| 6. Goethe's World View: Metamorphosis
Translated by William Lindemann Rudolf Steiner |
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| He wanted to discover the ground-plan by which nature forms the sequence of animals and, at the highest level of this succession, forms man. He wanted to find the common archetype which underlies all species of animals and which finally, in its highest perfection, also underlies the human species. |
| If the archetypal animal were to realize itself under certain conditions in a shape in which it cannot live, then it would perish. An organic form can maintain itself under certain life conditions only when it is adapted to them. |
| He therefore wants courageously to undertake what Kant calls the “adventure of reason” (see the essay, The Power to Judge in Beholding). |
| 6. Goethe's World View: Metamorphosis
Translated by William Lindemann Rudolf Steiner |
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[ 1 ] Goethe's relationship to the natural sciences cannot be understood if one confines oneself merely to the single discoveries he made. I consider the words which Goethe addressed to Knebel on August 18, 1787 from Italy to be the guiding point of view in looking at this relationship: “To judge by the plants and fish I have seen in Naples and Sicily, I would, if I were ten years younger, be tempted to make a trip to India, not in order to discover something new but rather in order to contemplate in my own way what has already been discovered.” What seems most significant to me is the way in which Goethe drew together the phenomena of nature known to him into a view of nature that accorded with his way of thinking. If all the single discoveries he succeeded in making had already been made before him, and if he had given us nothing more than his view of nature, this would not lessen the significance of his nature studies in the slightest. I agree with Du Bois-Reymond that “even without Goethe, science would be just as far along as it is,” that the steps he took would sooner or later have been taken by others (Goethe and More Goethe). Only I cannot extend these words, as Du Bois-Reymond does, to include the whole of Goethe's natural scientific work. I limit them to the single discoveries he made in the course of it. All of these discoveries would probably have been made by now even if Goethe had never concerned himself with botany, anatomy, etc. His view of nature, however, is an outgrowth of his personality; no one else could have come to it. Goethe's individual discoveries also did not interest him. During his studies they forced themselves upon him of their own accord, because certain views held sway in his time about facts relating to these discoveries, which were incompatible with his way of looking at things. If he had been able with what natural science provided him to build up his view, then he would never have occupied himself with study of the details. He had to go into the particulars because what was told him about the particulars by natural scientists did not meet his requirements. And only by chance, as it were, did the individual discoveries result from these studies of the details. He was not primarily concerned with the question as to whether man, like the other animals, has an intermaxillary bone in the upper jaw. He wanted to discover the ground-plan by which nature forms the sequence of animals and, at the highest level of this succession, forms man. He wanted to find the common archetype which underlies all species of animals and which finally, in its highest perfection, also underlies the human species. The natural scientists said to him that there is a difference between the structure of an animal's body and that of man. The animals have an inter-mediary bone in the upper jaw, and man does not have it. But his view was that man's physical structure could differ from that of the animal only in its degree of perfection but not in particulars. For, if the latter were the case, then a common archetype could not underlie both the animal and the human organization. Goethe could do nothing with this assertion of the natural scientists. Therefore he looked for the intermediary bone in man and found it. Something similar can be observed in all his individual discoveries. They are never for him a purpose in themselves. They must be made in order to show that his picture of the phenomena of nature is valid. [ 2 ] In the area of organic natural phenomena the significant thing about Goethe's view is the mental picture he developed of the nature of life. The main thing is not his emphasis upon the fact that leaf, calyx, corolla, etc. are organs of the plant which are identical to each other and which develop from a common basic structure; the main thing is what mental picture Goethe had of the whole of plant nature as something living and how he thought of the particulars as coming forth out of this whole. His idea of the nature of the organism has to be called his most original and central discovery in the area of biology. Goethe's basic conviction was that something can be seen in the plant and in the animal that is not accessible to mere sense observation. What the bodily eye can observe about the organism seems to Goethe to be only the result of the living whole of developmental laws working through one another and accessible to the spiritual eye alone. What he saw about the plant and the animal with his spiritual eye is what he described. Only someone who is as capable of seeing as he was can think through his idea of the nature of the organism. Whoever stops short at what the senses and experiments provide cannot understand Goethe. When we read his two poems, the Metamorphosis of the Plants and the Metamorphosis of the Animals, it seems at first as though his words only lead us from one part of the organism to another, as though things of a merely external, factual nature are meant to be connected. But if we permeate ourselves with what hovered before Goethe as idea of the living being, we then feel ourselves carried into the sphere of the living organic, and the mental pictures of the individual organs grow out of one central mental picture. [ 3 ] As Goethe began to think independently about the phenomena of nature, the concept of life occupied his attention above all else. In a letter of July 14, 1770 from his Strassburg period, he writes about a butterfly: “The poor creature trembles in the net, rubs off its most beautiful colors; and even if one captures it unharmed, it lies there finally stiff and lifeless; the corpse is not the whole creature; something else still belongs to it, a main part still, and in this case as in every other a most major main part: its life.” The fact that an organism cannot be regarded as a dead product of nature, that there is still more in it than the forces which also live in inorganic nature, was clear to Goethe from the beginning. Du Bois-Reymond is undoubtedly right when he states that “the constructing of a purely mechanical world, of which science consists today, would not have been less hated by the poet prince of Weimar than the ‘systeme de la nature’ once was by Friederike's friend”; and he is no less right with his other statement that “Goethe would have turned away shuddering from this world construct which, through its spontaneous generation, borders on the Kant-Laplace theory, from the view that man arose out of chaos through the mathematically determined play of atoms from eternity to eternity, from the ending of the world in freezing cold, from all these pictures which our generation looks so unfeelingly in the face, just as it has grown used to the horrors of railroad travel” (Goethe and More Goethe). For sure, he would have turned away shuddering, because he sought, and also found, a higher concept of the living than that of a complicated mathematically determined mechanism. Only someone who is incapable of grasping a higher concept such as this and who identifies the living with the mechanical because he is able to see in the organism only the mechanical, only he will warm to the mechanical construct of the world and its play of atoms and will look unfeelingly upon the pictures which Du Bois-Reymond conjures up. But someone who can take up into himself the concept of the organic in Goethe's sense will quarrel just as little about its validity as he will about the existence of mechanical. One does not quarrel, after all, with the color-blind about the world of colors. All views which picture as mechanical what is organic fall under the judgment which Goethe has Mephistopheles make:
[ 4 ] Goethe found it possible to occupy himself more intimately with the life of the plants when Duke Karl August presented him with a garden on April 21, 1776. Goethe was also stimulated by his walks in the Thüringen forest, on which he could observe how the life of the lower organisms manifested itself. The mosses and lichens drew his attention. On October 31 he asked Frau von Stein for mosses of all kinds, damp and with roots where possible, so that he could use them to observe their propagation. It is important to keep in mind the fact that Goethe, at the beginning of his botanical studies, occupied himself with the lower plant forms. For later, in conceiving his idea of the archetypal plant, he only took into account the higher plants. His doing so cannot therefore be due to the fact that the realm of the lower plants was unfamiliar to him, but rather was due to the fact that he believed the secrets of the plant's nature to be more distinct and pronounced in the higher plants. He wanted to seek out the idea of nature where it revealed itself most clearly and then to descend from the perfect to the imperfect, in order to understand the latter by the former. He did not want to explain what is complex by what is simple, but rather he wanted, with one look, to have an overview of what is complex as a working whole, and then explain what is simple and imperfect as a one-sided development out of what is complex and perfect. If nature is able, after innumerable plant forms, to make yet one more which contains them all, then also, as the spirit beholds this perfect form, the secret of plant development must be revealed to it in direct beholding, and it will then be able easily to apply what it has observed about what is perfect to what is imperfect. The natural scientists do it the other way around; they consider what is perfect to be only the mechanical sum total of simple processes. They start with what is simple and derive what is perfect from it. [ 5 ] As Goethe looked around for a scientific guide for his botanical studies, he could find none except Linnaeus. We first hear about his study of Linnaeus in his letters to Frau von Stein in the year 1782. The interest he took in Linnaeus' books shows how serious Goethe was about his natural scientific strivings. He admits that, aside from Shakespeare and Spinoza, Linnaeus had the greatest effect upon him. But how little Linnaeus was able to satisfy him. Goethe wanted to observe the different plant forms in order to recognize the common element living in them. He wanted to know what made all these forms into plants. And Linnaeus had been content to place the manifold plant forms next to one another in a particular order and to describe them. Here in an individual case Goethe's naive, unprejudiced observation of nature ran up against science's way of thinking which was influenced by a one-sidedly understood Platonism. This way of thinking sees in the individual forms realizations of the archetypal Platonic ideas or thoughts of the creation, existing along side one another. Goethe sees in each individual form only one particular development out of one ideal archetypal being which lives in all forms. The first way of thinking wants to distinguish as exactly as possible the individual forms in order to recognize the manifold nature of idea-forms or of the plan of creation; Goethe wants to explain the manifold nature of the particulars out of their original unity. The fact that very much exists in manifold forms is immediately clear to the first way of thinking, because to it the ideal archetypes are already what is manifold. For Goethe this is not clear, since the many belong together, in his view, only if a oneness reveals itself in them. Goethe says, therefore, that what Linnaeus “sought forcibly to keep apart had to strive for unity, in accordance with the innermost need of my being.” Linnaeus simply accepts the existing forms without asking how they have come into being out of a basic form: “We can count as many species as there have been different forms created in principle”: this is his basic tenet. Goethe seeks what is working in the plant realm and creating the individual plants by bringing forth specific forms out of the basic form. [ 6 ] Goethe found in Rousseau a more naive relationship to the plant world than in Linnaeus. On June 16, 1782 he wrote to Karl August: “Among Rousseau's works there are some most delightful letters about botany, in which he presents this science to a lady in a most comprehensible and elegant way. It is a real model of how one should teach, and it supplements Emil. I use it therefore as an excuse to recommend anew the beautiful realm of the flowers to my beautiful lady friends.” In his History of My Botanical Studies Goethe sets forth what it was that drew him to Rousseau's botanical ideas: “His relationship to plant lovers and connoisseurs, especially to the Duchess of Portland, could have given his sharp eye more breadth of vision, and a spirit like his, which feels itself called upon to proscribe order and lawfulness to the nations had, after all, to gain an inkling that such a great diversity of forms could not appear within the immeasurable realm of the plants, unless one basic law, no matter how hidden it may also be, brought all these forms back into unity.” Goethe also sought just such a basic law as this which brings the diversity back into the unity from which it originally went forth. [ 7 ] Two books of Baron von Gleichen, called Russwurm, appeared back then on Goethe's spiritual horizon. They both treat the life of the plants in a way that could become fruitful for him: The Latest News from the Plant Realm (Nuernberg, 1764) and Special Microscopic Discoveries about Plants (Nürnberg, 1777-1781). They concern themselves with the fructification processes of plants. In them pollen, stamens, and pistil are carefully described, and the processes of fructification are presented in well-executed diagrams. Goethe now makes experiments himself in order to observe with his own eyes the results described by von Gleichen-Russwurm. On January 12, 1785 he writes to Jacobi: “A microscope is set up in order, when spring arrives, to re-observe and verify the experiments of von Gleichen, called Russwurm.” At the same time he studies the nature of the seed, as we can tell from a report to Knebel on April 2, 1785: “I have thought through the substance of the seed as far as my experiences reach.” These observations of Goethe's appear in the right light only when one takes into account that already then he did not stop short at them, but rather sought to gain a complete view of the processes of nature for which they were meant to serve as supports and substantiation. On April 8 of the same year he announces to Merck that he had not only observed the facts but had also “combined” these facts “nicely.” [ 8 ] An essential influence on the development of Goethe's ideas about the organic workings of nature was his participation in Lavater's great work, Physiognomical Fragments for Furthering Human Knowledge and Human Love, which appeared in the years 1775-1778. He himself made contributions to this work. In the way he expresses himself in these contributions, his later way of regarding the organic is already prefigured. Lavater stopped short at dealing with the shape of the human organism as an expression of the soul. From the forms of bodies he wanted to read the characters of souls. Goethe began, even back then, to look upon the outer shape for its own sake and to study its own lawfulness and power of development. He occupies himself at the same time with the writings of Aristotle on physiognomy and attempts, on the basis of a study of organic form, to determine the difference between man and animals. He finds this difference in the way the whole human structure brings the head into prominence and in the perfect development of the human brain toward which all the other parts point as though to an organ to which they are attuned. On the other hand, with the animals the head is merely hung upon the spine; the brain and spinal cord have no more scope than is absolutely necessary for carrying out the lower instinctual life and for directing purely physical processes. Goethe sought already back then the difference between man and the animals, not in one or another detail but rather in the different level of perfection which the same basic form attains in the one or other case. There already hovered before him the picture of a prototype which is to be' found both in the animals and in man, which is developed in the former in such a way that the whole structure serves animal functions, whereas in the latter the structure provides the basic framework for the development of spirit. [ 9 ] Goethe's special study of anatomy grows out of such considerations. On January 22, 1776 he lets Lavater know that “The duke had six skulls sent to me; have noticed some marvelous things which are at your honor's service, if you have not found them without me.” In Goethe's diary we read, under the October 15, 1781 date, that he studied anatomy with old Einsiedel in Jena and in the same year began to have Loder introduce him to this science in a more detailed way. He tells of this in letters to Frau von Stein on October 29, 1781 and to the Duke on November 4. He also has the intention of “explaining the skeleton” to the young people in the Art Academy, and of “introducing them to a knowledge of the human body.” “I do it,” he says, “for my sake and for theirs; the methods I have chosen will make them, over this winter, fully familiar with the basic pillars of the body.” One can tell from his diary that he also did give these lectures. Around this time he also had many conversations with Loder about the structure of the human body. And again it is his general view of nature which appears as the driving force and actual goal of these studies. He treats the, “bones as a text to which all life and everything human can be appended” (letter to Lavater and Merck, November 14,1781). Mental pictures about how the organic works, about the connection of human form with animal form, occupy his spirit at that time. The idea that the human structure is only the highest level of the animal one and that man, through this more perfect stage of animal structure, brings forth the moral world out of himself, this is an idea already incorporated into the ode, “The Divine,” from the year 1782.
