are too few, observe his feeling for the mysterious, observe his gift for reverence. Note especially how he is quite unprotestant in the way he is never satisfied with faith alone; everywhere he urges that God should be recognized through the living deed, through pious works. And see his rare, most lofty and most difficult understanding, that man cannot be taken up by God if he does not first call God into himself; his grasp of this terrible human freedom of choice, the freedom to accept or reject the proffered grace, the freedom which makes of this grace a reward for the one who decides to accept it. Despite the exaggerations and distortions, all this is so utterly Catholic that, as you see, I have in many places been able to write the passages from the tridentine mass in the margins next to what Goethe says in almost the very same words. When Zacharias tells Werner that one sentence in Elective Affinities made him into a Catholic, I most certainly believe him. Of course I would not deny that there is also a heathen, a Protestant, and even almost a Jewish Goethe. And I certainly would not claim him as an exemplary Catholic, though he was more that than the insipidly jolly, common or garden monist that the north-German school teachers present to their pupils under his name.” ’

You notice, even in these circles a different Goethe is sought, one who can follow the path into the spiritual world, a different Goethe for sure than that ‘insipidly jolly, common or garden monist’ described and presented to the world today by the Goethe biographers. As you see, the path trodden by Franz is not so very different from those you find interwoven in what we call our spiritual science and, as you also see, a certain modicum of necessity can be present.

May I remind you—I have often mentioned it—that the death of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria is one of those concealed events of the present day, despite all that occurred on the external physical plane. I have stressed especially that if the physical and spiritual worlds are taken together, then for them as a totality there was something present before the assassination of Franz Ferdinand that became different after that event. It does not matter in such cases what things look like in external maya! What occurs inwardly is the important thing. As I told you: What rose up as the soul of Franz Ferdinand into the spiritual worlds became a focal point for very strong, powerful forces, and much of what is now happening is connected with the very fact that a unique transition took place between life and so-called death, so that this soul became something quite different from what other souls become.

I said that someone who has lived through recent decades in a state of spiritual consciousness must know that one of the main causes of today's painful events is the fear in which the whole world was drenched, the fear that individuals had of each other, even though they did not know it, and above all the fear that the different nations had of one another. If people had seeing eyes with which to track down the cause of this fear, they would not talk as much nonsense as they do about the causes of the war. It was possible for this fear to be so significant because it is woven as a state of feeling into what I described to you yesterday by means of examples. Please regard this as a kind of sketch. But, drenching everything is this aura of fear. That soul was connected in a certain particular way with this aura of fear. Therefore that violent death was in no way merely an external affair. I told you this because I was able to observe it, because for me it was a particularly significant event that is connected with many aspects of what is going on at present.

I do not suppose that such things, which obviously ought to be kept within our circle, have been talked about all over the place outside our circle. The fact is, however, that I have been speaking about these things in various branches since the beginning of the war. There are witnesses who could verify this.

Hermann Bahr's book appeared much later, only quite recently. Yet in it there appears a passage that I shall quote in a moment, and I would ask you to pay attention to the following fact: Within the circle of our anthroposophical spiritual science, indications are given about an event that is spiritually very important; then a novel written at a later date is published, in which is found a character who always appears to be rather foolish. He is actually a prince in disguise, but he appears as a foolish person who performs lowly tasks. From a poster—he is living in a rural area—he learns of the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, whereupon he makes a remark which almost causes him to be lynched and leads to his being locked up; for any police force would naturally be convinced that somebody making such a remark immediately after an assassination must be a party to the plot. Though there are many miles in between, the one event having happened in Sarajevo and the other taking place in Salzburg, nevertheless to the police, in its wisdom, that man must be a party to the plot.

It now emerges that this person is a prince in disguise and that he owns a deeply significant mystical diary. The reason for the remark he made also emerges. He was actually a prince, but had found the whole business of being a prince irksome and so had disguised himself as old Blasl who performed lowly tasks, behaved stupidly, even let himself be beaten by his master, and hardly ever spoke a word; he became talkative on certain occasions but usually he said nothing. Then when he was being investigated he was found to possess a mystical manuscript which he had written himself. The book continues:

‘The enchanted, now disenchanted prince, still in his old clothes, and still the same old fellow, too, though somehow different now that Franz knew they had been a disguise, said smiling, “Forgive me the deception which for me was none. I ceased to be the Infante Don Tadeo long ago. If circumstances now compel me to represent him again for a while, it will be a far more difficult role for me to play. For me, I really was old Blasl and, if I lied, it was myself I lied to, not you. That I should cause you inconvenience I could not have known. I am sorry indeed for that. Of course it was the most stupid misunderstanding. Though I had never met him, I knew the heir to the throne very well; he meant a great deal to me and we were in communication with one another, though not in the manner usual here.” ’

‘The manner usual here’ denotes the manner usual on the physical plane: We were in communication with one another, though not after the manner of the physical plane.

‘ “He had long gone beyond the boundaries of earthly work and stood with one foot in that other realm of purely spiritual activity. Now it was time for him to step over finally. I knew that in order to fulfil himself he could no longer stay. His deed will be done from there. I was only surprised that destiny had hesitated so long with him. On that Sunday when I stepped out of church, where my prayers had once again been rewarded with reassurance, and saw the uneasy crowd, I knew immediately that his liberation had come. What has to happen through him he can only bring about from the other side. Here he could only promise; his life was only a prediction. Only now can it really happen. I have never been able to imagine him as a constitutional monarch with parliamentarianism and all that humbug. He was too great for that. By this he has seized the initiative for himself. This dead man will now truly start to live. This is what I felt when I heard the news. That is what I meant to say. You will understand that there was little chance of making myself understood to those peasants. I preferred to give myself up in silence and am only surprised that they did not do for me. I was prepared for that—then by now it would all be over. There must still be something for me to do. So be it!” He had said all this in the same tone of voice, as it were without punctuation, only staring at Franz from time to time with numb eyes. Then he requested him not to mention his notebooks and to forget them himself.

“The truth is written in them, but only for myself; to understand them you would have to understand my sign language. What is written in them is right; only the words are invalid.” Franz could not help describing to him the impression the notebooks had made on him.’

For Franz was the only person in that town who could understand Spanish, and since the notebooks were written in Spanish he was asked to help out. There is a little gentle irony here too, since in Austria anything not immediately understandable is said to be ‘Spanish’. Since Blasl, or rather the Infante, was suspected of being a party to the plot, it was necessary to read the notebooks, and since Franz had once been in Spain, it was he who had to read them. For Hermann Bahr had also once been in Spain.

So you see, since we must assume that Hermann Bahr had not been tipped off about this, that we have here an example of a remarkable winning-over of an invidual to a recognition of these things, of an inner need growing in him today to occupy himself with these things. I think it is justifiable to be somewhat astonished that such things appear in novels these days; it is something to do with the undercurrent of our time. Admittedly, to begin with, only people like Hermann Bahr are affected, people whose lives have been similar to that of Hermann Bahr, who went through all kinds of experiences during the course of time. Now that he is older, having for a long time been a supporter of impressionism, he is endeavouring to comprehend expressionism and other similar things. He is a person who has truly been capable in his soul of uniting himself outwardly and inwardly with the most varied streams. He really immersed himself in Ostwald's thoughts, in those of Richet, in those of the theosophists in London, struggling to enter fully into them. Only finally, when his perseverance failed him, did he happen upon Canon Zingerl, whom he now considers to be a Master. He did indeed immerse himself to the full in internal and external streams.

When I first knew him he had just written his play Die neuen Menschen, of which he is now very ashamed; its mood was strictly social-democratic, and there was at that time no more glowing social-democrat than Hermann Bahr. Then he wrote a short one-act play which is rather insignificant. He then converted to the German nationalist movement and wrote Die grosse Sünde from their point of view. Again, there existed no more radical German nationalist than Hermann Bahr. Meanwhile, he had reached his nineteenth year and was called up to serve in the army; now he was filled to the brim with militaristic views and soldierly pride.

He understood, you see, how to unite his soul with external streams, yet he never shirked coming to grips entirely seriously with those that are more inward as well. After his period as a soldier he went to Berlin for a short while and there edited a modern weekly journal, Die freie Bühne. Chameleon-like, he could turn himself into anything—except a Berliner! Then he went to Paris. He had hardly arrived, could not even conjugate a reflexive verb with être but used avoir with everything, when he started to write enthusiastic letters about the sunlike being Boulanger who would surely show Europe what true, genuine culture is. Then he went to Spain, where he became a burning opponent of the Sultan of Morocco against whom he wrote articles in Spanish. Finally he returned, not exactly a copy of Daudet but looking very like him.

He told us about all this in the famous Griensteidl Café which has offered hospitality to all sorts of famous people since 1848 when Lenau, Anastasius Grün and others went in and out there. Even the waiters in this cafe were famous; everybody knew Franz, and later Heinrich, of Griensteidl's! Now it has been demolished, but because Hermann Bahr talked so much there about the way in which his soul had entered into the spirit of France and about that sunlike being Boulanger, someone else had grown rebellious, and when Griensteidl's was pulled down Karl Kraus wrote a pamphlet Literature Demolished. I still remember vividly how Hermann Bahr told us about the grand impressions he had gained and how he, the lad from Linz, had been the proud owner of the handsomest artist's face in the whole of Paris. He spoke enthusiastically about Maurice Barrès and stood up in the most intense way for the French youth movement; through the outpouring of a single heart filled with ardour we gained an experience of the total will-force of a whole literary movement. Then, in Vienna together with others, he founded a weekly journal himself, to which he contributed some really important articles. He became increasingly profound yet, with him, superficiality always seemed to go hand in hand with profundity. Thus he never stopped changing: from social democrat to German nationalist, from a militaristic disposition to a glowing admiration for Boulanger, then discipleship of Maurice Barrès and others; and after a later transformation he began to appreciate impressionist art. From time to time he returned to Berlin, but always departed again as quickly as possible; it was the one place he could not tolerate. Vienna, on the other hand, he loved dreadfully, and he expressed this love in many ways.

In more recent years his beloved friends in Danzig have invited him a number of times to lecture on expressionism, something they are said to have understood exceedingly well; and the lectures are included in his book on expressionism. He also enthuses about Goethe's scientific writings and shows that he has drawn a little nearer to what we are coming to know as Anthroposophy; but in his case it is only a beginning. I might add, by the way, that his recent book about expressionism is full of praise for his Danzig friends—of course, so that they should stand out favourably in comparison with the Berliners.

Lately it has been said that Hermann Bahr has converted to Catholicism. I don't suppose he will be all that Catholic though—perhaps about as much as he was boulangistic in days gone by. But he is a human being! You have now seen in his most recent novel that through his very worldliness, through his longing to learn about everything in his own way, he has now been touched by the necessity to discover something about man's ascent into the spiritual world and about the links between human beings that are different from those ordinary physical links; in other words, links of the kind we described yesterday.

You can understand why I find it to some extent significant that such a novel should contain not only general echoes but should lead to a point as concrete as the death of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. This shows that these things are far more real than is generally supposed. Just such things as this must show us that what takes place on the physical plane is often no more than a symbol of what is really happening ‘behind the scenes of earthly life’. For if you read about what has occurred in connection with these events, in connection with this assassination, without appealing to the spiritual aspect, it will be impossible for you to understand that someone can be led to place such significance on the matter. But it is not yet possible today to speak about these things without some reservation; as yet, not everything connected with these things can be expressed. Attention may be drawn to some aspects only; to begin with, perhaps, the more external ones.

Let us recall what was said yesterday about the world of the Slavs, about the soul of the Slavs. The testament of Peter the Great appeared on the scene in 1813, or perhaps a little earlier, and was disseminated for good reason as though it stemmed from Peter the Great himself. This document is used to seize hold of a natural stream, such as the stream of the Slav soul, in order to guide and lead it by means of suggestion. Whither is it to be led? It is to be led into the orbit of Russianism in such a way that the ancient Slav stream should become, in a way, the bearer of the idea of a Russian state! Because this is so, a clear distinction must be made between the spiritual Slav stream, the stream that exists as the bearer of the ancient Slav tradition, and that which strives to become an external vessel to encompass the whole of this Slav stream: Russianism.

We must not forget that a large number of Slav peoples, or sections of these peoples, live within the boundaries of the monarchy of Austria-Hungary. The Austro-Hungarian monarchy encompasses—let me use my fingers to help me count—Germans, Czechs, Slavonians, Slovacs, Serbo-Croats, Croats, Poles, Romanians, Ruthenians, Magyars, Italians and Serbs; as you see, many more than Switzerland has. What really lives there can only be recognized by someone who has lived for quite a long time among these peoples and has come to understand the various streams that were at work within what is known as Austria-Hungary. As far as the Slav peoples are concerned there was, during the last decades of the nineteenth century, a paramount endeavour to find a way in which the various Slav peoples could live together in peace and freedom. The whole history of Austria-Hungary in recent decades, with all those bitter battles, can only be understood if it is seen as an attempt to realize the principle of the individualization of the separate peoples. This is of course exceedingly difficult, since peoples do not live comfortably side by side but are often enmeshed in complicated ways. Among the Germans in Austria there are very many who consider that their own well-being would be served by the individualizing of the various Slav peoples in Austria, that is, by finding a form in which they could develop independently and freely. Obviously such things need time to come about; but such a movement certainly does exist.

Then, apart from the Slavs in Austria-Hungary, there are the Balkan Slavs who lived for a long time under Turkish dominion, which they have thrown off in recent decades in order to found individual states: Bulgaria, Serbia, Montenegro and so on. Yesterday I mentioned the Polish Slavs as those who have developed furthest in their spiritual life. I am mentioning only the more important sub-divisions, for I too can only work these things out gradually. In all these Slav peoples and tribes there lives what I called yesterday a consistent, primal folk element, which is something that is preparing for the future.

Seen quite externally, why was Franz Ferdinand rather important? He was important because in his being, in all his inclinations—you must take the external manifestation as a symbol of what lived within—he was the external expression of certain streams. In him there lived something which, if only it had been able to free itself, bore the deepest understanding for the individual development of the Slav peoples. You might indeed call him an intense friend of all that belongs to the Slavs. He understood—or perhaps I should say: something living in him of which he was not fully aware understood—what forms would be necessary for the social life of the Slavs if they were to develop as individual peoples.

We have to realize that karma had decreed that this karmic path should be extremely unusual. Let us not forget that there was once an heir to the throne, Archduke Rudolf, on whom great hopes were pinned, especially as regards the direction in which many liberal and free-thinking people of the day were tending. Those who knew the circumstances and the person, understood that something was working through his soul which would have brought about the application to the Austrian situation of what I yesterday called English political thinking, English ideas concerning the way in which states should be administered. This is what was expected of him and it was also what he himself was inclined to do. But you know how karma worked and how what should have happened was made impossible. So then something else became possible instead. Now a man tending in quite another direction grew in importance. It is indeed not without significance if our attention is drawn to this: ‘Here he could only promise; his life was only a prediction. Only now can it really happen. I have never been able to imagine him as a constitutional monarch, with parliamentarianism and all that humbug.’

Yet this is just how we should have imagined the other one to be! You see that karma is at work and we must see how this karma works in order to achieve further heights of understanding. The circumstances which could and should have been brought about—not because of the wishes of some person or other but because of the purpose of world evolution—by this soul who looked upon the Slav folk element with understanding (for the moment I am giving a purely abstract description), would truly have had a liberating effect on the Slav folk element. But it would, at the same time, have destroyed what Russianism wants to do with the Slav element. For Russianism wants to confine the Slav element within its own framework and use it as its tool. It wants to contain it within the confines of the testament of Peter the Great. The speed with which such things come to realization depends, of course, on all kinds of side-currents and peripheral circumstances. But it is important to have an eye for what is gathering momentum in any particular direction. Obviously, therefore, only those who understood the Slav element more deeply could understand what web was really being woven, and also that those who wanted to destroy the Slav element through Russianism had to work against more healthy endeavours.

Matters become particularly delicate and tricky if they start interfering with streams and counting on methods that are connected in some way with the occult streams using the secret brotherhoods which exist all over the world. Some are more profound, as are those about which I shall speak tomorrow. Others only touch on these things but, even then, as they do touch on them, they must be seen as vessels through which occult streams flow. The society whose dissolution was demanded after the death of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the Serbian society ‘Narodna Odbrana’, was the actual successor of an earlier secret brotherhood, having changed its methods only slightly. I am stating no more than facts.

Here, then, is a contact between political strivings and a secret society which, though centred in Serbia, had threads leading in every direction to wherever Slavs were to be found, and also links with all kinds of other societies, but in particular an inner connection with western societies. In such a society things can be taught which are connected with occult workings throughout the world.

Why do we have to make so many detours in order to reach even a partial understanding of what we actually have to understand? Do not be surprised that so many detours are necessary, for a superficial judgement is all too easily reached if insight is directed to immediate events in which we are involved with sympathy or antipathy; all too easily misunderstandings and false ideas come about. What often happens to all of us? We are perfectly entitled to have sympathies and antipathies in our soul; but often there are reasons why we do not admit this to ourselves. Perhaps we do not actually convince ourselves on purpose, but autosuggestion often gives us good reason to believe that our judgements are objective. If only we would calmly admit to sympathies or antipathies, we would also accept the truth. But because we want to judge ‘objectively’ we do not admit the truth but, instead, delude ourselves in regard to the truth.

Why do people have this tendency? It is simply because, when they endeavour to understand reality, they easily meet with extraordinary contradictions. And when they meet these contradictions they attempt to come to terms with them by accepting one half of what is contradictory and rejecting the other half. Often this means a total lack of any desire to understand the truth.

I will give you an example of how we can become entangled in a serious contradiction if we fail to understand the living connection between the contradiction and the full truth of the reality. In our anthroposophical spiritual science we understand Christianity to be something that is filled with the meaning of the Mystery of Golgotha, with the fact that Christ was condemned, died, was buried, but then also rose again in the true sense and lives on as the Risen One. This is what we call the Mystery of Golgotha and we cannot concede the right to anyone to call himself a Christian unless he recognizes this too. What, though, had to happen so that Christ was able to undergo, for human evolution, what I have just described? Judas had to betray Him and He had to be nailed to the cross. If those who nailed Him to the cross had not done so, then the Mystery of Golgotha would not have taken place for the salvation of mankind.

Here you have a terrible, actual contradiction, a contradiction of gigantic proportions! Can you imagine someone who might say: You Christians owe it to Judas that your Mystery of Golgotha took place at all. You owe it to the executioner's men, who nailed Christ to the cross, that your Mystery of Golgotha ran its course! Is anyone justified in defending Judas and the executioner's men, even though it is true that the meaning of earthly history is owed to them? Is it easy to answer a question like this? Is one not immediately faced with contradictions which simply stand there and which represent a terrible destiny?

Think about what I have placed before you! Tomorrow we shall continue. What I have just said is spoken only so that you can think about the fact that it is not so easy to say: When two things contradict one another I shall accept the one and reject the other. Reality is more profound than whatever human beings may often be willing to encompass with their thinking. It is not without reason that Nietzsche, crazed almost out of his mind, formulated the words: ‘The world is deep, deeper than day can comprehend.’

Now that I have endeavoured to indicate the nature of a real contradiction, we shall tomorrow attempt to penetrate more deeply into the subject matter we have so far touched on in preparation.

Dritter Vortrag

Meine lieben Freunde! Wenn wir von unserem Gesichtspunkte aus solche Dinge betrachten wollen, wie wir sie jetzt behandeln, so dürfen wir doch eben niemals aus dem Auge verlieren die Bedeutung der geisteswissenschaftlichen Betrachtung für das Verständnis der Menschheitsentwicklung im fünften nachatlantischen Zeitraum, aber auch [für die Einsicht in] die Vorbereitung dessen, was für den sechsten nachatlantischen Zeitraum zu geschehen hat. Denn wenn man nicht aufmerksam ist auf das, was gerade versäumt wird von der Menschheit, von der heutigen materialistischen Menschheit, in bezug auf geisteswissenschaftliche Weltbeobachtung, so kann man nicht zu den Ursachen dessen vorrücken, was den heutigen Zeitereignissen zugrunde liegt.

Und um einen gewissen Ausgangspunkt gewinnen zu können für weitere Betrachtungen, möchte ich erwähnen, wie sich das Hinaufschauen zu den Welten, auf die sich unsere Geisteswissenschaft bezieht, bei einzelnen Menschen sozusagen zwangsweise einstellt. Es ist wichtig zu durchschauen, daß dieses erzwungene Heranbändigen dieser Menschen zu einer gewissen Weltbetrachtung heute noch sporadisch ist, bloß da und dort auftritt, aber gerade in diesem sporadischen Auftreten ist außerordentlich Charakteristisches zu sehen. Ich habe vor kurzem die Tatsache erwähnt, daß von einem gewissen Hermann Bahr ein Drama erschienen ist, «Die Stimme», in dem, allerdings in einer katholisierenden Weise, versucht wird, die Welt, die uns als physisch-sinnliche umgibt, an geistige Ereignisse und geistige Vorgänge anzuknüpfen. Nach diesem Drama, aber nicht lange nachher, wurde von Hermann Bahr der Roman «Himmelfahrt» geschrieben, und Hermann Bahrs Roman «Himmelfahrt» ist wirklich in gewisser Beziehung ein Zeitdokument. Ich will dieses Zeitdokument seinem künstlerischen und literarischen Werte nach nicht überschätzen, aber es ist ein Zeitdokument. Und wie das Karma so läuft - gerade diesen Hermann Bahr kenne ich seit langer, langer Zeit, seit er ein ganz junger Student war. Und in diesem Roman «Himmelfahrt» schildert er einen Romanhelden, wie man das ja in der Ästhetik nennt - Franz nennt er ihn -, der mir erscheint wie eine Art Abbild Abbild, nicht eine Selbstcharakteristik -, wie eine Art Abbild des Hermann Bahr selber. Nun kommt in diesem Roman allerlei Interessantes vor. Der Roman ist während des Krieges geschrieben. Er ist offenbar eine Auseinandersetzung des Österreichers Hermann Bahr mit den gegenwärtigen Ereignissen.

Wir brauchen nur in dieser sozusagen abstrakten Form daran zu denken, inwiefern der Held des Romans, Franz, eine Art Abbild eines in der Gegenwart lebenden Menschen ist, der jetzt etwa zweiundfünfzig bis dreiundfünfzig Jahre alt ist, die Zeitereignisse mitgemacht hat, früh angefangen hat, in einer ganz intensiven Weise mit allen möglichen Zeitströmungen zu leben, denn er ist schon als Student wegen dieses Lebens mit den verschiedenen Zeitströmungen zweimal, von zwei Universitäten, relegiert worden und war immer darauf aus, sich seelisch zu verbinden mit gewissen, auch künstlerischen Geistesströmungen. Es ist nicht eine Selbstschilderung - man findet nichts Biographisches von Hermann Bahr darinnen -, aber es ist dieser Held Franz doch etwas, worauf vielleicht Bahr abgefärbt hat. So sehen wir in diesem Helden Franz einen Menschen geschildert, der versucht, sich auseinanderzusetzen mit alldem, was man an geistigen Bestrebungen gegenwärtig in der Welt äußerlich finden kann, um Aufklärung zu bekommen über die Weltenzusammenhänge.

Da wird uns gleich im Anfang geschildert, wo dieser Franz sich überall herumgetrieben hat, um sich klar zu werden über die Weltverhältnisse: erst Botaniker bei Wiesner - das ist ein berühmter Botaniker, der an der Wiener Universität gelehrt hat -, dann Chemiker bei Ostwald, der auf Wunsch von Haeckel der Vorsitzende des MonistenBundes geworden ist, dann in Schmollers Seminar, an Richets Klinik, wo er sich bekannt machen konnte mit den Ideen Richets, bei Freud in Wien - selbstverständlich mußte jemand, der hineinkommen will in die gegenwärtigen Geistesströmungen, auch die Psychoanalyse kennenlernen. Er war auch bei den Theosophen in London und kam zusammen mit Kunstmalern, mit Radierern, mit Tennisspielern und so weiter. Also, er ist nicht einseitig: er ist ebenso bei Richet im Laboratorium gewesen wie bei den Theosophen in London. Überall sucht er sich zurechtzufinden. Dann treibt ihn natürlich sein Geschick, sein Karma, weiter in der Welt herum, und da wird verschiedenes erzählt, wie er denn da oder dort darauf aufmerksam wird, daß es doch gewisse Hintergründe in der Menschheitsevolution gibt und daß man auf diese Hintergründe wohl aufmerksam sein soll. Ich habe Sie gestern mit einem solchen Hintergrunde bekanntgemacht, und ich will Sie jetzt darauf hinweisen, wie ein anderer hingebändigt worden ist, solche Hintergründe anzuerkennen. Deshalb will ich Ihnen jetzt ein Stück aus diesem Roman vorlesen.

Wichtiger war ihm aber jetzt, ob er ihr und was er ihr antworten sollte.

Franz hatte eine weibliche Persönlichkeit gefunden, die besonders fromm war - eine eigene Art von Frömmigkeit hatte Klara -, darüber will ich aber nicht sprechen, nur andeuten, daß dies für ihn ein wichtiger Anlaß war.

Wichtiger war ihm aber jetzt, ob er ihr und was er ihr antworten sollte. Höflich danken und dann gelassen warten, bis sie der Zufall ihm zuführt? Oder vielleicht auch ihren Rat befolgen, sich an einen der frommen Männer wenden und dies dann zum Anlaß nehmen, darüber wieder an sie zu schreiben?

Fromme Männer sind in diesem Zusammenhang hier katholische Geistliche, bei denen er zunächst auch sucht, ob man sich mit dem, was sie finden, was sie wissen, zurechtfinden kann im Weltenzusammenhange. Dann sagt er weiter:

Zunächst aber mußte er sich doch vor allem erst darüber klar werden, was er selbst denn eigentlich wollte. War er einfach verliebt und also seine Neigung, fromm zu werden, auch nur der verkappte Wunsch, ihr zu gefallen? Er hatte sicherlich nicht bewußt gelogen, aber es konnte sein, daß ihn sein alles verklärendes Gefühl für sie jede ihrer Eigenschaften, ihrer Gewohnheiten begehrenswert erscheinen ließ. Dem geliebten Wesen möchte man unwillkürlich gleichen, und was ihm lieb und wert ist, wird es dem Liebenden auch. Aber das stimmte hier ja gar nicht! Er war doch schon auf dem Wege zum Glauben, bevor er sie noch kannte. Er hätte sie kaum je kennen gelernt ohne jenen seltsamen, ihm selbst ganz unerklärlichen inneren Drang, der ihn auf einmal sanft in die Kirchen zog und sie vor der Heiligen, selbst fast einer Heiligen gleich, finden ließ. Er hätte sie sonst gar nicht bemerkt; er liebte vielleicht auch gar nicht sie, sondern an ihr doch bloß die Erscheinung seiner eigenen Sehnsucht. Und es war gar nicht Liebe, nicht was ihm bisher Liebe geheißen hatte, es war die Seligkeit, fromm zu sein, die er empfand! War er denn aber fromm? Er wußte nur, daß er es sich wünschte, aber es gleichsam noch immer nicht wagte, vielleicht aus Furcht, sich wieder zu betrügen, wie ja noch jeder Wunsch ihn immer wieder betrogen hatte, und wenn er auch jetzt wieder enttäuscht würde, dann blieb ihm ja keiner mehr! Er wäre gern fromm gewesen, aber die Frage war freilich, ob er es konnte. Fromm wie jene Bettler, die er um das stiere Glück ihrer dumpfen Andacht so beneidete? Kaum. Er hatte dazu doch vom Baume der Erkenntnis schon zu viel genascht. Fromm wie Klara? Er war nicht mehr im Stande der geistigen Unschuld. Aber gab es nicht vielleicht eine Art zweiter Unschuld, wiedergewonnener Unschuld? Gab es nicht eine Frömmigkeit des seine Grenzen erkennenden, des gedemütigten Verstandes, einen Glauben der Wissenden, eine Hoffnung aus Verzweiflung? Lebten nicht in allen Zeiten einsame verborgene weise Männer, der Welt abgewendet, einander durch geheime Zeichen verbunden, im Stillen wunderbar wirkend mit einer fast magischen Kraft, in einer höheren Region über den Völkern, über den Bekenntnissen, im Grenzenlosen, im Raum einer reineren, Gott näheren Menschlichkeit? Gab es nicht auch heute noch, überall in der Welt zerstreut und versteckt eine Ritterschaft des Heiligen Grals? Gab es nicht Jünger einer vielleicht unsichtbaren, nicht zu betretenden, bloß empfundenen, aber überall wirkenden, alles beherrschenden, Schicksal bestimmenden weißen Loge? Gab es nicht immer auf Erden eine sozusagen an‚onyme Gemeinschaft der Heiligen, die einander nicht kennen, nichts von einander wissen und doch aufeinander, ja miteinander wirken, bloß durch die Strahlen ihrer Gebete? Schon in seiner theosophischen Zeit hatten ihn solche Gedanken viel beschäftigt, aber er hatte offenbar immer nur falsche Theosophen kennengelernt, vielleicht ließen sich die wahren nicht kennenlernen. Und plötzlich fiel ihm ein, ob nicht vielleicht der Domherr [...]