[ 10 ] The “eternal iron laws” work in man in exactly the same way as in the rest of the world of organisms; only they attain in him a perfection through which it is possible for him to be “noble, helpful, and good.” [ 11 ] While in Goethe such ideas as these were taking ever deeper root, Herder was working on his Ideas on a Philosophy of the History of Mankind. All the thoughts in this book were talked through by both men. Goethe was satisfied by Herder's conception of nature. It coincided with his own picture. “Herder's book makes it likely that we were first plants and animals ... Goethe is now digging very thoughtfully in these things, and each thing which has once passed through his mind becomes extremely interesting,” Frau von Stein writes to Knebel on May 1, 1784. The words which Goethe addresses to Knebel on December 8, 1783 show how very much one is justified in judging from Herder's ideas what Goethe's were: “Herder is writing a philosophy of history, as you can imagine, new from the ground up. We read the first chapters together the day before yesterday; they are exquisite.” Sentences like the following are entirely in the direction of Goethe's thinking. “The human race is the great confluence of lower organic forces.” “And so we can assume the fourth principle: that man is a central creation among the animals, i.e., that he is the form worked through in which the traits of all the species gather around him in their finest essence.” [ 12 ] To be sure, this picture was irreconcilable with the view of the anatomists of that time that the small bone which animals have in the upper jaw, the intermaxillary bone which holds the upper incisors, was lacking in man. Sömmering, one of the most significant anatomists of his day, wrote to Merck on October 8,1782: “I wish you had consulted Blumenbach on the subject of the intermaxillary bone which, other things being equal, is the only bone which all animals have, from the ape on, including even the orangutan, but which is never found in man; except for this bone there is nothing keeping you from being able to transfer everything man has onto the animals. I enclose therefore the head of a doe in order to convince you that this ‘os intermaxillare’ (as Blumenbach calls it) or ‘os incisivum’ (as Camper calls it) is present even in animals which have no incisors in the upper jaw.” That was the general opinion of the time. Even the famous Camper, for whom Merck and Goethe had the deepest respect, adhered to this view. The fact that man's intermaxillary bone is ingrown, left and right, to the upper jaw bone without there being visible any clear line there in a normally developed individual led to this view. If the scholars had been right in this view, then it would be impossible to set up a common archetype for the structure of the animal and of the human organism; a boundary between the two forms would have to be assumed. Man would not be created according to the archetype that also underlies the animals. Goethe had to clear away this obstacle to his world view. He succeeded in this in the spring of 1784 in collaboration with Loder. Goethe proceeded in accordance with his general principle, “that nature has no secret which it does not somewhere present openly to the eye of an attentive observer.” He found in some abnormally developed skulls that the line between the intermaxillary bone and the upper jaw bone was actually present. On March 27 he joyfully announced his find to Herder and Frau von Stein. To Herder he writes: “It should heartily please you also, for it is like the keystone to man; it is not lacking; it is there too! And how! I thought of it also in connection with your whole picture, how beautiful it will be there.” And when, in November 1784, Goethe sends the treatise he has written about the matter to Knebel, he indicates the significance for his whole picture of the world which he attaches to the discovery with the words: “I have refrained from showing yet the result, to which Herder already points in his ideas, which is, namely, that one cannot find the difference between man and animal in the details.” Goethe could gain confidence in his view of nature only when the erroneous view about this fateful little bone was cleared away. He gradually gained the courage to “extend over all realms of nature, over its entire realm” his ideas about the way nature, playing as it were with one main form, brings forth its manifold life. He writes in this vein to Frau von Stein in the year 1786. [ 13 ] The book of nature becomes ever more legible to Goethe after he has correctly deciphered this one letter. “My long efforts at spelling have helped me; now suddenly it is working, and my quiet joy is inexpressible,” he writes to Frau von Stein on May 15, 1785. He now considers himself already able to write a small botanical treatise for Knebel. The trip to Karlsbad which he undertakes with Knebel in 1785 turns into a journey of formal botanical studies. Upon his return the realms of mushrooms, mosses, lichens, and algae are gone through with reference to Linnaeus. On November 9 he shares with Frau von Stein that “I continue to read Linnaeus; I have to; I have no other book with me. It is the best way to read a book thoroughly, a way I must often practice, especially since I do not easily read a book to the end. This one, however, is not principally made for reading but rather for review, and it serves me now excellently, since I have thought over most of its points myself.” During these studies the basic form, from which nature produces all the varied plant shapes, also takes on some outlines in his spirit even though they are not yet clear ones. A letter to Frau von Stein on July 9, 1786 contains the words: “It is a becoming aware of the essential form with which nature is always only playing, as it were, and in playing brings forth its manifold life.” [ 14 ] In April and May 1786 Goethe observed through a microscope the lower organisms which develop in infusions of different substances (banana pulp, cactus, truffles, peppercorns, tea, beer, etc.). He takes careful notes on the processes which he observes in these living entities and completes drawings of these organic forms. One can also see from these notes that Goethe does not seek, through such observation of lower and more simple organisms, to approach knowledge of life. It is entirely obvious that he believes he can grasp the essential traits of life processes just as well in the higher organisms as in the lower. He is of the view that in an infusorian the same kind of lawfulness repeats itself which the eye of the spirit perceives in a dog. Observation through a microscope only makes us familiar with processes which in miniature are what the unaided eye sees on a bigger scale. It provides an enrichment of sense experience. The essential being of life reveals itself to a higher kind of seeing, not to any tracing of sense-perceptible processes back to their smallest component parts. Goethe seeks to know this being by studying the higher plants and animals. He would without a doubt have sought this knowledge in the same way, even if the study of plant and animal anatomy had been just as far along then as it is now. If Goethe had been able to observe the cells out of which the plant and animal body builds itself up, he would have declared that in these elementary organic forms the same lawfulness is manifest which is also to be perceived in what they constitute. He would also have made sense out of the phenomena of these little entities by means of the same ideas by which he explained to himself the life processes of the higher organisms. [ 15 ] It is in Italy that Goethe first of all finds the thought which solves the riddle presented to him by organic forms and transformations. He leaves Karlsbad on September 3 and travels south. In few but significant sentences he describes, in his History of My Botanical Studies, the thought which his observation of the plant world stimulated in him up to the moment when, in Sicily, a clear mental picture revealed itself to him about how it is possible that to plant forms, “with all their self-willed, generic, and specific stubbornness, there is granted a felicitous mobility and pliancy, such that they are able to give themselves over to the many conditions which work upon them around the earth and can form and transform themselves accordingly.” In his journey over the Alps, in the botanical garden in Padua, and in other places, “the changeability of plant forms” showed itself to him. “Whereas in lower-lying regions branches and stems were stronger and thicker, the buds closer to each other and the leaves broad, higher in the mountains, branches and stems became more delicate, the buds moved farther apart so that there was more space between nodes, and the leaves were more lance-shaped. I noticed this in a willow and in a gentian and convinced myself that it was not because of different species, for