Er hatte nämlich einen Domherrn kennengelernt, der sich ihm gegenüber merkwürdigerweise als ein nach vielen Richtungen hin vorurteilsloser Mensch gezeigt hatte.

Und plötzlich fiel ihm ein, ob nicht vielleicht der Domherr einer von diesen wahren Meistern wäre, von den verborgenen geistigen Weltregenten, von den geheimen Hütern des Grals? Er wurde sich jetzt erst bewußt, daß ihm der Domherr immer schon gleichsam durch ein Versprechen großer Offenbarungen angezogen, als ob da die Worte des Lebens aufbewahrt sein müßten. Das Ansehen, in dem dieser Priester stand, die Scheu, ja Furcht, mit der man von ihm sprach, der Gehorsam, den ihm auch Widerwillige bezeigten, die tiefe Einsamkeit, die ihn umgab, die rätselhafte Macht, Freunden helfen, Feinden schaden zu können, die man ihm nachsagte, wenn er auch lächelnd bedauerte, weder den Dank der Freunde noch den Groll der Feinde zu verdienen - das alles ging doch weit über die Bedeutung, über die Kraft, über die Würde seines Amts, seiner äußeren Stellung, und wenn es die einen mit den «guten Bezichungen, die er halt hat», [...]

- so sagt man in Österreich: «die er halt hat» —

[...] die anderen gar mit dem Gerücht seiner Abstammung von einem hohen Herrn erklärten, so blieb noch immer die magische Gewalt seines Blickes, seiner Gegenwart, ja seines bloßen Namens unerklärt. Es gab ein Dutzend Domherren in der Stadt; er aber war der Domherr. Wer vom Domherrn sprach, meinte ihn. Wer um die Exzellenz fragte, wurde gar nicht gleich verstanden. Sie konnten sich noch immer nicht daran gewöhnen, ihn so zu nennen; er blieb ihnen der Domherr. Er schritt im Zuge bescheiden hinter dem rotprangenden Kardinal, aber alle blickten nur auf ihn.

- auf den Domherrn, nicht auf den Kardinal! —

Wenn er zur bestimmten Stunde seinen gewohnten Gang unterließ, gleich hieß es in der Stadt: Der Domherr ist verreist! - Und wenn es dann wieder hieß: Der Domherr ist zurück -, so schien das von der größten Wichtigkeit für die ganze Stadt. Franz erinnerte sich eines Gesprächs, vor Jahren in Rom,

- verzeihen Sie, daß ich das jetzt vorlese, aber Hermann Bahr hat das geschrieben, und ich bitte um Entschuldigung

[.-.] mit einem Engländer, der, nachdem er die ganze Welt durchreist, sich in der Heiligen Stadt niedergelassen hatte, weil er behauptete, nichts Geheimnisvolleres gefunden zu haben als die Monsignori. Wer sie verstehen könnte, hätte den Schlüssel zum Schicksal der Menschheit. Es war ein kluger Mann in reifen Jahren, von guter Familie, reich, unabhängig, Junggeselle und ein richtiger Engländer, nüchtern, praktisch, unsentimental, ganz unmusikalisch, unkünstlerisch, ein derber, vergnügter Sinnenmensch, Angler, Ruderer, Segler, starker Esser, fester Zecher, ein Lebemann, den in seinem Behagen nur eine einzige Leidenschaft störte, die Neugierde, alles zu sehen, alles kennenzulernen, überall einmal gewesen zu sein, eigentlich in keiner anderen Absicht als, um schließlich, von welchem Ort immer man sprach, befriedigt sagen zu können: O ja! -, das Hotel zu wissen, in dem ihn dort Cook untergebracht, und die Sehenswürdigkeiten, die er aufgesucht, die Menschen von Rang oder Ruhm, mit denen er verkehrt hatte. Um bequemer zu reisen und überall Zutritt zu haben, war ihm geraten worden, Freimaurer zu werden. Er lobte die Nützlichkeit dieser Verbindung, bis er entdeckt zu haben glaubte, es müsse noch eine ähnliche, doch besser geleitete, mächtigere Verbindung höherer Art geben, der er nun durchaus beitreten wollte, wie er ja, wenn irgendwo noch ein anderer, besserer Cook aufzufinden gewesen wäre, sich natürlich an diesen gewendet hätte. Er ließ sich nicht ausreden, die Welt werde von einer ganz kleinen Gruppe geheimer Führer beherrscht, die sogenannte Geschichte von diesen verborgenen Männern gemacht, die selbst ihren nächsten Dienern unbekannt seien, wie diese wieder den ihren, und er behauptete, den Spuren dieser geheimen Weltregierung, dieser wahren Freimaurerei, von der die andere bloß eine höchst törichte Kopie mit unzulänglichen Mitteln, folgend, ihren Sitz in Rom gefunden zu haben, eben bei den Monsignori, von denen aber freilich auch wieder die meisten ahnungslose Statisten wären, deren Gedränge bloß die vier oder fünf wirklichen Herren der Welt zu verbergen hätte. Und Franz mußte heute noch über die komische Verzweiflung seines Engländers lachen, der nun das Pech hatte, niemals an den richtigen zu kommen, sondern immer wieder bloß an Statisten, aber sich dadurch nicht irremachen ließ, sondern immer nur noch mehr Respekt vor einer so wohlbehüteten, undurchdringlichen Verbindung bekam, in die er schließlich doch noch eingelassen zu werden wettete, und wenn er bis ans Ende seines Lebens in Rom bleiben und wenn er die Kutte nehmen oder etwa gar sich beschneiden lassen müßte, denn da er überall den unsichtbaren Fäden einer über die ganze Welt gesponnenen Macht nachgespürt hatte, war er nicht abgeneigt, auch die Juden schr zu schätzen, und er sprach gelegentlich stockernst den Verdacht aus, ob nicht vielleicht im letzten innersten Kreise dieses verborgenen Weltgewebes Rabbiner und Monsignori höchst einträchtig beisammen säßen, was ihm übrigens gleichgültig gewesen wäre, wenn sie nur auch ihn mitzaubern ließen.

Sie sehen, da sucht einer! Es wird auf einen Menschen hingedeutet, der da sucht. Und Sie können ganz sicher sein, obzwar es nicht eine Autobiographie ist, aber dieser Hermann Bahr hat schon jenen Engländer kennengelernt. Das ist alles aus dem Leben.

Franz hatte sich damals schon zuweilen gefragt, ob nicht in der Narretei des Engländers doch vielleicht irgendeine Wahrheit versteckt sein könnte. Das Leben, das der einzelnen wie das der Völker, auf den ersten Blick so sinnlos, aus der Nähe nichts als ein Wust von Zufällen, zeigt sich, aus einiger Entfernung von der Höhe gesehen, doch stets wohl geplant und fest gelenkt. Wenn wir nicht annehmen wollen, daß Gott selbst unmittelbar eingreift, um mit eigener Hand den Unsinn, die Tollheit der menschlichen Willkür seinen Zwecken anzupassen, sind wir genötigt, uns gewisser maßen ein Zwischenreich, durch das sein Wille vermittelt wird, einen Kreis von still waltenden Menschen, durch den er auf die Welt einwirkt, sozusagen Stationen der göttlichen Kraft und Weisheit, zu denken, von denen aus ihre Strahlen in die dunkle Menschheit gehen und zuletzt doch alles immer wieder ordnen. Diese Linsen Gottes, den schaffenden Geist sammelnd und in die Welt zerstreuend, diese geheimen Ordner, diese verborgenen Könige wären es, durch die zuletzt doch aller Wahnsinn immer wieder zur Vernunft, die Leidenschaft zum Schweigen gebracht, Zufall zur Notwendigkeit, Chaos Gestalt, Finsternis hell wird, und wer wäre nicht in seinem Leben Menschen begegnet, die wirklich eine merkwürdige Hoheit und Entfernung haben, in dem Rufe stehen, durch ihren bloßen Blick verwünschen oder beglücken zu können und, so still sie sich halten, doch weit zu wirken scheinen? Es sind meistens gerade ganz einfach lebende Menschen, Hirten, Landärzte, Dorfpfarrer, oft auch alte Frauen oder auch frühreife Kinder, die bald sterben, und alle haben etwas, was sie den anderen unheimlich macht und was ihnen eine große Gewalt über Mensch und Vich, ja, wie man immer wieder versichern hört, über die ganze Natur, auf Quellen, Erze, Wetter, Sonnenschein und Regen, Hagelschlag und Trockenheit gibt. Wenn wir ihren Weg kreuzen, haben wir, oft im selben Augenblick gleich, manchmal nach Jahren erst, das bestimmte Gefühl, daß dadurch über unser Leben entschieden worden ist. Sie selbst empfinden, scheint's, ihre Kraft eher als eine Last, vielleicht fast als einen Fluch, jedenfalls aber als eine Pflicht. Sie leben abgewendet und sind froh, wenn sie verschont werden. Es ließe sich schon denken, daß sie alle durch die weite Welt hin miteinander in Verbindung sind, sich Zeichen geben oder vielleicht auch die Zeichen noch mächtigerer geheimer Fürsten weitergeben, alles vielleicht ganz unbewußt, oder doch nur halb bewußt, mehr sozusagen inneren Aufträgen erliegend, triebhaft gehorchend, als sich selbst entschließend, wie sie denn überhaupt ihrer eigenen Kraft nicht mächtig zu sein, sondern selbst von ihr überwältigt zu werden scheinen; alle diese Fähigkeiten finden sich fast nur bei getrübtem oder vielleicht aussetzendem Bewußtsein. Franz hatte schon in jungen Jahren solche Menschen gekannt, in den Bergen sind sie ja nicht selten. Er erinnerte sich ihrer wieder bei den schwärmerischen Schrullen des Engländers. Und viel später erst war er auf den Gedanken gekommen, ob denn nicht vielleicht auch jemand, dem derlei Fähigkeiten nicht angeboren wären, ihrer teilhaft werden, ob man sich zu solchen Kräften erziehen, ob man sie durch Training erlernen könnte. Aber die theosophischen Übungen hatten ihn bald enttäuscht, und erst durch den Anblick der verzückten Beter in den dunklen Kirchen war er wieder daran erinnert worden. Diese Menschen hatten es durch Übung dahin gebracht, sich in einen Zustand versetzen zu können, wo das Leid, die Not, der Neid schwiegen; sie kamen vom Gebet beschwichtigt, getröstet und gestärkt zurück.

Also mit den theosophischen Übungen wollte es der Franz, wie Sie sehen, nicht halten; auf diese Weise wollte er den Übergang zu einer Erkenntnis der geistigen Welten nicht finden. Aber Sie sehen, da dämmert etwas, da dämmert etwas von jenen Dingen, von denen wir gestern sprechen mußten. Sie sehen also: Es werden heute Leute herangebändigt anzuerkennen, wie sozusagen die Fäden laufen; die Menschen fangen an, aufmerksam zu werden, daß sich gewisse Leute solcher Fäden bedienen. Es wäre nur zu wünschen, daß solche Leute wie dieser Hermann Bahr - nur mit größerem Ernste noch, als sie es tun - an die Sache heranträten. Sogar der Domherr, dem er wirklich begegnet ist, hat es mit größerem Ernste gemacht; bei diesem Domherrn war er - Hermann Bahr - tatsächlich einmal eingeladen, in einer merkwürdigen Gesellschaft, die er nun in seinem Roman schildert. Aus dieser Schilderung sieht man, daß der Domherr mit allen Menschen, ebensogut mit den frommen Mönchen wie mit den Weltzynikern und den frivolen Menschen, verkehrte und sie alle an seinen Tisch lud. Aber dem Franz fiel doch allerlei auf. Der Domherr führte ihn ins Arbeitszimmer, wärend die andern sich in verschiedener Weise unterhielten - wenn abgegessen ist, so folgt ja immer noch etwas. Da führte ihn der Domherr also in sein Arbeitszimmer:

Die Nichte hatte sich entfernt, der Ehrengast aber, Onkel Erhard und die Exzellenz, in bequemen Stühlen andächtig der Verdauung ergeben, hatten noch immer nicht auserzählt, die Geschichten wurden bedenklicher, der Spott verwegener, die Anspielungen deutlicher, und unsere ganze Welt, Hof, Adel und Generalstab, zog in Anekdoten auf, nichts blieb verschont, es schien, daß alles überhaupt nur aus Anekdoten bestand. Franz trat angewidert weg, zur Bibliothek hin. Sie war nicht groß, aber gewählt. Von Theologie nur gerade das Nötigste, [...]

— man war ja bei einem Dombherrn, der braucht für sich selber die Theologie am wenigsten —

[...] die Bollandisten, viel Franziskanisches, Meister Eckhart, die geistlichen Übungen, Katharina von Genua, die Mystik von Görres und Möhlers Symbolik. Philosophie schon mehr: der ganze Kant, samt den Schriften der «Kant-Gesellschaft», Deussens «Upanischaden» und seine Geschichte der Philosophie, Vaihingers Philosophie des Als Ob und schr viel Erkenntniskritisches. Dann die griechischen und römischen Klassiker, Shakespeare, Calderon, Cervantes, Dante, Machiavelli und Balzac im Original, aber von Deutschen nur Novalis und Goethe, dieser in verschiedenen Ausgaben, seine Naturwissenschaftlichen Schriften in der Weimarer. Einen Band davon nahm Franz und fand viele Randbemerkungen von der Hand des Domherrn, der in diesem Augenblick den jungen Mönch und den Jesuiten verließ und zu ihm trat. Er sagte: «Ja, die Naturwissenschaftlichen Schriften Goethes kennt niemand. Leider! Da sieht der alte Heide, der er doch durchaus gewesen sein soll, auf einmal ganz anders aus und dann versteht man doch auch den Schluß des «Fausv erst. Ich habe mir ja nie vorstellen können, Goethe tue da bloß auf einmal katholisch, [...]

— nicht wahr, das muß man dem Domherrn, der alles «katholisch» haben will, verzeihen; für uns ist das Wichtigste, daß er sich an die Naturwissenschaftlichen Schriften gewendet hat

[...] Goethe tue da bloß auf einmal katholisch, nur zur malerischen Wirkung. Dazu ist doch mein Respekt vor dem Dichter zu groß, vor jedem Dichter, um zu glauben, daß einer, gerade wenn er sein letztes Wort sagt, ein Kostüm anlegen sollte. Aber in den Naturwissenschaftlichen Schriften steht ja auf jeder Seite, wie katholisch Goethe war, [...]