example. Also, near the Walchensee I noticed longer and more slender rushes than in the lowlands” (Italian Journey, September 8). On October 8 he finds various plants by the sea in Venice in which the interrelationship of what is organic with its environment becomes particularly visible. “They are all at the same time both thick and spare, juicy and tough, and it is obvious that the old salt in the sandy ground, but even more the salty air gives them these qualities; they are bursting with sap like water plants, and they are firm and tough like mountain plants; if the ends of their leaves have a tendency to form spines, as thistles do, then they are exceedingly sharp and strong. I found such a bush of leaves; it seemed to me to be our innocent coltsfoot, but here it was armed with sharp weapons, and the leaf was like leather, as were the seedpods and the stems also; everything was thick and fat” (Italian Journey). In the botanical garden in Padua the thought takes on a particular form in Goethe's spirit as to how one might perhaps be able to develop all plant shapes out of one shape (Italian Journey, September 27); in November he shares with Knebel: “My little bit of botany is for the first time a real pleasure to have, in these lands where a happier, less intermittent vegetation is at home. I have already made some really nice general observations whose consequences will also please you.” On March 25, 1787 he has a “good inspiration about botanical objects.” He asks that Herder be informed that he will soon be ready with the archetypal plant. But he feared “that no one will want to recognize the rest of the plant world in it” (Italian Journey). On April 17, he goes “to the public gardens with the firm, calm intention of continuing his poetic dreaming.” Only, before he is prepared for it, the being of the plants seizes him like a ghost. “The many plants, which I otherwise was used to seeing only in tubs or pots and for the greater part of the year only behind glass windows, are growing here fresh and happy in the open air, and since they can totally fulfill what they are meant to be, they become more definite and clear to us. With so many new and renewed forms in front of me, my old fancy took hold of me again: as to whether I could not, after all, discover the archetypal plant among so great a multitude? There must after all be such a one! How would I otherwise know that this or that formation is a plant, if they were not all formed according to the same model.” He makes every effort to distinguish the varying forms, but his thoughts are always led back again to the one archetype which underlies them all (Italian Journey, April 17, 1787). Goethe begins to keep a botanical journal into which he enters all his experiences and reflections about the plant realm during his journey. The pages of this journal show how untiringly occupied he is in trying to find plant specimens which could lead him to the laws of growth and of reproduction. If he believes that he is on the track of some law or other, he sets it up first of all in a hypothetical form, in order then to let it become confirmed in the course of his further experiences. He carefully notes down the processes of germination, of fructification, of growth. It becomes more and more clear to him that the leaf is the basic organ of the plant, and that the forms of all the other plant organs can best be understood when one regards them as transformed leaves. He writes in his journal, “Hypothesis: everything is leaf, and through this simplicity the greatest manifoldness becomes possible.” And on May 17 he communicates to Herder: “Furthermore I must confide to you that I am very close to discovering the secret of plant generation and organization, and that it is the simplest thing one could imagine. One can make the most beautiful observations under these skies. I have altogether clearly and beyond any doubt found where the germ is located, and that is the main point; I also already see everything else as a whole, and only a few points must still become more definite. The archetypal plant will be the most wonderful creation in the world for which nature itself will envy me. With this model and the key to it one can then go on inventing plants forever which must follow lawfully; that means: which, even if they don't exist, still could exist, and are not, for example, the shadows and illusions of painters or poets but rather have an inner truth and necessity. The same law can be applied to all other living things.” “... Any way you look at it the plant is always only leaf, so inseparably joined with the future germ that one cannot think the one without the other. To grasp, to carry, to discover in nature a concept like this, is a task which puts us into a painfully sweet state” (Italian Journey) [ 16 ] In order to explain the phenomena of life Goethe takes a path which is totally different from those usually taken by natural scientists. These can be divided into two categories. There are defenders of a life force, which works in organic beings and which, with respect to other natural causes, represents a special, higher form of forces. Just as there is gravity, chemical attraction and repulsion, magnetism, etc., so also there is thought to be a life force, which brings the substances of the organism into such interaction that it can maintain itself, grow, nourish, and reproduce itself. The natural scientists who hold this view say that the same forces are working in the organism as in the rest of nature, but that they do not work as though in a lifeless machine. They are taken up, as it were, by the life force and raised to a higher level of working. Opposing the proponents of this view, there are other natural scientists who believe that there is no special life force working in organisms. They regard all manifestations of life as complicated chemical and physical processes and cherish the hope that some day they may succeed in explaining an organism like a machine by tracing it back to the effects of inorganic forces. The first view is called “vitalistic,” the second one “mechanistic.” Goethe's way of grasping things is totally different from both. That in the organism something else is at work besides the forces of inorganic nature seems obvious to him. He cannot adhere to the mechanistic understanding of the phenomena of life. Just as little does he seek some special life force to explain the workings of the organism. He is convinced that a different way of looking at things is needed for grasping life processes than is used in perceiving the phenomena of inorganic nature. Whoever decides to acknowledge a life force does indeed see that organic processes are not mechanical, but at the same time he lacks the ability to develop in himself that other way of looking at things by which the organic could become knowable to him. His mental picture of the life force remains dim and indefinite. A recent adherent of vitalism, Gustav Bunge, believes, “In the smallest cell, and all the riddles of life are already present in it, and in the investigation of the smallest cell, we have already reached our limits with the tools we have now” (Vitalismus und Mechanismus, Leipzig, 1886). It would be completely in accordance with Goethe's way of thinking to answer this in the following way. That kind of seeing which only knows the nature of inorganic phenomena has, with its tools, reached the limits which must be transcended if one is to grasp what is alive. This kind of seeing, however, will never find within its domain the means which could be capable of explaining the life of even the smallest cell. Just as the eye is needed for perception of color phenomena, so, in order to grasp life, one needs the ability to behold directly, in what is sense perceptible, something which is supersensible. This supersensible something will always escape the person who directs only his senses upon the organic forms. Goethe seeks to enliven the sense perception of plant forms in a higher way and to picture to himself the sense-perceptible form of a supersensible archetypal plant (see The History of My Botanical Studies). The vitalist takes refuge in his empty concept of a life force, because he simply does not see anything in an organism except what his senses can perceive. Goethe sees the sense-perceptible permeated by something supersensible just as a colored surface is by color. [ 17 ] The adherents of the mechanistic theory are of the view that we could someday succeed in creating living substances, in an artificial way, out of inorganic materials. They say that not too many years ago people maintained that there are substances in the organism which cannot arise through artificial means, but only through the working of the life force. But today, they say, one is already able artificially to create several of these substances in a laboratory. In the same way it could be possible some day, out of carbonic acid, ammonia, water, and