- das muß man dem Domherrn verzeihen —

[...] unwissentlich vielleicht und jedenfalls ohne den rechten Mut dazu. Es liest sich, als hätte da jemand, mit den katholischen Wahrheiten unbekannt, sie sozusagen unversehens auf eigene Faust aus sich selber entdeckt, wobei es freilich ohne manche Gewaltsamkeiten und Wunderlichkeiten nicht abgeht, aber doch im großen Ganzen nichts Entscheidendes, Norwendiges und Wesentliches fehlt, selbst der Schuß von Aberglauben, Magie oder wie man das nennen will, was den richtigen, geborenen Protestanten an unserer heiligen Lehre stets so verdächtig bleibt - selbst das nicht! Ich habe ja oft meinen eigenen Augen kaum getraut! Ist man aber bei Goethe dem kryptogamen Katholiken nur erst einmal auf der Spur, so sieht man ihn bald überall. Sein Vertrauen zum Heiligen Geiste, den er freilich lieber «Genius nennt, [...]

- Goethe mit rechtem Grunde natürlich! —

[...] sein tiefes Gefühl für die Sakramente, deren ihm nur noch zu wenige sind, sein Sinn für das «Ahndevolle, seine Begabung zur Ehrfurcht, gar aber, daß er, ganz unprotestantisch, sich niemals mit dem Glauben begnügt, sondern überall auf die Anerkennung Gottes durch die lebendige Tat, durch das fromme Werk dringt, gar dieses so seltene, höchste, schwierigste Begreifen, daß der Mensch nicht von Gott geholt werden kann, wenn er nicht selbst sich Gott holt, das Begreifen dieser furchtbaren menschlichen Freiheit, selber wählen zu müssen und die dargebotene Gnade nehmen, aber auch ausschlagen zu können, durch welche Freiheit allein die Gnade Gottes dem Menschen, der sich für sie entscheidet, der sie sich nimmt, erst zum eigenen Verdienste wird, das alles ist auch in seinen Übertreibungen, auch in seinen Verzerrungen noch so stockkatholisch, daß ich, wie du siehst, [...]

— sie hatten sich nämlich schon geduzt, so also der Domherr zum Franz

[...] oft genug an den Rand die Stellen aus dem Tridentinum schreiben konnte, wo zuweilen fast mit denselben Worten dasselbe steht. Und wenn Zacharias Werner erzählt hat, er sei durch einen Satz in den Wahlverwandtschaften katholisch gemacht worden, so glaub ich ihm das aufs Wort. Womit ich natürlich nicht leugnen will, daß es daneben auch einen heidnischen, einen protestantischen, ja sogar einen beinahe jüdischen Goethe gibt und ihn durchaus nicht als das Muster eines Katholiken reklamieren will, was er übrigens immer noch eher war als der plattvergnügte Wald- und Wiesenmonist, den die neudeutschen Oberlehrer unter seinem Namen paradieren lassen.»

Man sieht, es wird immerhin schon selbst in diesen Kreisen ein anderer Goethe gesucht, der den Weg in die geistige Welt hinein gehen kann - allerdings ein anderer Goethe, als der «plattvergnügte Waldund Wiesenmonist», den die Goethe-Biographen beschrieben haben und als der er heute der Welt verzapft wird. Sie sehen, die Wege, die dieser Franz macht - ich sage nicht der Domherr, sondern der Franz -, diese Wege sind nicht so ganz verschieden von denen, die Sie verwoben finden in dem, was wir anthroposophisch orientierte Geisteswissenschaft nennen — Sie sehen, es kann schon eine Notwendigkeit vorliegen.

Nun bitte ich Sie, sich zu erinnern - die meisten werden sich daran erinnern, ich weiß aber nicht, ob ich es auch hier erwähnt habe, doch habe ich es öfters erwähnt -, erinnern Sie sich, wie ich gesagt habe, daß zu den verborgenen Ereignissen unserer gegenwärtigen Zeit, zu den konkreten verborgenen Ereignissen unserer gegenwärtigen Zeit, ganz abgesehen von allem äußeren physischen Geschehen, der Tod des Erzherzogs Franz Ferdinand von Österreich gehört. Und zwar habe ich dazumal einen besonderen Wert darauf gelegt, daß wirklich für die Gesamtwelt - wenn wir physische und geistige Welt zusammennehmen - etwas Neues eintrat, daß es vor der Ermordung des Franz Ferdinand ganz anders war als nachher. Meine lieben Freunde, was geht es einen bei solchen Dingen an, wie sie sich im Äußeren, in der Maja ausnehmen - bei solchen Dingen geht einen an, wie die Dinge innerlich laufen. Und da habe ich gesagt: Was da hinaufgestiegen ist in die geistigen Welten als Seele dieses Franz Ferdinand, wurde ein Zentrum für ganz starke, mächtige Wirkungen, und vieles, was gegenwärtig geschieht, hängt gerade damit zusammen, daß da ein einzigartiger Übergang zwischen Leben und sogenanntem Tod vorgegangen ist, daß diese Seele etwas ganz anderes wurde, als andere Seelen es werden.

Ich sagte, für denjenigen, der die letzten Jahrzehnte geistig bewußt mitgemacht hat, liegt ein Hauptgrund für die gegenwärtigen schmerzlichen Ereignisse in der die ganze Welt durchtränkenden Furcht, die die einzelnen Menschen voreinander hatten, wenn sie sich dessen auch nicht bewußt waren, die aber vor allen Dingen die einzelnen Nationen voreinander gehabt haben. Und hätte man sehenden Auges diese Furchtursache verfolgt, so würde man nicht so viel Unsinn über die Kriegsursachen reden, wie man es heute tut. Diese Furcht konnte so bedeutsam sein, weil sie als Gefühlszustand hineinverwoben ist in dasjenige, was ich Ihnen gestern erzählte, durch Beispiele erzählte. Betrachten Sie das sozusagen als eine Art Skizze. Aber nun geht durch das alles die Furchtaura. In ganz bestimmter Weise zusammenhängend mit dieser Furchtaura war diese Seele von Franz Ferdinand. Daher ist dieser gewaltsame Tod keineswegs etwas bloß Äußerliches. Ich sagte das, weil es für mich eine Beobachtung war, weil das wirklich ein besonderes, ein bedeutsames Ereignis war, das zusammenhängt mit mancherlei, was in der Gegenwart geschieht.

Nun, ich weiß nicht - ich will nicht annehmen, daß solche Dinge, die ja selbstverständlich in unseren Kreisen behütet werden, überall außerhalb unseres Kreises erzählt werden; Tatsache ist aber, daß ich gleich vom Kriegsanfang an diese Sache vorgetragen habe in den verschiedensten Zweigen - dafür sind Zeugen da, daß sie vorgetragen worden ist. Das Buch von Hermann Bahr ist viel später, ist ja erst vor kurzem erschienen. Dennoch finde ich darinnen die folgende Stelle - und ich bitte Sie, die Tatsache ins Auge zu fassen, daß also im Kreise unserer anthroposophisch orientierten Geisteswissenschaft hingewiesen wird auf solch ein bedeutendes, spirituell bedeutendes Ereignis und daß man dann nachträglich in einem Buche - es ist nachträglich geschrieben — das folgende findet: Es handelt sich in diesem Roman darum, daß da ein Mensch auftritt, der eigentlich immer ganz töricht erscheint. Er ist allerdings eine Art verkappter Prinz, aber er tritt als ein ganz törichter Mensch auf und nimmt niedrige Dienste an. Nur als er verkündigen hört durch einen öffentlichen Anschlag — er ist auf dem Lande: Auf den Erzherzog Franz Ferdinand ist ein Attentat ausgeführt worden -, da macht er eine solche Äußerung, daß er nicht nur beinahe gelyncht, sondern auch eingesperrt wird, denn wie sollte nicht jede Polizei selbstverständlich davon überzeugt sein, wenn jemand unmittelbar nach dem Attentat eine solche Äußerung tut, daß er mit im Komplott ist? Das ist ja selbstverständlich, wenn auch viele, viele Meilen dazwischen liegen, wenn auch das eine in Sarajevo und das andere in Salzburg geschehen ist. Trotzdem ist der Mann für die Polizeiweisheit selbstverständlich im Komplott.

Dadurch aber kommt heraus, daß dieser törichte Mensch im Grunde genommen ein verkappter Prinz ist, der ein tief bedeutsames, mystisches Tagebuch hat. Es kommt aber auch heraus, warum er eigentlich jene Äußerung getan hat. Und darüber steht nun folgendes:

Der verwunschene, jetzt entzauberte Prinz, [...]

Er war also eigentlich ein Prinz, aber die ganze Prinzenschaft ist ihm zu dumm geworden, und er wurde der verkappte alte Blasl, der niedrige Dienste annahm, recht blöde tat, sich sogar von seinen Herrschaften prügeln ließ und meist gar nichts sagte; nur bei gewissen Anlässen wurde er gesprächig, aber sonst sagte er gar nichts. Man fand dann, da man selbstverständlich untersuchte, wie die Sache sich verhielte, ein mystisches Manuskript, das er selber geschrieben hatte — das ist hier drinnen im Buch mitgeteilt:

Der verwunschene, jetzt entzauberte Prinz, noch in seinen alten Kleidern und auch sonst ganz der alte, dennoch aber ein anderer, seit Franz wußte, daß es eine Verkleidung war, sagte lächelnd: «Vergeben Sie mir den Betrug, der ja für mein Gefühl eigentlich keiner war. Der Infant Don Tadeo bin ich längst nicht mehr. Wenn mich Umstände nötigen, ihn jetzt wieder eine Zeit vorzustellen, so fällt mir diese Rolle viel schwerer. Für mich war ich der alte Blasl wirklich, und wenn ich überhaupt log, so hätte ich mich belogen, nicht Sie. Daß ich Ihnen Ungelegenheiten bereiten würde, konnte ich nicht wissen. Es tut mir leid genug. Natürlich war's das albernste Mißverständnis. Ich habe den Thronfolger, ohne freilich ihm je begegnet zu sein, genau gekannt, er ist mir sehr wert gewesen, wir waren in Verbindung, wenn auch nicht auf die hiesige Art.»

«Hiesige» Art» — gemeint ist die physische Art: Wir waren in Verbindung, wenn auch nicht in der Art des physischen Planes.

«Er hatte längst die Grenzen der irdischen Wirksamkeit überschritten und stand mit einem Fuß schon in dem anderen Raum des rein geistigen Tuns. Er mußte nun ganz hinüber, das wußte ich; um in Erfüllung zu gehen, hat er nicht mehr bleiben können. Von dort aus erst wird seine Tat geschehen. Ich wunderte mich nur, daß das Schicksal so lange mit ihm zögerte. Und als ich an jenem Sonntag aus der Kirche tretend, wo ich eben im Gebet von neuem versichert worden war, die beklommene Menge fand, wußte ich gleich, daß er endlich befreit war. Was durch ihn zu geschehen hat, kann er von drüben erst verrichten. Hier hat er es nur versprechen können, sein Leben war nur eine Voranzeige. Jetzt erst kann es sich begeben. Ich habe mir ihn nie als einen konstitutionellen Monarchen denken können, mit Parlamentarismus und dem ganzen Humbug, Dafür war sein Format zu groß. Aber so hat er nun mit einem Schlag die Tat an sich gerissen. Dieser Tote wird jetzt erst leben und von Grund auf. Das empfand ich bei der Nachricht, das meinten meine Worte. Sie werden aber begreifen, daß ich wenig Aussicht hatte, mich darüber mit jenen Bauern zu verständigen. Ich ergab mich lieber stumm und wundere mich nur, daß sie mir nicht den Garaus machten. Ich war darauf gefaßt, und es wäre jetzt vorüber. Mir steht also noch ein Rest zu tun bevor. Sei’s!» Er hatte dies alles immer in dem gleichen Ton gesagt, der gewissermaßen nicht interpungierte, und nur selten

Franz einmal aus seinen abgestorbenen Augen stier anblickend. Dann bat er ihn noch, von seinen Heften nichts zu sagen und auch selbst sie zu vergessen. «Es steht darin die Wahrheit, aber nur für mich; dazu muß man meine Zeichensprache verstehen. Was darin steht, ist richtig, aber die Worte sind ungültig.» Franz konnte nicht unterlassen, ihm den Eindruck zu schildern, den er von den Heften hatte. Franz war nämlich der einzige Mensch, der Spanisch verstand in jener Stadt, und wurde, da diese Hefte spanisch geschrieben waren, zugezogen — wobei ich daran erinnere, daß da ein bißchen Ironie dabei ist, nennt man doch in Österreich alles «spanisch», was man nicht gleich versteht, aber jedenfalls waren es spanische Hefte. Man mußte aber doch, da man den Blasl respektive den Infanten im Verdacht hatte, daß er mit im Komplott sein könnte, diese Hefte lesen, und weil der Franz einmal in Spanien war und deshalb Spanisch lesen konnte, mußte er sie lesen - Hermann Bahr war nämlich wirklich auch in Spanien gewesen.

Sie sehen also - da man annehmen muß, daß Hermann Bahr die Sache nicht gesteckt worden ist - ein merkwürdiges Heranbändigen eines Menschen zu diesen Dingen, eine Notwendigkeit in der Gegenwart, sich mit diesen Dingen zu befassen, sich mit diesen Dingen zu beschäftigen. Und ich glaube, daß es berechtigt ist, ein wenig zu erstaunen darüber, daß solche Dinge gegenwärtig in Romanen auftauchen, denn das hängt zusammen mit dem inneren Gefüge unserer Zeit. Allerdings, zunächst werden nur Menschen ergriffen, die ein ähnliches Leben haben wie Hermann Bahr, der so nach und nach alles Mögliche durchgemacht hat und jetzt, in seinen alten Tagen, nachdem er sich lange zum Impressionismus bekannt hat, auch noch versucht, den Expressionismus und alles andere, was sich so ergibt, zu verstehen. Er ist ein Mensch, der wirklich in der Lage war, mit seiner Seele sich mit den verschiedensten Strömungen äußerlich und innerlich zu verbinden, der wirklich selber bei den Ostwaldianern, bei Richet und bei den Theosophen in London war und es mit denen versucht hat, und zuletzt, da er nicht genug Ausdauer gehabt hat, an den Domherrn Zinger| gekommen ist, den er nun für einen Meister hält. Ja, er hat innere und äußere Strömungen durchgemacht.