salts, to produce a living protein, which is the basic substance of the simplest organisms. Then those of a mechanistic persuasion believe it will be irrefutably proven that life is nothing more than a combination of inorganic processes and the organism nothing more than a machine which has arisen in a natural way. [ 18 ] From the standpoint of the Goethean world view one would reply that the adherents of the mechanistic view speak about substances and forces in a way that is not justified by any experience. And one has become so accustomed to speak in this way that it becomes very difficult in the face of these concepts to let pure experience have its say. But let us look, without any preconceptions, at some process in the outer world. Take a quantity of water of a definite temperature. How does one know anything about this water? One looks at it and notes that it occupies space and is contained within certain limits. One sticks one's finger or a thermometer into it and finds that it has a definite degree of warmth. One touches its surface and experiences that it is fluid. Those are statements which our senses make about the state of the water. Now heat the water. It will begin to boil and finally transform itself into steam. Again one can gain knowledge for oneself about the nature of the object, the steam, into which the water has transformed itself, by perceiving it with the senses. Instead of heating the water one can apply an electric current to it under specific conditions. It transforms itself into two bodies, hydrogen and oxygen. One can also learn about the characteristics of these two bodies by what our senses tell us. One therefore perceives certain states of things in the world of objects and observes at the same time that these states pass over into other ones under certain conditions. Our senses instruct us about these states. If one speaks about something other than these states, which transform themselves, then one is no longer limiting oneself to the pure facts, but rather one is adding concepts to them as well. If one says that the oxygen and hydrogen, which an electric current has caused to arise from the water, were already contained in the water, but so intimately united with each other that they could not be perceived as they are by themselves, then one has added to one's perception a concept by which to explain to oneself how the two bodies can arise out of one body. And if one goes further and states that oxygen (Sauerstoff) and hydrogen (Wasserstoff) are substances (Stoffe), which one does already by the names one gives them, then one has likewise added a concept to what one has perceived. For, factually, in the space occupied by the oxygen, there is present to perception only a certain number of states. One thinks the substance to which these states are supposed to be connected and adds it to them. What one thinks of about the oxygen and hydrogen as already present in the water, i.e., the substantial, is something thought which one adds to the content of perception. If one combines hydrogen and oxygen into water through a chemical process, then one can observe that one group of states passes over into another one. If one says that two simple substances have combined into a compound one, then one has attempted a conceptual explanation of the content of one's observation. The mental picture “substance” receives its content not from perception but rather from thinking. The same is true of “force.” One sees a stone fall to earth. What is the content of that perception? A certain number of sense impressions, of states, which occur in successive places. One seeks to explain to oneself this change in the sense world and says that the earth pulls the stone. It has a “force” by which it draws the stone to itself. Again our spirit has added a mental picture to the state of affairs and has given a content to it which does not stem from perception. One does not perceive substances and forces but rather states and their transitions into one another. One explains these changes of state to oneself by adding concepts to the perceptions. [ 19 ] Imagine that there were a being who could perceive oxygen and hydrogen but not water. If we combined oxygen and hydrogen to form water before the eyes of such a being, then the states which he had perceived about the two substances would disappear before him into nothingness. If we now also described to him the states which we perceive in the water, he would not be able to picture them to himself. This proves that there is nothing in the perceptual content of oxygen from which the perceptual content water can be derived. To say that a thing consists of two or more other things means that two or more perceptual contents have changed into one unified content which, however, is a totally new one with respect to the original contents. [ 20 ] What would therefore be achieved if someone succeeded in artificially combining carbonic acid, ammonia, water, and salts into a living protein substance in some laboratory? One would know that the perceptual contents of many substances can combine into one perceptual content. But this perceptual content is absolutely not derivable from those contents. The state of living protein can only be observed in this protein itself and cannot be developed from the states of carbonic acid, ammonia, water, and salts. In the organism one has something totally different from the inorganic parts out of which it can be constructed. In the arising of a living being, sense-perceptible contents change into contents which are both sense-perceptible and supersensible. And someone who does not have the ability to make mental pictures for himself which are both sense-perceptible and supersensible can know something about the being of an organism just as little as someone would be able to experience something about water if a sense impression of it were inaccessible to him. [ 21 ] In his studies of the plant and animal worlds Goethe strove to picture to himself the organism's germination, growth, transformation of organs, nourishment, and propagation as a process both sense-perceptible and supersensible. He noted that this sensible-supersensible process in its idea is the same in all plants and that it takes on different forms only in its outer manifestation. Goethe could observe the same thing in the animal world. If one has developed in oneself the idea of the sensible-supersensible archetypal plant, then one will find it again in all individual plant forms. Diversity arises through the fact that something which is the same in idea can exist in different forms in the perceptual world. The individual organism consists of organs which can be traced back to a basic organ. The basic organ of the plant is the leaf with the node upon which it develops. In its outer manifestation this organ assumes different forms: seed leaf (cotyledon, Keimblatt), leaf (Laubblatt), sepal (Kelchblatt), corolla “leaf” (Kronenblatt), etc. “Whether the plant is sprouting, blooming, or bearing fruit, still it is always only the same organs which, under many different conditions and often in altered forms, are obeying the orders of nature.” [ 22 ] In order to gain a complete picture of the archetypal plant Goethe had to follow in general the forms which the basic organ goes through in the process of a plant's growth from germination to seed maturation. At the beginning of its development, the whole plant form rests in the seed. In it the archetypal plant has taken on a shape by which it conceals its ideal content, as it were, in its outer manifestation.
[ 23 ] Out of the seed the plant develops its first organs, the cotyledons, after it has more or less left “its husk behind in the earth” and has established “its roots in the ground.” And now shoot follows shoot in the further course of growth; node after node tower one above the other, and at every node there is a leaf. The leaves appear in different shapes. The lower ones are still simple, the upper ones variously serrated, notched, composed of several leaflets. At this stage of its development the archetypal plant spreads out its sensible-supersensible content as an outer sensible manifestation in space. Goethe pictures to himself that the leaves owe their ongoing development and refinement to the light and air. “While we find those cotyledons which are enclosed in their seed husks, to be, as it were, only stuffed with raw sap, to be not at all or only crudely organized and undeveloped, so the leaves of plants which grow under water appear to us as more crudely organized than other ones which are exposed to the open air; in fact, the same species of plant develops smoother and less refined leaves when it grows in low, moist areas, while, when transferred to higher regions, it brings forth rough, hairy leaves which are more finely developed.” In the second period of growth the plant draws together again into a narrower space what it had previously spread out.