Als ich ihn kennenlernte, hatte er eben [als Student in Berlin] sein Drama «Die neuen Menschen» geschrieben, dessen er sich jetzt sehr schämt; das war in streng sozialdemokratischem Sinn verfaßt, und es gab damals keinen glühenderen Sozialdemokraten als Hermann Bahr. [Vorher als Student in Österreich] war er zur deutschnationalen Bewegung übergetreten. Wiederum: Keiner war ein radikalerer Deutschnationaler als Hermann Bahr gewesen. Da, [in Berlin, nach dem Ende seiner Studienzeit] - er war mittlerweile vierundzwanzig Jahre alt geworden und mußte sich endlich als Soldat stellen - wurde er Einjährig-Freiwilliger. Keiner wurde ein so radikal militaristisch gesinnter Mann wie Hermann Bahr - er war jetzt ganz von soldatischer Gesinnung durchdrungen. In dieser Zeit schrieb er einen kleinen Einakter, der weniger bedeutend ist. Dann schrieb er «Die große Sünde», [wo er aus seiner Enttäuschung gegenüber der sozialistischen Bewegung und der Politik im allgemeinen keinen Hehl machte].

Sie sehen, er wußte seine Seele mit den äußeren Strömungen zu verbinden, dabei hat er es aber nie versäumt, sich auch schon ganz ernsthaft mit inneren Strömungen bekannt zu machen. Dann, nachdem er seine Soldatenzeit [und den sich anschließenden Pariser Aufenthalt] hinter sich hatte, ging er für kurze Zeit wieder nach Berlin und redigierte dort eine moderne Wochenschrift, die «Freie Bühne für modernes Leben» hieß. In alles konnte er sich verwandeln, aber nur nicht in einen Berliner! Er war kaum [in Paris] angekommen, er konnte noch nicht einmal ein reflexives Verbum mit «être» konjugieren, sondern nur mit «avoir», da schrieb er schon begeisterte Briefe über den Sonnenmenschen Boulanger, der Europa schon zeigen werde, was wahre, echte Kultur ist. Dann ging er nach Spanien, wurde ein glühender Gegner des Sultans von Marokko, gegen den er Artikel schrieb, aber in spanischer Sprache. Dann kam er zurück, nicht als eine Kopie von Daudet - nicht eine Kopie, denn er war als Mensch ein Rassengemisch -, aber er sah äußerlich doch so ähnlich aus.

Er erzählte uns dazumal in dem berühmten alten Cafe Griensteidl, das seit dem Jahre 1848 in seinen Räumen schon alle möglichen Leute gesehen hat, welche in Österreich eine gewisse Bedeutung hatten, und wo Lenau, Anastasius Grün und alle möglichen anderen Leute verkehrten, wo selbst die Kellner eine besondere Berühmtheit erlangt hatten, denn wer kannte in Wien nicht den berühmten Franz und später den Heinrich vom Griensteidl? Jetzt ist es abgerissen, aber gerade weil Hermann Bahr dort so viel geredet hat von der Art und Weise, wie seine Seele sich ins Franzosentum versetzt hat, geredet hat von dem Sonnenmenschen Boulanger, wurde ein anderer aufsässig, und als das Cafe Griensteidl abgerissen wurde, schrieb Karl Kraus die Broschüre «Die demolierte Literatur». Ich erinnere mich noch lebhaft, wie uns Hermann Bahr von seinen großen Eindrücken, die er gehabt hatte, erzählte und daß er, der Linzer, den schönsten Künstlerkopf in ganz Paris gehabt habe; ich erinnere mich noch ganz lebendig, wie er von Maurice Barres schwärmte, wie er die Leute mit den Ideen von Maurice Barr&s suggestionierte, wie er in intensiver Weise alles vertrat, was dazumal anfing, Jungfranzosentum zu sein, wie man wirklich aus einem begeisterten Herzen heraus, das eine ganze Literaturströmung miterlebt hat mit all ihrem Wollen, kennenlernte all das, was da war. Dann gründete er selber mit einigen andern zusammen in Wien eine Wochenschrift, in der er wirklich bedeutsame Artikel schrieb - er vertiefte sich schon immer mehr und mehr, nur gingen bei ihm immer eine Trivialisierung und eine Vertiefung Hand in Hand. Und so hat er sich nun weiter gewandelt wie einst vom Deutschnationalen zum Sozialdemokraten, vom militärisch Gesinnten zum glühenden Boulangisten und Anhänger des Maurice Barres und anderer; dann hat er sich schließlich verwandelt in einen Anerkenner der impressionistischen Kunst.

Ab und zu ist er immer wieder nach Berlin gekommen, da ist er aber immer sehr schnell wieder fortgegangen; das war der einzige Ort, den er nicht leiden konnte. Dagegen liebte er Wien ganz furchtbar und brachte das in vieler, vieler Beziehung zum Ausdruck. In den letzten Jahren haben ihn öfters die Danziger, seine geliebten Danziger, eingeladen, denen er Vorträge hielt über Expressionismus, die sie sehr gut verstanden haben sollen und die ja auch erschienen sind in seinem Buch über den Expressionismus. Da schwärmt er nun auch von Goethes naturwissenschaftlichen Schriften, da zeigt er, daß er auch ein wenig herangekommen ist an das, was wir als Anthroposophie kennenlernen, aber es ist eben erst ein Anfang bei ihm. Nur nebenbei will ich sagen, daß er in seinem letzten Buche über den Expressionismus den Danzigern alles Schöne sagt - selbstverständlich um ihre großen Vorzüge gegen die Berliner ins rechte Licht zu setzen. Man hat in letzter Zeit vielfach erzählt, Hermann Bahr sei katholisch geworden. Nun, so ganz katholisch wird er auch nicht geworden sein; er wird es in demselben Grade geworden sein, wie er boulangistisch war. Aber er ist ein Mensch - Sie haben es nun auch in seinem neuesten Roman gesehen -, der gerade durch das Weltmännische, das er wegen der Sehnsucht, in seiner Art alles kennenzulernen, eben hat, berührt wurde von der Notwendigkeit, in der Gegenwart Dinge kennenzulernen wie den Aufstieg des Menschen in die geistige Welt oder wie die Zusammenhänge von Mensch zu Mensch -— Zusammenhänge anderer Art als jene, die bloß durch die gewöhnlichen physischen Mittel zustande kommen, mit andern Worten: Zusammenhänge, wie wir sie gestern auch charakterisiert haben.

Nun, Sie können immerhin verstehen, wenn es von mir mit einer gewissen Bedeutung aufgefaßt wird, daß nicht nur allgemeine Anklänge in solch einem Romane sind, sondern daß die Dinge bis zu einem so konkreten Punkt kommen wie dem Tod des Erzherzogs Franz Ferdinand. Daran sehen Sie, daß die Dinge viel konkreter zu nehmen sind, als man gewöhnlich meint. Nun, gerade solche Dinge aber müssen uns darauf hinweisen, daß das, was auf dem physischen Plan geschieht, vielfach nur wie ein Symptom ist - ein Symptom für das, was eigentlich in Wirklichkeit geschieht, was gewissermaßen hinter den Kulissen des Daseins vorgeht. Denn Sie können sich unmöglich eine [richtige] Vorstellung machen, wenn Sie in den Zeitungen nur dasjenige lesen, was im Zusammenhange mit diesen Ereignissen ich meine jetzt nur mit diesem Attentat - vorgegangen ist. Und wenn Sie nicht an Geistiges appellieren, können Sie sich unmöglich die Vorstellung machen, daß man überhaupt zu einer wirklichen Bedeutung der Sache geführt wird. Aber es ist heute noch nicht möglich, über diese Dinge ganz unbefangen zu sprechen und alles das auszudrükken, was damit zusammenhängt. Aber auf einiges, zunächst mehr Äußeres, darf doch wohl hingedeutet werden.

Erinnern wir uns an das, was gestern über die slawische Welt, über das slawische Gemüt gesagt worden ist. Halten wir damit zusammen, daß durch das sogenannte Testament Peters des Großen, das etwa im Jahre 1813 auftritt, vielleicht auch etwas früher, etwas verbreitet wird— und zwar mit Grund so verbreitet wird, als wenn es von Peter dem Grossen selber herrührte -, das suggestiv wirken soll, was eine naturgemäße Strömung wie die slawische Gemütsströmung gewissermaßen einnehmen soll, um sie zu lenken und zu leiten. Wohin leiten? Leiten in die Bahnen des Russizismus, so daß das alte Slawentum gewissermaßen als Träger der russischen Staatsidee erscheint. Weil das so ist, muß auch genau unterschieden werden zwischen dem Geistigen des Slawentums, demjenigen, was als Strömung des alten Slawentums existiert, und demjenigen, was sich, ich möchte sagen wie ein äußeres Gefäß herrichten möchte, um dieses ganze Slawentum aufzunehmen: der Russizismus, das Russentum.

Nun darf man nicht vergessen, daß eine große Anzahl von slawischen Volksstämmen, Volksstammesteilen wenigstens, innerhalb des Rahmens der österreichisch-ungarischen Monarchie leben. Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie hat ja - lassen Sie mich die Finger zu Hilfe nehmen, um zu zählen - Deutsche, Tschechen, Slowenen, Slowaken, Serben, Kroaten, Slawonen, Polen, Rumänen, Ruthenen, Magyaren und Italiener innerhalb ihrer Grenzen wohnen Sie sehen, viel mehr Völkerschaften als die Schweiz! Nun haben wir [zwölf Völkerschaften], und das, was da lebt innerhalb dieser Völkerschaften, kann nur derjenige erkennen, der einmal innerhalb dieser Völkerschaften längere Zeit wirklich mitgelebt hat mit den Ereignissen und verstanden hat die verschiedenen Strömungen, die da innerhalb Österreich-Ungarns leben. Insofern es sich um das Slawische handelt, muß man sagen, daß in den letzten Jahrzehnten des 19. Jahrhunderts eine wesentliche Bestrebung - durchgehend durch die Dinge - die war, eine Möglichkeit zu finden, wie diese verschiedenen Völkerschaften in Frieden und in Freiheit miteinander leben können. Und die ganze Geschichte Österreich-Ungarns in den letzten Jahrzehnten, mit all den scharfen Kämpfen, ist nur zu verstehen, wenn man sie faßt unter dem Prinzip der Individualisierung der einzelnen Stämme - diese ist natürlich schwierig, weil ja die Leute nicht so bequem nebeneinander leben, sondern vielfach ineinander geschachtelt sind. Unter den Deutschen Österreichs gibt es sehr, sehr viele, welche auch das Heil der Deutschen gerade darin sehen, die einzelnen Slawenstämme in Österreich möglichst zu individualisieren, das heißt eine Form zu suchen, wie sie selbständig und frei sich individuell entwickeln können. Daß solche Dinge nicht schnell gefunden werden können, ist selbstverständlich; es braucht Zeit, aber es ist immerhin eine solche Bewegung durchaus vorhanden.

Dann haben wir neben diesen innerhalb des Rahmens von Österreich-Ungarn vereinigten Slawenstämmen die Balkanslawen, welche lange Zeit unter türkischer Herrschaft waren, in den letzten Jahrzehnten diese türkische Herrschaft aber abgestreift und einzelne balkanslawische Staaten begründet haben: Bulgarien, Serbien und Montenegro. Was sich neben dem, was ich jetzt angeführt habe, noch als das im Geistesleben am weitesten vorgeschrittene polnisch-slawische Volk findet, das ist schon gestern von mir erwähnt worden. Ich will Sie jetzt nur auf die wichtigsten Verzweigungen aufmerksam machen, denn ich kann diese Dinge ja auch nur nach und nach entwickeln. Nun lebt aber gerade in all diesen slawischen Völkern und Volksstämmen bis zu einem gewissen Grade dasjenige, was ich gestern als das einheitliche, elementarische völkische Element bezeichnet habe, was eben eine Vorbereitung für die Zukunft ist - das lebt darinnen.

Nun fassen wir die Sache zunächst äußerlich. Warum war, äuBerlich angesehen, jener Franz Ferdinand von einer gewissen Bedeutung? Er war von einer gewissen Bedeutung, weil er mit seinem Wesen, durch seine ganzen Neigungen - das Äußere müssen Sie eben symbolisch auffassen für etwas, was innerlich lebte - sozusagen der äußere Ausdruck für gewisse Strömungen war, weil in seinem Wesen etwas lebte, was - sobald es sich nur hätte ganz befreien können — außerordentlich verständnisvoll der individuellen Entwicklung des Slawentums entgegengekommen wäre. Man kann ihn [trotz gewisser Einschränkungen] geradezu einen intensiven Freund des Slawentums nennen, und er hatte Verständnis - vielleicht müßte ich sagen: dasjenige, was in ihm lebte, was ihm selber nicht voll bewußt war, hatte Verständnis dafür -, was für Formen das Zusammenleben der Slawen annehmen muß, wenn diese sich individuell entwickeln sollen.

Man muß nun ins Auge fassen, daß [in diesem Fall] der Gang des Karmas ein höchst eigentümlicher war. Man darf nicht vergessen, es war einmal ein Thronfolger da gewesen, auf den große Hoffnungen gesetzt wurden, insbesondere nach jener Richtung, in welcher viele liberale und freigeistige Menschen der Gegenwart denken - der Thronfolger Erzherzog Rudolf. Klar war es denjenigen, welche die Verhältnisse und den Menschen, den Erzherzog Rudolf, kannten, daß durch seine Seele etwas wirkte, was ich gestern englisches politisches Denken - Gedankenformen für die Art und Weise, Staaten zu verwalten - genannt habe. Und man erwartete von ihm eine Übertragung dieses Denkens auf die österreichischen Verhältnisse; dem waren auch seine Neigungen zugetan. Aber Sie wissen, wie das Karma gewirkt hat und in welcher Weise das, was da hätte geschehen sollen, verunmöglicht worden ist. Nun war das andere möglich, daß ein in ganz anderer Richtung sich bewegender Mann bedeutsam werden konnte. Und da ist es wirklich nicht so ganz ohne Bedeutung, wenn darauf aufmerksam gemacht wird:

Hier hat er es nur versprechen können, sein Leben war nur eine Voranzeige. Jetzt erst kann es sich begeben. Ich habe mir ihn nie als einen konstitutionellen Monarchen denken können, mit Parlamentarismus und dem ganzen Humbug.

Aber so hätte man sich vor allen Dingen den anderen Mann denken müssen! Sie sehen, das Karma ist an der Arbeit, und wir müssen dieses Karma so an der Arbeit erblicken, um zu noch höheren Höhen des Verständnisses aufsteigen zu können. Dasjenige, was hätte eingerichtet werden sollen und können - jetzt nicht nach dem Willen dieser oder jener Menschen, sondern nach den Intentionen der Weltenevolution -, was durch diese das Slawentum mit Verständnis beobachtende Seele hätte eingeleitet werden können - ich will jetzt vorläufig nur abstrakt charakterisieren -, das wäre, meine lieben Freunde, wirklich von befreiender Wirkung gerade für das Slawentum gewesen. Aber es wäre zu gleicher Zeit vernichtend gewesen für das, was der Russizismus mit dem Slawentum will, denn der Russizismus will das Slawentum in seinen Rahmen, den er durch das «Testament Peters des Großen» bereitet, fassen und es als sein Mittel benützen. Er will es fassen. Wie schnell solche Dinge sich verwirklichen können, das hängt natürlich von mancherlei Nebenströmungen und Nebenumständen ab. Aber wichtig ist, einen richtigen Blick zu haben für das, was sich nach einer bestimmten Richtung hin anbahnt. Es ist daher selbstverständlich, daß ein Verständnis für das, was da eigentlich wob, nur diejenigen haben konnten, welche das Slawentum etwas tiefer betrachteten, und daß diesem entgegengearbeitet werden mußte von jenen, die eigentlich den Slawismus durch den Russizismus vernichten wollen.