[ 24 ] In the calyx the plant shape draws itself together; in the corolla it spreads itself out again. Now the next contraction follows in the stamens and pistil, the organs of propagation. In the previous periods of growth the formative force of the plant developed itself in the single organs as the drive to repeat the basic form. This same force divides itself at this stage of contraction into two organs. What is thus separated seeks to find its way back together again. This occurs in the process of fructification. The male pollen present in the stamens unites itself with the female substance which is contained in the pistil; and through this the germ of a new plant is given. Goethe calls fructification a spiritual anastomosis (union) and sees in it only another form of the process which occurs in the development from one node to another. “In every body which we call living, we note the power to bring forth its own kind. When we become aware of this power in a separated form, we apply the name of the two sexes to it.” From node to node the plant brings forth its own kind. For node and leaf are the simple form of the archetypal plant. In this form the bringing forth is called growth. If the force of propagation is divided into two organs then one speaks of two sexes. In this way Goethe believes he has brought the concepts of growth and procreation closer to one another. In the stage of the forming of the fruit the plant achieves its final expansion; in the seed it seems to be contracted again. In these six steps nature completes the circle of plant development and begins the whole process again from the beginning. In the seed Goethe sees only another form of the bud which develops on the leaves. The side branches which unfold from the buds are whole plants which stand upon a mother plant rather than in the earth. The mental picture of the basic organ, transforming itself in stages from seed to fruit as though upon a “spiritual ladder,” is the idea of the archetypal plant. Almost as though to prove to physical vision the basic organ's ability to transform itself, nature, under certain conditions and at a particular stage, allows an organ to develop different from the one which should arise in the regular course of growth. In the double poppy, for example, at the place where stamens should arise, petals appear. The organ, which according to the idea was meant to be a stamen, has become a petal. In the organ, which in the normal course of plant development has a definite form, there is also contained the possibility of taking on a different form. [ 25 ] Goethe considers the Bryophyllum calicinum to be an illustration of his idea of the archetypal plant; this is the ordinary life plant, a species which came from the Molucca Islands to Calcutta and from there to Europe. Little new plants develop from the indentations in the plump leaves of this plant and grow into complete plants when detached. For Goethe this process shows sense-perceptibly that in idea a whole plant lies in the leaf. [ 26 ] Whoever develops within himself the mental picture of the archetypal plant and keeps it so mobile that he can think it in every possible form compatible with its content can, with its help, explain for himself all the configurations of the plant realm. He will grasp the development of the individual plant, but he will also find out that all families, species, and varieties are formed in accordance with this archetypal picture. Goethe developed this view in Italy and recorded it in his book, An Attempt to Explain the Metamorphosis of Plants, which appeared in 1790. [ 27 ] In Italy Goethe also makes progress in developing his ideas about the human organism. On January 20 he writes to Knebel: “I am somewhat prepared for anatomy and have acquired, though not without effort, a certain level of knowledge of the human body. Here, through endless contemplation of statues, one's attention is continuously drawn to the human body, but in a higher way. The purpose of our medical and surgical anatomy is merely to know the parts, and for this a stunted muscle will also serve. But in Rome the parts mean nothing unless at the same time they present a noble and beautiful form.—In the big hospital of San Spirito they have set up for artists a very beautifully muscled body in such a way that the beauty of it makes one marvel. It could really be taken for a flayed demigod, a Marsyas.—It is also the custom here, following the ancients, to study the skeleton, not as an artificially arranged mass of bones but rather with the ligaments still attached from which it receives some life and movement.” Even after his return from Italy Goethe industriously pursues his anatomical studies. He feels impelled to know the developmental laws of animal form in the same way that he succeeded in knowing those of the plant. He is convinced that the unity of the animal organism also rests on one basic organ which can assume various forms in outer phenomena. If the idea of the basic organ conceals itself, then the basic organ appears in an unformed way. It then manifests as the simpler organs of the animal; if the idea masters substance in such a way that it makes the substance totally into its own likeness, then the higher, nobler organs arise. That which is present in the simpler organs as idea reveals itself outwardly in the higher organs. Goethe did not succeed in drawing together the lawfulness of the entire animal form into one single mental picture as he was able to do for the plant form. He found the developmental law of one part of this form only, the spinal cord and brain, along with the bones which enclose these organs. He sees in the brain a higher development of the spinal cord. Every ganglion, every nerve center, represents for him a brain which has remained behind on a lower level. And he interprets the skull bones which enclose the brain as transformations of the vertebrae which surround the spinal cord. It has already occurred to him earlier that the posterior cranial bones (occipital, posterior, and anterior sphenoid bones) are to be regarded as three metamorphosed vertebrae; he maintains the same about the anterior cranial bones after finding on the dunes of the Lido in 1790 a sheep'-s skull so felicitously cracked open that the hard palate, the upper jaw bone, and the intermaxillary bone seem to present directly to his view three transformed vertebrae. [ 28 ] The study of animal anatomy had not yet progressed far enough in Goethe's time for him to be able to cite any creature which actually has vertebrae instead of developed cranial bones and which therefore manifests in a sense-perceptible picture what is present in the higher animals only as idea. Through the research of Carl Gegenbauer, published in 1872, it is possible to point to such an animal form. The primitive fish or selachii have cranial bones and a brain which clearly show themselves to be end parts of the spinal column and cord. According to findings about these animals, a greater number of vertebrae do seem to have gone into the head formation (at least nine) than Goethe had assumed. This error in the number of vertebrae has been brought forward against the validity of the Goethean idea of the transformation of the spinal cord and column, as has the fact that in its embryonic state the skull of the higher animals shows no trace of being composed of vertebra-like parts, but rather develops out of a simple cartilaginous sac. It is acknowledged indeed that the skull has arisen out of vertebrae. But it is denied that the cranial bones, in the form in which they manifest in the higher animals, are transformed vertebrae. It is said that a complete fusing of the vertebrae into a cartilaginous sac has occurred, in which the original vertebral structure has totally disappeared. The bone forms observable in the higher animals have then developed out of this cartilaginous capsule. These forms have not developed according to the archetype of the vertebra but rather in conformity with the tasks which they have to fulfill with the developed head. Therefore if one is seeking the explanation for one or another form of the cranial bones, one should not ask how a vertebra has metamorphosed in order to become a cranial bone but rather, what determining factors have led to the fact that this or that bone shape has separated out of the simple cartilaginous capsule? One believes in the formation of new shapes, according to new formative laws, after the original vertebral form has dissolved into a structureless capsule. Only from the standpoint of a fanaticism for facts can one find a contradiction between this view and the Goethean one. That which is no longer sense perceptible in the cartilaginous cranial capsule, i.e., the vertebral structure, is nevertheless present in it as idea and reappears as soon as the conditions for it are present. In the cartilaginous cranial capsule the idea of the basic organ in its vertebral form conceals itself within sense-perceptible matter; in the developed cranial bones this idea comes again into outer manifestation. [ 29 ] Goethe hopes that the laws of development of the other parts of the animal organism will reveal themselves to him in the same way as did those of the brain, spinal cord, and the parts enclosing them. About his discovery at the Lido he asks Frau von Kalb, on April 30, 1790, to tell Herder that he “has gotten one whole principle nearer to animal form and to its manifold transformations, and did so through the most remarkable accident.” He believes himself so near his goal that in the same year which brought him his find, he wants to complete a book on animal development which could take its place beside the Metamorphosis of the Plants (Correspondence with Knebel). On a journey in Silesia in July 1790 he pursues his studies of comparative anatomy and begins to write an essay, On the Form of Animals. Goethe did not succeed in progressing from this felicitous starting point to the laws of development of the whole animal form. No matter how many attempts he makes to find the prototype of animal form, nothing analogous to the idea of the archetypal plant emerged. He compares the animals to each other and to the human being and seeks to gain a general picture of animal structure which nature uses as a model to form the individual shapes. This general picture of the animal prototype is not a living mental picture which fills itself with a content in accordance with the basic laws of animal development, thus recreating, as it were, the archetypal animal. It is only a general concept, which is abstracted from the particular phenomena. It ascertains what the manifold animal forms have in common; but it does not contain the lawfulness of the animal realm.