Nun, besonders heikel, besonders penibel werden die Dinge, wenn Personen in Strömungen eingreifen und mit Mitteln rechnen, die eben mit okkulten Strömungen zusammenhängen, und solche Gesellschaften gibt es [einige] weit über die Erde hin. Manche davon sind tieferreichende Gesellschaften, wie diejenigen, die wir morgen noch kennenlernen wollen. Manche sind nur am Rande berührt, aber trotzdem sie nur berührt sind, müssen sie, gerade weil sie berührt sind, immerhin schon als Gefäße aufgefaßt werden, durch welche die okkulten Strömungen hindurchgehen. Und jene Gesellschaft, von welcher verlangt wurde nach dem Tode des Erzherzogs Franz Ferdinand, daß sie aufgelöst werden sollte in Serbien, die «Narodna odbrana», das war eine Gesellschaft, die immerhin die ganz genaue Fortsetzung einer früheren, ganz im Okkulten arbeitenden Gesellschaft war, die nur ein wenig ihre Methode geändert hatte - ich will eben nur Tatsachen erzählen. Sehen Sie, da haben Sie eine Berührung mit der Art, wie mit einer okkulten Gesellschaft politisch gearbeitet wird — einer okkulten Gesellschaft, die ihr Aktionszentrum zwar in Serbien hatte, die aber ihre Fäden überallhin, wo es Slawen gab, erstreckte und die mit den mannigfaltigsten andern Gesellschaften im Zusammenhang stand und vor allen Dingen wiederum einen inneren Zusammenhang hatte mit westlichen Gesellschaften. Daher kann man in einer solchen Gesellschaft Dinge lehren, die schon zusammenhängen mit den okkultistischen Wirkungen, die durch die Welt gehen.

Warum müssen wir, meine lieben Freunde, so mancherlei Umwege machen, um auch nur einigermaßen zu einem Verständnis dessen zu kommen, was wir eigentlich verstehen müssen? Wundern Sie sich nicht, daß so mancherlei Umwege gemacht werden müssen, denn gar leicht entsteht ein oberflächliches Urteilen, wenn man seine Einsichten anwenden will auf unmittelbare Vorgänge, in denen man mit Sympathien und Antipathien drinnensteckt; gar leicht entstehen da falsche Vorstellungen und Mißverständnisse. Denn wie geschieht es einem oft? Man hat seine Sympathien und Antipathien in der Seele, zu denen selbstverständlich jeder sein gutes Recht hat, aber man hat oftmals Grund, sich diese nicht einzugestehen, sondern sich selber, ich will nicht sagen etwas vorzumachen, sondern in die Autosuggestion zu versetzen, man urteile objektiv. Würde man sich ruhig gestehen, ich habe diese oder jene Sympathien, so würde man sich die Wahrheit eingestehen; aber während man «objektiv» urteilen will, gesteht man sich nicht die Wahrheit, sondern betäubt sich gewissermaßen über die Wahrheit hinweg. Nun ja, warum kann denn der Mensch solche Anlagen haben? Einfach deshalb, weil der Mensch sehr leicht, wenn er sich bemüht, die Wirklichkeit zu verstehen, auf merkwürdige Widersprüche stößt, und wenn der Mensch auf Widersprüche stößt, dann sucht er über diese so hinwegzukommen, daß er von zwei einander widersprechenden Dingen das eine annimmt und das andere zurückstößt. Das aber heißt sehr häufig, die Wirklichkeit überhaupt nicht verstehen wollen.

Ich will Ihnen ein Beispiel geben, wie man sich in einen Widerspruch, in einen ernsten Widerspruch verwickeln kann, wenn man nicht versteht, wie der lebensvolle Zusammenhang des Widerspruchsvollen mit der ganzen, vollen Wirklichkeit ist. Wir nennen innerhalb unserer anthroposophisch orientierten Geisteswissenschaft Christentum dasjenige, was ergriffen ist von der Bedeutung des Mysteriums von Golgatha, was ergriffen ist davon, daß der Christus verurteilt worden ist, gestorben ist, begraben worden ist, aber auch in echtem, wahrem Sinne auferstanden ist und als Auferstandener weiterlebt; Das nennen wir Mysterium von Golgotha) und wir können niemandem das Recht zugestehen, sich einen Christen zu nennen, der dieses nicht anerkennt. Was war aber notwendig, damit der Christus das für die Menschenentwicklung durchmachte, was ich eben geschildert habe? Dazu war notwendig, daß ihn der Judas verriet, dazu war notwendig, daß er ans Kreuz geschlagen worden ist. Und hätten diejenigen, die ihn ans Kreuz schlugen, ihn nicht ans Kreuz geschlagen, dann hätte das Mysterium von Golgatha zum Heile der Menschheit nicht stattgefunden. Wäre der Christus nicht von Judas verraten worden, dann wäre das Mysterium von Golgatha nicht geschehen. Hier haben Sie einen furchtbaren, realen, ich möchte sagen, einen ins Große, ins Gigantische getriebenen Widerspruch.

Läßt sich denn ein Mensch denken, der sagt: Ihr Christen verdankt dem Judas, daß Euer Mysterium von Golgatha überhaupt zustande gekommen ist; ihr Christen verdankt den Henkersknechten, die Christus ans Kreuz geschlagen haben, daß Euer Mysterium von Golgatha sich abgespielt hat? - Soll deshalb einer berechtigt sein, den Judas und die Henkersknechte zu verteidigen, trotzdem es wahr ist, daß ihnen der Sinn der Erdengeschichte verdankt wird? Kann solch eine Frage so einfach beantwortet werden? Kommt man nicht auf Widersprüche, meine lieben Freunde, die dastehen und die ein furchtbares Geschick sind?

Denken Sie einmal nach über das, was ich jetzt vor Sie hingestellt habe. Wir werden morgen in diesen Betrachtungen weiterfahren. Das letzte habe ich nur ausgesprochen, damit Sie nachdenken können darüber, daß es nicht so einfach ist zu sagen: Von zwei Dingen, die einander widersprechen, nehme ich das eine, das andere weise ich zurück. - Die Wirklichkeit ist tiefer als das, was der Mensch oftmals mit seinem Denken umfassen will, und es ist doch nicht so ohne Grund, wenn Nietzsche aus einem fast wahnsinnig gewordenen Kopf heraus das Wort geprägt hat: «Die Welt ist tief und tiefer, als der Tag gedacht.»

Nun werden wir, nachdem ich versucht habe, Sie in formaler Weise auf die Natur des realen Widerspruchs hinzuweisen, morgen noch tiefer in die Materie einzudringen versuchen, die wir jetzt vorbereitend angeschlagen haben. Ich will jetzt nur eine ganz kurze Pause machen; Sie können herinnen bleiben. Und ich werde dann, damit es verstanden werden kann, noch ganz kurz etwas sprechen über die Goethe’sche «Walpurgisnacht», über «Faust», weil ja vielleicht das doch auch manchem nützlich werden kann. Also nur ein paar Minuten wollen wir Pause machen, damit wir die Sachen nicht ineinander laufen lassen.

Third Lecture

My dear friends! If we want to look at things from our point of view, as we are doing now, we must never lose sight of the importance of spiritual scientific observation for understanding human development in the fifth post-Atlantean period, but also [for insight into] the preparation of what must happen in the sixth post-Atlantean period. For if we are not attentive to what is currently being neglected by humanity, by today's materialistic humanity, in relation to spiritual scientific observation of the world, we cannot advance to the causes underlying the events of the present time.

And in order to gain a certain starting point for further considerations, I would like to mention how looking up to the worlds to which our spiritual science refers is, so to speak, compulsively established in individual human beings. It is important to realize that this forced taming of these people to a certain view of the world is still sporadic today, occurring only here and there, but it is precisely in this sporadic occurrence that something extremely characteristic can be seen. I recently mentioned the fact that a certain Hermann Bahr published a drama, Die Stimme (The Voice), in which he attempts, albeit in a Catholicizing manner, to link the physical, sensory world that surrounds us to spiritual events and processes. Not long after this drama, Hermann Bahr wrote the novel Himmelfahrt (Ascension), and Hermann Bahr's novel Himmelfahrt is, in a certain sense, a document of its time. I do not wish to overestimate the artistic and literary value of this document of its time, but it is a document of its time. And as karma would have it, I have known Hermann Bahr for a long, long time, since he was a very young student. And in this novel, Himmelfahrt, he describes a novel hero, as they call it in aesthetics—he calls him Franz—who seems to me to be a kind of image, not a self-characterization, but a kind of image of Hermann Bahr himself. Now, all sorts of interesting things happen in this novel. The novel was written during the war. It is clearly an examination of the Austrian Hermann Bahr's views on the events of the time.

We need only think in this abstract form, so to speak, of the extent to which the hero of the novel, Franz, is a kind of reflection of a person living in the present, who is now about fifty-two or fifty-three years old, who has lived through the events of the time, who began early to live in a very intense way with all possible currents of the time, because as a student he was expelled twice, from two universities, because of this life with the various trends of the time, and was always keen to connect spiritually with certain intellectual currents, including artistic ones. It is not a self-portrait – there is nothing biographical about Hermann Bahr in it – but this hero Franz is nevertheless something that Bahr may have imbued him with. Thus, in this hero Franz, we see a person portrayed who is trying to come to terms with all the intellectual aspirations that can currently be found in the world in order to gain insight into the connections between the worlds.

Right at the beginning, we are told where Franz has been wandering around in order to gain clarity about the state of the world: first as a botanist with Wiesner – a famous botanist who taught at the University of Vienna – then as a chemist with Ostwald, who became chairman of the Monist League at Haeckel's request, then in Schmoller's seminar, at Richet's clinic, where he became acquainted with Richet's ideas, and with Freud in Vienna—of course, anyone who wanted to get into the intellectual currents of the time also had to learn about psychoanalysis. He was also with the Theosophists in London and came into contact with painters, engravers, tennis players, and so on. So he is not one-sided: he was in Richet's laboratory as well as with the Theosophists in London. He seeks to find his way everywhere. Then, of course, his destiny, his karma, drives him further around the world, and various stories are told about how he becomes aware here and there that there are certain background factors in human evolution and that one should be aware of these background factors. I introduced you to this background yesterday, and now I want to show you how someone else was led to recognize these backgrounds. So I'll read you a bit from this novel.

But what was more important to him now was whether he should answer her and what he should say.

Franz had found a female personality who was particularly pious—Klara had her own kind of piety—but I don't want to talk about that, only hint that this was an important occasion for him.

But what was more important to him now was whether he should answer her and what he should say. Should he thank her politely and then wait calmly until chance brought her to him? Or perhaps he should follow her advice, turn to one of the pious men, and then take this as an opportunity to write to her again?

In this context, pious men are Catholic clergy, whom he initially seeks out to see whether what they find and what they know can help him find his way in the world. He then goes on to say:

First, however, he had to figure out what he himself actually wanted. Was he simply in love, and was his inclination to become pious just a disguised desire to please her? He had certainly not lied consciously, but it could be that his romanticized feelings for her made every one of her qualities and habits seem desirable to him. One instinctively wants to be like the person one loves, and what is dear and valuable to them becomes dear and valuable to the lover as well. But that wasn't true here! He was already on the path to faith before he even knew her. He would hardly ever have met her without that strange inner urge, inexplicable even to himself, which suddenly drew him gently into churches and led him to find her before the saints, herself almost like a saint. Otherwise, he would not have noticed her at all; perhaps he did not even love her, but only the manifestation of his own longing in her. And it was not love at all, not what he had previously called love, it was the bliss of being pious that he felt! But was he pious? He only knew that he wished to be, but still did not dare, perhaps for fear of deceiving himself again, as every wish had always deceived him, and if he were disappointed again, then he would have none left! He would have liked to be pious, but the question was, of course, whether he could be. Pious like those beggars whom he envied so much for the dull happiness of their devout devotion? Hardly. He had already tasted too much of the tree of knowledge. Pious like Klara? He was no longer capable of spiritual innocence. But wasn't there perhaps a kind of second innocence, a regained innocence? Wasn't there a piety of the humble mind that recognized its limits, a faith of the knowledgeable, a hope born of despair? Hadn't there always been lonely, hidden wise men, turned away from the world, connected to each other by secret signs, working quietly and wonderfully with an almost magical power, in a higher realm above the peoples, above creeds, in the boundless, in the space of a purer humanity closer to God? Is there not still today, scattered and hidden throughout the world, a knighthood of the Holy Grail? Were there not disciples of a perhaps invisible, inaccessible, merely sensed, but everywhere active, all-powerful, destiny-determining white lodge? Had there not always been on earth a kind of anonymous community of saints who did not know each other, knew nothing of each other, and yet worked on each other, indeed with each other, merely through the rays of their prayers? Such thoughts had already occupied him much during his theosophical period, but he had apparently always met only false theosophists; perhaps the true ones did not allow themselves to be known. And suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps the canon [...]

He had met a canon who, strangely enough, had shown himself to be a man without prejudice in many respects.

And suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps the canon was one of these true masters, one of the hidden spiritual rulers of the world, one of the secret guardians of the Grail? He now realized that the canon had always attracted him, as if with a promise of great revelations, as if the words of life were preserved there. The esteem in which this priest was held, the awe, even fear, with which people spoke of him, the obedience even those who disliked him showed him, the profound solitude that surrounded him, the mysterious power he was said to have to help friends and harm enemies, even though he smiled and said he didn't deserve the thanks of his friends or the resentment of his enemies—all this went way beyond the importance, power, and dignity of his office and his outward position, and when some people said it was because of his “good connections,”

- as they say in Austria: “he just has” —

[...] others even explained it with rumors of his descent from a noble lord, the magical power of his gaze, his presence, indeed his mere name remained unexplained. There were a dozen canons in the city, but he was the canon. When people spoke of the canon, they meant him. When they asked about His Excellency, they were not understood at first. They still could not get used to calling him that; to them, he remained the canon. He walked modestly behind the cardinal in his red robes, but everyone's eyes were fixed on him.

- on the canon, not on the cardinal! —

When he failed to make his usual rounds at the appointed hour, word immediately spread throughout the city: “The canon is away!” And when word came that “the canon is back,” it seemed to be of the utmost importance to the entire city. Franz remembered a conversation he had had years ago in Rome:

- forgive me for reading this aloud, but Hermann Bahr wrote it, and I beg your pardon

[.-.] with an Englishman who, after traveling all over the world, had settled in the Holy City because he claimed to have found nothing more mysterious than the Monsignori. Whoever could understand them would have the key to the fate of mankind. He was a clever man in his mature years, from a good family, rich, independent, a bachelor and a true Englishman, sober, practical, unsentimental, completely unmusical, unartistic, a coarse, cheerful sensualist, an angler, a rower, sailor, a hearty eater, a heavy drinker, a bon vivant, whose comfort was disturbed by only one passion, the curiosity to see everything, to know everything, to have been everywhere, with no other intention than to be able to say, finally, whatever place one spoke of: Oh yes! —he knew the hotel where Cook had put him up, the sights he had visited, the people of rank or fame with whom he had associated. In order to travel more comfortably and have access everywhere, he had been advised to become a Freemason. He praised the usefulness of this connection until he believed he had discovered that there must be a similar, but better managed, more powerful connection of a higher order, which he now wanted to join, just as he would naturally have turned to another, better Cook if he had been able to find one. He would not be dissuaded from his belief that the world was ruled by a very small group of secret leaders, that so-called history was made by these hidden men, who were unknown even to their closest servants, who in turn were unknown to their own, and he claimed to have found traces of this secret world government, this true Freemasonry, of which the other was merely a highly foolish copy with inadequate means, had found its seat in Rome, among the monsignori, most of whom, of course, were also clueless extras, whose crowds merely served to conceal the four or five real masters of the world. And Franz still had to laugh today at the comical desperation of his Englishman, who now had the misfortune of never getting to the right person, but always ending up with mere extras, yet he did not allow himself to be misled, but only gained more respect for such a well-protected, impenetrable association, into which he was determined to be admitted, even if he had to remain in Rome until the end of his life, take holy orders, or even be circumcised, for having traced everywhere the invisible threads of a power spun across the whole world, he was not averse to holding the Jews in high esteem, and he occasionally expressed his suspicion, with deadly seriousness, that perhaps in the innermost circle of this hidden world network, rabbis and monsignors sat together in perfect harmony, which, incidentally, would have been of no consequence to him if they had only allowed him to share in their magic.

You see, someone is searching! It points to a person who is searching. And you can be quite sure, even though it is not an autobiography, that this Hermann Bahr did indeed meet that Englishman. It is all based on real life.

Franz had already asked himself from time to time whether there might not be some truth hidden in the Englishman's folly. Life, both that of individuals and that of peoples, which at first glance seems so meaningless, and when viewed up close appears to be nothing but a jumble of coincidences, always reveals itself, when viewed from a distance and from above, to be well planned and firmly guided. If we do not want to assume that God himself intervenes directly to adapt the nonsense and folly of human arbitrariness to his purposes with his own hand, we are compelled to imagine a kind of intermediate realm through which his will is mediated, a circle of silently ruling people through whom he acts on the world, stations of divine power and wisdom, so to speak, from which their rays go out into the dark humanity and ultimately always bring everything back into order. These lenses of God, gathering the creative spirit and scattering it into the world, these secret organizers, these hidden kings, would be the ones through whom, in the end, all madness is always brought back to reason, passion is silenced, chance becomes necessity, chaos becomes form, and darkness becomes light. and who has not encountered people in their life who truly have a strange majesty and aloofness, who are reputed to be able to curse or bless with a mere glance and, however quiet they may be, seem to have a far-reaching influence? They are mostly people who live very simple lives, shepherds, country doctors, village priests, often old women or precocious children who die young, and all of them have something that makes them uncanny to others and gives them great power over people and animals, indeed, as one hears repeatedly, over the whole of nature, over springs, ores, the weather, sunshine and rain, hailstorms and drought. When we cross their path, we often have the distinct feeling, sometimes only years later, that our life has been decided. They themselves seem to regard their power more as a burden, perhaps almost as a curse, but in any case as a duty. They live in seclusion and are glad when they are spared. One might well imagine that they are all connected with each other throughout the wide world, sending each other signs or perhaps passing on the signs of even more powerful secret princes, all perhaps quite unconsciously, or only half consciously, succumbing, so to speak, to inner commands, obeying instinctively rather than deciding for themselves, as they seem to be powerless over their own strength and overwhelmed by it; all these abilities are found almost exclusively in clouded or perhaps suspended consciousness. Franz had known such people from an early age; they are not uncommon in the mountains. He remembered them when he heard the Englishman's enthusiastic ramblings. And much later, he wondered whether someone who did not possess such abilities by nature could acquire them, whether such powers could be cultivated or learned through training. But theosophical exercises soon disappointed him, and it was only when he saw the ecstatic worshippers in the dark churches that he was reminded of them again. Through practice, these people had managed to put themselves in a state where suffering, hardship, and envy were silenced; they returned from prayer appeased, comforted, and strengthened.

So, as you can see, Franz did not want to continue with theosophical exercises; he did not want to find the transition to a knowledge of the spiritual worlds in this way. But you see, something is dawning, something is dawning of those things we had to talk about yesterday. So you see: today people are being coaxed into acknowledging how the strings are pulled, so to speak; people are beginning to become aware that certain people are using such strings. It is only to be hoped that people like this Hermann Bahr will approach the matter with even greater seriousness than they are doing now. Even the canon, whom he actually met, did so with greater seriousness; Hermann Bahr was in fact once invited by this canon to a remarkable gathering, which he now describes in his novel. From this description, one can see that the canon associated with all kinds of people, devout monks as well as worldly cynics and frivolous individuals, and invited them all to his table. But Franz noticed all sorts of things. The canon led him into his study while the others conversed in various ways—after dinner, there is always something else to do. So the canon led him into his study:

The niece had left, but the guest of honor, Uncle Erhard, and His Excellency, reclining in comfortable chairs and devoutly devoted to digestion, had not yet finished their stories. The stories became more dubious, the mockery more daring, the allusions more explicit, and our whole world, the court, nobility, and general staff, was reduced to anecdotes, nothing was spared, it seemed that everything consisted only of anecdotes. Franz stepped away in disgust, toward the library. It was not large, but well chosen. Of theology, only the bare essentials, [...]

— one was, after all, in the company of a canon, who needed theology least of all for himself —

[...] the Bollandists, a lot of Franciscan literature, Meister Eckhart, the spiritual exercises, Catherine of Genoa, the mysticism of Görres and Möhlers symbolism. There was more philosophy: all of Kant, including the writings of the “Kant Society,” Deussen's “Upanishads” and his history of philosophy, Vaihinger's philosophy of “as if” and a lot of epistemological criticism. Then the Greek and Roman classics, Shakespeare, Calderon, Cervantes, Dante, Machiavelli, and Balzac in the original, but of the Germans only Novalis and Goethe, the latter in various editions, his scientific writings in the Weimar edition. Franz took one volume and found many marginal notes in the hand of the canon, who at that moment left the young monk and the Jesuit and joined him. He said, “Yes, no one knows Goethe's scientific writings. Unfortunately! Then the old heathen, who is said to have been one, suddenly looks quite different, and then one understands the conclusion of Faust. I could never imagine that Goethe was suddenly acting Catholic [...]

— isn't that right, we must forgive the canon, who wants everything to be “Catholic”; for us, the most important thing is that he turned to the scientific writings

[...] Goethe was just pretending to be Catholic, only for the picturesque effect. My respect for the poet, for every poet, is too great to believe that someone, especially when he is saying his last words, should put on a costume. But every page of the scientific writings shows how Catholic Goethe was [...]

— one must forgive the canon for that —

[...] perhaps unknowingly and in any case without the right courage to do so. It reads as if someone, unfamiliar with Catholic truths, had discovered them, so to speak, unexpectedly on his own, whereby it is true that this does not happen without some violence and oddities, but on the whole nothing decisive, necessary, or essential is missing, not even the touch of superstition, magic, or whatever you want to call it, which always remains so suspicious to true, born Protestants in our holy doctrine—not even that! I often could hardly believe my own eyes! But once you are on the trail of Goethe, the cryptogamic Catholic, you soon see him everywhere. His trust in the Holy Spirit, which he prefers to call “genius,” [...]

- Goethe with good reason, of course! —

[...] his deep feeling for the sacraments, of which he considers there are too few, his sense of the “ominous,” his gift for reverence, but even more so the fact that, quite un-Protestant, he is never satisfied with faith, but everywhere urges the recognition of God through living deeds, through pious works, even this rare, highest, most difficult understanding that man cannot be taken to God unless he takes himself to God, the understanding of this terrible human freedom of having to choose for oneself and to be able to reject the grace offered, through which freedom alone the grace of God becomes the merit of the man who chooses it, who takes it, and only then does it become his own merit. All this is still so staunchly Catholic, even in its exaggerations and distortions, that, as you can see, [...]

— they were already on familiar terms, so the canon said to Franz

[...] often enough write in the margins the passages from the Tridentinum where the same thing is said, sometimes in almost the same words. And when Zacharias Werner said that he was made a Catholic by a sentence in Elective Affinities, I believe him at his word. By which I do not mean to deny that there is also a pagan, a Protestant, even an almost Jewish Goethe, nor do I wish to claim him as a model Catholic, which he was, incidentally, still more than the shallowly amused monist of the woods and meadows that the New German schoolmasters parade under his name."

It is clear that even in these circles, people are searching for a different Goethe, one who can find his way into the spiritual world – but a different Goethe than the “shallow, pleasure-seeking forest and meadow monist” described by Goethe's biographers and presented to the world today. You see, the paths that this Franz is taking—I am not referring to the canon, but to Franz—these paths are not so different from those that you find interwoven in what we call anthroposophically oriented spiritual science—you see, there may well be a necessity for this.

Now I ask you to remember—most of you will remember, but I do not know whether I mentioned it here, but I have mentioned it often — remember how I said that among the hidden events of our present time, among the concrete hidden events of our present time, quite apart from all external physical events, is the death of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria. At that time, I placed particular emphasis on the fact that something new had truly come into being for the whole world — if we take the physical and spiritual worlds together — that things were completely different before Franz Ferdinand's assassination than they were afterwards. My dear friends, what does it matter to us how such things appear outwardly, in the Maya? What matters to us is how things proceed inwardly. And so I said: What ascended into the spiritual worlds as the soul of Franz Ferdinand became a center for very strong, powerful effects, and much of what is happening at present is connected precisely with the fact that a unique transition took place between life and so-called death, that this soul became something completely different from what other souls become.

I said that for those who have been spiritually aware over the last few decades, one of the main reasons for the current painful events lies in the fear that permeates the whole world, the fear that individual people had of each other, even if they were not aware of it, but which above all the individual nations had of each other. And if one had pursued this cause of fear with open eyes, one would not talk so much nonsense about the causes of war as one does today. This fear could be so significant because it is woven into what I told you yesterday, using examples, as an emotional state. Consider this a kind of sketch, so to speak. But now the aura of fear pervades everything. The soul of Franz Ferdinand was connected in a very specific way with this aura of fear. Therefore, his violent death is by no means merely something external. I said this because it was an observation I made, because it was truly a special, significant event connected with many things that are happening in the present.

Well, I don't know — I don't want to assume that such things, which are of course kept secret in our circles, are being talked about everywhere outside our circle; but the fact is that I have been talking about this matter in various circles since the beginning of the war — there are witnesses to prove that it has been talked about. Hermann Bahr's book came out much later, only recently. Nevertheless, I find the following passage in it — and I ask you to consider the fact that in our circle of anthroposophically oriented spiritual science, reference is made to such a significant, spiritually significant event, and that one then finds the following in a book written after the fact: This novel is about a man who appears to be completely foolish. He is actually a kind of prince in disguise, but he appears to be a very foolish man and takes on menial jobs. Only when he hears an announcement on a public notice board — he is in the countryside: Archduke Franz Ferdinand has been assassinated — does he make such a statement that he is not only almost lynched but also imprisoned, for how could the police not be convinced that someone who makes such a statement immediately after the assassination is involved in the plot? That is obvious, even if many, many miles lie between the two events, even if one took place in Sarajevo and the other in Salzburg. Nevertheless, the man is obviously part of the conspiracy in the eyes of the police.

But this reveals that this foolish man is basically a prince in disguise who has a deeply meaningful, mystical diary. It also reveals why he actually made that statement. And the following is written above it:

The enchanted prince, now disenchanted, [...]

So he was actually a prince, but the whole princely family had become too stupid for him, and he became the disguised old Blasl, who took on menial tasks, acted quite stupidly, even let his masters beat him and usually said nothing at all; only on certain occasions did he become talkative, but otherwise he said nothing. Then, when they investigated the matter, as was only natural, they found a mystical manuscript that he had written himself — it is included here in the book:

The enchanted prince, now disenchanted, still in his old clothes and otherwise completely the same, yet different since Franz knew that it was a disguise, said with a smile: “Forgive me for the deception, which I did not really feel was deception. I am no longer the Infante Don Tadeo. If circumstances now compel me to introduce him again for a time, this role is much more difficult for me. For me, I was really the old Blasl, and if I lied at all, I lied to myself, not to you. I could not have known that I would cause you inconvenience. I am sorry enough. Of course, it was the most ridiculous misunderstanding. I knew the heir to the throne very well, without ever having met him, of course. He was very dear to me, and we were in contact, albeit not in the local sense.“

”Local sense” — meaning physical sense: We were in contact, albeit not in the physical sense.

"He had long since crossed the boundaries of earthly activity and already had one foot in the other realm of purely spiritual activity. He had to cross over completely, I knew that; he could not stay any longer in order to fulfill his mission. Only from there would his deed be accomplished. I was only surprised that fate had hesitated so long with him. And when I left the church that Sunday, where I had just been reassured in prayer, and found the anxious crowd, I knew immediately that he was finally free. What must happen through him can only be accomplished from the other side. Here he could only promise it; his life was only a foretaste. Only now can it happen. I could never imagine him as a constitutional monarch, with parliamentarianism and all that humbug. He was too great for that. But now he has seized the deed in one fell swoop. This dead man will now live, and from the ground up. That is what I felt when I heard the news, that is what my words meant. But you will understand that I had little chance of communicating this to those peasants. I preferred to remain silent and am only surprised that they did not finish me off. I was prepared for it, and it would now be over. So I still have some work to do. So be it!” He had always said all this in the same tone, which was, so to speak, unemotional, and only rarely did he look at Franz with a stern gaze from his dead eyes. Then he asked him not to mention his notebooks and to forget them himself. ”The truth is in them, but only for me.