[ 30 ] Goethe could not develop a unified mental picture of how this archetypal image, by lawful transformation of one basic pan, develops itself as the archetypal form, with many parts, of the animal organism. His essay, Animal Form, and his Sketch of a Comparative Anatomy Proceeding from Osteology, written in 1795 in Jena and given a more detailed shape later as Lectures on the First Three Chapters of the Sketch of a General Introduction to Comparative Anatomy (1796) contain only preliminary instruction as to how animals can be purposefully compared in order to gain a general picture by which the creative power “produces and develops organic beings” in order to gain a norm by which “to work out the descriptions” and to which the most varied forms can be traced “by abstracting this norm from the various animals.” On the other hand Goethe showed how, with the plants, one archetypal entity develops itself lawfully through successive modifications into its complete organic shape. [ 31 ] Even though he was not able to trace nature's creative force in its forming and transforming power through the different parts of the animal organism, still Goethe did succeed in finding individual laws to which nature holds in the development of animal forms which do adhere to the general norm but which are different in their manifestations. He pictures to himself that nature does not have the ability to change the general picture at will. If nature develops and forms one part with particular completeness, this can happen only at the expense of another part. In the archetypal organism all the parts are contained which can occur in any animal. In the individual animal form one part is developed, another part is only suggested; one is particularly well elaborated, another is perhaps totally imperceptible to sense observation. In this last case Goethe is convinced that that part of the general prototype which is not visible in each animal is nevertheless present as idea.
[ 32 ] In the archetypal organism all the parts are developed and maintain a balance with each other; the diversity of the individual organisms arises through the fact that the formative power expends itself on one part and therefore does not develop the outer manifestation of another part at all or only suggests it. Today one calls this law of the animal organism the law of the correlation or compensation of organs. [ 33 ] Goethe thinks the whole plant world to be contained as idea in the archetypal plant, and in the archetypal animal the whole animal world. From this thought there arises the question as to how it comes about that in one case these particular plant or animal forms arise, in another case other forms do. Under which conditions does the archetypal animal become a fish? Under which conditions a bird? The way science pictures things in order to explain the structure of organisms is repugnant to Goethe. The adherents of this way of picturing things ask with respect to each organ how it serves the living being in which it occurs. Underlying a question like this is the general thought that a divine creator or nature has prescribed a specific life's purpose for every being and has then given it a certain structure so that it can fulfill this purpose. A question like this seems just as nonsensical to Goethe as to ask what purpose a rubber ball has in moving when it is struck by another ball. An explanation of its motion can be given only by finding the laws by which the ball is set into motion by an impact or by some other cause. One does not ask what purpose the motion of the ball serves, but rather where its motion originates. In the same way, in Goethe's view, one should not ask for what purpose the bull has horns but rather how he can have horns. By which laws does the archetypal animal appear in the bull in a horn-bearing form? Goethe sought the idea of the archetypal plant and that of the archetypal animal in order to find in them the basis of an explanation for the diversity of organic forms. The archetypal plant is the creative element in the plant world. If one wants to explain an individual plant species, one must show how this creative element is working in a particular case. The mental picture that an organic being owes its form not to the forces working and shaping within it but rather that its form is imposed upon it from outside for certain purposes, this picture positively repels Goethe. He writes, “Recently I found, in a pitiful, apostolically monkish declamation of the Zurich prophet, the nonsensical words that everything which has life lives by something outside itself. Or it sounded something like that. Now a missionary can write down something like that, and when he is revising it no good spirit tugs at his sleeve” (Italian Journey, October 5, 1787). Goethe thinks of an organic being as a little world which is there through itself and which shapes itself according to its own laws. “The picture that a living being is brought forth for certain outer purposes and that its shape is determined by an intentional primal force to this end has already held us back in our philosophical consideration of natural things for several centuries, and still holds us back, although a few individuals have vigorously disputed this picture and shown what obstacles it lays in our path. . . It is, if one may put it so, a trivial picture, which, like all trivial things, is trivial precisely because it is comfortable and sufficient for human nature as a whole.” It is, of course, comfortable to say that a creator, in creating a species, has given it an underlying purposeful idea and therefore a definite shape. But Goethe wants to explain nature not by the intentions of some being located outside nature but rather by the laws of development lying within nature itself. An individual organic form arises through the fact that the archetypal plant or the archetypal animal gives itself a definite shape in a particular case. This shape must be such that the form, under the conditions in which it is living, can in fact live. “... the existence of a creature which we call fish is only possible under conditions of an element which we call water ...” If Goethe wants to grasp what laws of development bring forth a particular organic form, he then holds on to his archetypal organism. Within it lies the power to realize itself in the most diverse outer shapes. In order to explain a fish Goethe would investigate which formative powers the archetypal animal uses in order, out of all the shapes which lie in it as idea, to bring forth specifically the fish shape. If the archetypal animal were to realize itself under certain conditions in a shape in which it cannot live, then it would perish. An organic form can maintain itself under certain life conditions only when it is adapted to them.