Franz once staring at him with his dead eyes. Then he asked him not to mention his notebooks and to forget them himself. “The truth is in them, but only for me; you have to understand my sign language. What is written there is correct, but the words are invalid.” Franz could not refrain from describing to him the impression he had of the notebooks. Franz was the only person in that town who understood Spanish, and since these notebooks were written in Spanish, he was called in—whereby I should point out that there is a bit of irony in this, since in Austria everything that is not immediately understood is called “Spanish,” but in any case, they were Spanish notebooks. However, since the trumpeter and the infant were suspected of being involved in the plot, these notebooks had to be read, and because Franz had been to Spain and could therefore read Spanish, he had to read them—Hermann Bahr had in fact also been to Spain.

So you see—since we must assume that Hermann Bahr was not informed of the matter—a strange way of forcing a person to deal with these things, a necessity in the present to concern oneself with these things, to occupy oneself with these things. And I think it is justified to be a little surprised that such things appear in novels at present, because it is connected with the inner structure of our time. Admittedly, at first only people who have had a similar life to Hermann Bahr are moved, who has gradually gone through all kinds of things and now, in his old age, after having long professed his belief in Impressionism, is also trying to understand Expressionism and everything else that comes his way. He is a person who was truly capable of connecting his soul with the most diverse currents, both externally and internally, who was actually with the Ostwaldians, with Richet and with the Theosophists in London, and who tried his hand with them, and finally, since he did not have enough perseverance, came to Domherrn Zinger, whom he now considers a master. Yes, he has gone through inner and outer currents.

When I met him, he had just written his drama “Die neuen Menschen” (The New People) [as a student in Berlin], of which he is now very ashamed; it was written in a strictly social democratic vein, and at that time there was no more ardent social democrat than Hermann Bahr. [Previously, as a student in Austria], he had joined the German nationalist movement. Again, no one was a more radical German nationalist than Hermann Bahr. Then, [in Berlin, after finishing his studies]—he was now twenty-four years old and finally had to enlist as a soldier—he became a one-year volunteer. No one became as radically militaristic as Hermann Bahr—he was now completely imbued with a soldier's spirit. During this time, he wrote a short one-act play, which is of little significance. Then he wrote “Die große Sünde” (The Great Sin), [in which he made no secret of his disappointment with the socialist movement and politics in general].

You see, he knew how to connect his soul with external currents, but he never failed to seriously acquaint himself with internal currents as well. Then, after completing his military service [and his subsequent stay in Paris], he returned to Berlin for a short time and edited a modern weekly magazine called Freie Bühne für modernes Leben (Free Stage for Modern Life). He could transform himself into anything, but not into a Berliner! He had barely arrived [in Paris], he couldn't even conjugate a reflexive verb with “être,” only with “avoir,” when he was already writing enthusiastic letters about the sun-kissed Boulanger, who would show Europe what true, authentic culture was. Then he went to Spain and became a fervent opponent of the Sultan of Morocco, against whom he wrote articles, but in Spanish. Then he came back, not as a copy of Daudet—not a copy, because he was a mixture of races—but he did look so similar on the outside.

He told us this back then in the famous old Café Griensteidl, which since 1848 had seen all kinds of people who were of some importance in Austria, and where Lenau, Anastasius Grün, and all sorts of other people frequented, where even the waiters had achieved a special fame, because who in Vienna didn't know the famous Franz and later Heinrich from Griensteidl? Now it has been torn down, but precisely because Hermann Bahr talked so much there about the way his soul had been transported to France, talked about the sun-kissed Boulanger, someone else became rebellious, and when the Café Griensteidl was torn down, Karl Kraus wrote the pamphlet “Die demolierte Literatur” (Demolished Literature). I still vividly remember how Hermann Bahr told us about the great impressions he had had and that he, the man from Linz, had had the most beautiful artistic mind in all of Paris; I still vividly remember how he raved about Maurice Barres, how he influenced people with Maurice Barres' ideas, how he intensely represented everything what was then beginning to be known as Jungfranzosentum, how one could truly, from an enthusiastic heart that had experienced an entire literary movement with all its aspirations, get to know everything that was there. Then he and a few others founded a weekly magazine in Vienna, in which he wrote really significant articles—he delved deeper and deeper, but trivialization and depth always went hand in hand with him. And so he continued to change, as he had once changed from a German nationalist to a social democrat, from a military man to an ardent Boulangist and supporter of Maurice Barres and others; then he finally transformed himself into an admirer of Impressionist art.

He returned to Berlin from time to time, but always left very quickly; it was the only place he couldn't stand. On the other hand, he loved Vienna terribly and expressed this in many, many ways. In recent years, the people of Danzig, his beloved Danzig, invited him frequently to give lectures on Expressionism, which they are said to have understood very well and which have also been published in his book on Expressionism. He raves about Goethe's scientific writings, showing that he has also come a little closer to what we know as anthroposophy, but it is only the beginning for him. I would just like to mention in passing that in his last book on Expressionism, he says all sorts of nice things about the people of Danzig – naturally in order to highlight their great advantages over the Berliners. There has been much talk recently that Hermann Bahr has become a Catholic. Well, he will not have become entirely Catholic; he will have become Catholic to the same degree that he was a Boulangist. But he is a human being—as you have now seen in his latest novel—who, precisely because of his worldliness, which stems from his desire to know everything in his own way, has been touched by the necessity of knowing things in the present, such as the ascent of man into the spiritual world or the connections between people—connections of a different kind than those that come about merely through ordinary physical means, in other words: connections such as we characterized yesterday.

Well, you can at least understand why I attach a certain significance to the fact that there are not only general echoes in such a novel, but that things come to such a concrete point as the death of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. You can see from this that things must be taken much more concretely than is usually thought. Now, it is precisely such things that must point us to the fact that what happens on the physical plane is often only a symptom—a symptom of what is actually happening, of what is going on behind the scenes of existence, so to speak. For you cannot possibly form a [correct] idea if you read in the newspapers only what has happened in connection with these events—I mean now only with this assassination. And if you do not appeal to the spiritual, you cannot possibly imagine that one can be led to a real understanding of the matter. But it is not yet possible today to speak quite impartially about these things and express everything that is connected with them. But some things, initially more superficial ones, can certainly be pointed out.

Let us remember what was said yesterday about the Slavic world, about the Slavic mind. Let us bear in mind that through the so-called Testament of Peter the Great, which appeared around 1813, perhaps a little earlier, something was spread—and spread with good reason, as if it came from Peter the Great himself— which is intended to suggest what a natural current such as the Slavic current of sentiment should, so to speak, take on in order to guide and direct it. Guide it where? Guide it into the paths of Russism, so that the old Slavism appears, as it were, as the bearer of the Russian state idea. Because this is so, a clear distinction must be made between the spirit of Slavism, that which exists as a current of ancient Slavism, and that which, I would say, seeks to establish itself as an outer vessel to contain this entire Slavism: Russism, Russianness.

Now, we must not forget that a large number of Slavic tribes, or at least parts of tribes, live within the framework of the Austro-Hungarian monarchy. The Austro-Hungarian monarchy has—let me count on my fingers—Germans, Czechs, Slovenes, Slovaks, Serbs, Croats, Slavs, Poles, Romanians, Ruthenians, Magyars, and Italians living within its borders. You see, that is many more ethnic groups than Switzerland! Now we have [twelve ethnic groups], and only those who have lived among these ethnic groups for a long time, experienced the events and understood the various currents within Austria-Hungary can recognize what lives within these ethnic groups. As far as the Slavs are concerned, it must be said that in the last decades of the 19th century, there was a fundamental endeavour – evident throughout – to find a way for these different peoples to live together in peace and freedom. And the entire history of Austria-Hungary in the last decades, with all its fierce struggles, can only be understood if one grasps it under the principle of the individualization of the individual tribes—which is of course difficult, because people do not live comfortably side by side, but are often intertwined. Among the Germans of Austria, there are very, very many who see the salvation of the Germans precisely in individualizing the individual Slavic tribes in Austria as much as possible, that is, in finding a way for them to develop independently and freely as individuals. It goes without saying that such things cannot be found quickly; it takes time, but such a movement does exist.

Then, alongside these Slavic tribes united within the framework of Austria-Hungary, we have the Balkan Slavs, who were under Turkish rule for a long time but have shaken off this Turkish rule in recent decades and established individual Balkan Slavic states: Bulgaria, Serbia, and Montenegro. In addition to what I have just mentioned, I mentioned yesterday that the Polish-Slavic people are the most advanced in terms of intellectual life. I would now like to draw your attention to the most important branches, as I can only develop these things gradually. Now, however, what I referred to yesterday as the uniform, elementary ethnic element, which is a preparation for the future, lives to a certain extent in all these Slavic peoples and tribes—it lives within them.

Let us first consider the matter from an external perspective. Why was Franz Ferdinand of a certain importance from an external point of view? He was of a certain importance because, with his nature, through all his inclinations — you must understand the external as symbolic of something that lived internally — he was, so to speak, the external expression of certain currents, because there was something living in his nature which, as soon as it could have been completely liberated, would have been extraordinarily sympathetic to the individual development of Slavdom. One can [despite certain limitations] call him an intense friend of Slavdom, and he had an understanding—perhaps I should say that what lived within him, what he himself was not fully aware of, had an understanding—of the forms that the coexistence of the Slavs must take if they are to develop individually.

One must now consider that [in this case] the course of karma was a highly peculiar one. One must not forget that there was once an heir to the throne in whom great hopes were placed, especially in the direction in which many liberal and free-thinking people of the present day think—the heir to the throne, Archduke Rudolf. It was clear to those who knew the circumstances and the man, Archduke Rudolf, that something was at work in his soul which I yesterday called English political thinking — thought forms for the way of governing states. And it was expected of him that he would transfer this thinking to Austrian circumstances; his inclinations were also inclined in this direction. But you know how karma worked and how what should have happened was made impossible. Now the opposite was possible, that a man moving in a completely different direction could become significant. And it is really not without significance when attention is drawn to the following:

Here he could only promise it; his life was only a foretaste. Only now can it happen. I could never imagine him as a constitutional monarch, with parliamentarianism and all that humbug.

But that is how one should have thought of the other man above all! You see, karma is at work, and we must see this karma at work in order to ascend to even higher heights of understanding. What should and could have been established—not according to the will of this or that person, but according to the intentions of world evolution—what could have been initiated by the soul observing Slavdom with understanding—I will now characterize only abstractly for the time being—that, my dear friends, would have had a truly liberating effect, especially for Slavdom. But at the same time it would have been devastating for what Russism wants for Slavdom, because Russism wants to capture Slavdom within the framework it has prepared through the “Testament of Peter the Great” and use it as its means. It wants to capture it. How quickly such things can come about depends, of course, on various side currents and circumstances. But it is important to have a clear view of what is developing in a certain direction. It is therefore self-evident that only those who looked a little deeper into Slavism could understand what was actually going on, and that those who actually wanted to destroy Slavism through Russism had to work against it.

Now, things become particularly delicate and delicate when individuals intervene in currents and resort to means that are connected with occult currents, and there are [some] such societies far and wide across the earth. Some of them are more profound societies, such as those we will learn about tomorrow. Some are only marginally affected, but even though they are only marginally affected, precisely because they are affected, they must nevertheless be regarded as vessels through which occult currents pass. And that society which, after the death of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, was required to be dissolved in Serbia, the “Narodna odbrana,” was a society that was, after all, the exact continuation of an earlier society working entirely in the occult, which had only changed its methods a little—I am simply stating facts. You see, there you have a connection with the way in which an occult society works politically—an occult society which, although it had its center of activity in Serbia, extended its threads everywhere where there were Slavs, and which was connected with the most diverse other societies and, above all, had an inner connection with Western societies. Therefore, in such a society, one can teach things that are already connected with the occult forces at work in the world.

Why, my dear friends, must we take so many detours in order to gain even a rudimentary understanding of what we actually need to understand? Do not be surprised that so many detours have to be taken, for it is very easy to make superficial judgments when one wants to apply one's insights to immediate processes in which one is involved with sympathies and antipathies; false ideas and misunderstandings arise very easily. For how often does this happen? One has sympathies and antipathies in one's soul, to which everyone is of course entitled, but one often has reason not to admit them to oneself, but rather, I will not say to deceive oneself, but to put oneself into a state of autosuggestion that one is judging objectively. If one were to calmly admit to oneself, “I have these or those sympathies,” one would be admitting the truth; but while one wants to judge “objectively,” one does not admit the truth to oneself, but rather numbs oneself to the truth, so to speak. Well, why can people have such tendencies? Simply because when people try to understand reality, they very easily encounter strange contradictions, and when people encounter contradictions, they seek to overcome them by accepting one of two contradictory things and rejecting the other. But this very often means not wanting to understand reality at all.

I will give you an example of how one can become entangled in a contradiction, a serious contradiction, if one does not understand how the contradictory is connected with the whole, full reality in a living way. Within our anthroposophically oriented spiritual science, we call Christianity that which is grasped by the meaning of the mystery of Golgotha, that which is grasped by the fact that Christ was condemned, died, was buried, but also rose again in a genuine, true sense and lives on as the risen one. We call this the mystery of Golgotha. And we cannot grant anyone the right to call themselves a Christian who does not acknowledge this. But what was necessary for Christ to go through what I have just described for the sake of human development? It was necessary for Judas to betray him; it was necessary for him to be crucified. And if those who crucified him had not crucified him, then the Mystery of Golgotha would not have taken place for the salvation of humanity. If Christ had not been betrayed by Judas, then the Mystery of Golgotha would not have happened. Here you have a terrible, real, I would say, a contradiction driven to extremes, to gigantic proportions.

Can anyone imagine a person saying: You Christians owe it to Judas that your mystery of Golgotha came about at all; you Christians owe it to the executioners who crucified Christ that your mystery of Golgotha took place? Should anyone therefore be justified in defending Judas and the executioners, even though it is true that the meaning of earthly history is owed to them? Can such a question be answered so simply? Do we not come up against contradictions, my dear friends, which are obvious and which are a terrible fate?

Think about what I have now presented to you. We will continue with these reflections tomorrow. I have only said this last part so that you can think about the fact that it is not so easy to say: Of two things that contradict each other, I accept one and reject the other. Reality is deeper than what humans often want to comprehend with their minds, and it is not without reason that Nietzsche, in a moment of near madness, coined the phrase: “The world is deep, and deeper than the day thought.”

Now that I have attempted to point out the nature of real contradiction in a formal manner, tomorrow we will try to delve even deeper into the subject matter that we have now touched upon in preparation. I would now like to take a very short break; you may remain in the room. And then, to help you understand, I will say a few words about Goethe's Walpurgis Night and Faust, as this may be useful to some of you. So let's take just a few minutes' break so that we don't get everything mixed up.