[ 34 ] The enduring organic forms in a certain life element are determined by the nature of this element. If an organic form were to come out of one life element into a different one, it would have to change itself accordingly. This can occur in particular cases, because the archetypal organism underlying the form has the ability to realize itself in countless shapes. But the transformation of the one form into the other, in Goethe's view, is not to be thought of as though outer conditions directly reshape the form in accordance with themselves but rather as though they become the stimulus by which the inner being transforms itself. Changed living conditions stimulate the organic form to reshape itself in a certain way according to inner laws. Outer influences work indirectly, not directly, upon the living being. Countless forms of life are contained as idea in the archetypal plant and archetypal animal; those forms come into actual existence upon which outer influences work as stimulus. [ 35 ] The mental picture that a species of plant or animal transforms itself into another in the course of time under certain conditions is fully justified within the Goethean view of nature. Goethe pictures to himself that the power which brings forth a new individual through the reproductive process is only a transformation of that form of power which also causes the progressive reshaping of organs in the course of growth. Reproduction is a growth above and beyond the individual. Just as the basic organ during growth undergoes successive changes, which in idea are the same, so also, in reproduction, a transformation of the outer shape can take place while holding on to the ideal archetypal picture. When an original form of an organism was present, then its descendants could change over, through gradual transformation, in the course of great periods of time, into the diverse forms which populate the earth today. The thought of an actual blood tie between all organic forms does flow out of the basic views of Goethe. He could have expressed it right away in its complete form after conceiving his ideas of the archetypal animal and plant, but when he touches upon this thought he expresses himself hesitantly, even vaguely. One can read in the essay, Attempt at a Theory of Comparison, which was probably written not long after the Metamorphosis of the Plants, “And how worthy it is of nature that it must always employ the same means of bringing forth and nourishing a creature! Thus one will progress upon these same paths, and, just as one only at first regarded the unorganized, undetermined elements as the vehicle of the unorganized beings, so will one from now on raise one's contemplation and again regard the organized world as an interrelationship of many elements. The whole plant realm, for example, will again appear to us as an immense sea which is just as necessary for the qualified existence of the insects as the oceans and rivers are for the qualified existence of fish, and we will see that an immense number of living creatures are born and nourished in this ocean of plants; in fact, we will finally regard the whole animal world again as only one great element where one generation after another and through the other does not arise newly yet does maintain itself.” Goethe is less reserved in the following sentence from Lectures on the First Three Chapters of the Sketch of a General Introduction to Comparative Anatomy (1796): “This we would therefore have gained, that we could fearlessly assert that all the more perfect organic natures—by which we mean fish, amphibians, birds, mammals, and at the peak of the latter, man—are all formed according to one archetypal picture, which more or less diverges one way or another only in its permanent parts, and which still daily develops and transforms itself through reproduction.” Goethe's caution about the idea of transformation is understandable. This thought was not foreign to the age in which he was developing his ideas. But this age had developed this thought in the most muddled way. “But that was a darker age,” Goethe writes in 1807, “than one now pictures it to be. It was asserted, for example, that if the human being wanted to he could go around comfortably on all fours, and that bears could become human beings if they held themselves erect for a time. The audacious Diderot dared to suggest ways of producing goat-footed fauns to serve in uniform on the coaches of the rich and mighty, to bestow particular pomp and distinction.” Goethe wanted to have nothing to do with such unclear mental pictures. He was anxious to gain an idea of the fundamental laws of the living. In this it became clear to him that the shapes of the living are not rigid and unchangeable but rather are involved in continuous transformation. Goethe did not have enough data from observation to establish in detail how this transformation occurs. It is Darwin's investigations and Haeckel's intelligent reflections which have first shed some light on the actual conditions by which individual organic forms are related. From the standpoint of the Goethean world view one can only agree with the assertions of Darwinism, insofar as they relate to the actual emerging of one organic species from another. But Goethe's ideas penetrate more deeply into the being of the organic than does the Darwinism of our day. It believes it can do without the inner driving forces in the organic which Goethe pictures to himself as a sensible-supersensible image. Yes, Darwinism even denies that Goethe was justified in speaking, from his postulates, of any real transformation of organs and organisms. Jul. Sachs rejects Goethe's thoughts by saying that he transfers “the abstraction which his intellect has i made onto the object itself, by ascribing to the object a metamorphosis which actually has occurred only within our concept.” According to this view, Goethe did nothing more than bring leaves, sepals, petals, etc. under one general concept, and label them with the name “leaf.” “The matter would be quite different, to be sure, if ... we could believe that in the: ancestors of our present plant forms the stamens were ordinary leaves, etc.” (Sachs, History of Botany, 1875). This view arises from the fact fanaticism which cannot see that ideas belong just as objectively to the things as what one can perceive with the senses. Goethe is of the view that one can speak of the trans formation of one organ into another only if both, besides their outer manifestation, contain something else which is common,; to them both. This something is the sensible-supersensible 1 form. The stamen of a present plant form can be called the transformed leaf of its ancestors only if the same sensible-supersensible form lives in both. If that is not the case, if on the present plant there simply develops a stamen at the same place where a leaf had developed on its ancestors, then nothing has transformed itself but rather one organ has taken the place of another. The zoologist Oskar Schmidt asks, “What is it then in Goethe's view which is supposed to be transformed? Definitely not the archetypal picture.” (Was Goethe a Darwinian?, Graz, 1871). Certainly the archetypal picture does not transform itself for it is after all the same in all forms, but precisely because it remains the same, the outer shapes can be different and still represent a unified whole. If one could not recognize the same ideal archetypal picture in two forms which have developed away from each other, then one could assume no relationship between them. Only through the mental picture of the ideal archetypal form can one connect any meaning to the assertion that organic forms arise by developing out of each other. . Whoever cannot lift himself to this mental picture remains stuck in mere facts. In this mental picture lie the laws of organic development. Just as through Kepler's three basic laws the processes of the solar system are comprehensible, so through Goethe's ideal archetypal pictures are the shapes of organic nature. [ 36 ] Kant, who denies to the human spirit the ability to penetrate with ideas a totality which brings forth diversity in phenomena, calls it a “daring adventure of reason” to want to explain the individual forms of the organic world from some archetypal organism. For him, man is only able to draw together the diverse individual phenomena into a general concept, by which the intellect makes itself a picture of the unity. But this picture is only present in the human mind and has nothing to do with the creative power by which the unity really allows diversity to go forth from itself. The “daring adventure of reason” would consist of someone's assuming that the earth first releases simple organisms from her mother's womb which are less purposefully formed and which then give birth to more purposeful forms. That furthermore, still higher forms develop out of these all the way up to the most perfect living beings. If someone did make such an assumption, in Kant's opinion, he could not avoid positing an underlying purposeful creative power which gave such a push to development that all its individual members develop purposefully. Man perceives, after all, a multiplicity of diverse organisms; and since he cannot penetrate into them in order to see how they give themselves a form adapted to the life element in which they develop he must then picture to himself that they are organized from outside in such a way that they can live under these conditions. Goethe attributes to himself the ability to recognize how nature creates the individual out of the totality, the external out of the internal. He therefore wants courageously to undertake what Kant calls the “adventure of reason” (see the essay, The Power to Judge in Beholding). If we had no other proof that Goethe accepted the thought of a blood relationship of all organic forms as justified within the limits indicated here, we would have to deduce it from this judgment about Kant's “adventure of reason.” [ 37 ] One can guess, from Goethe's sketchy Outline of a Morphology which still exists that he planned to present in their successive levels the particular shapes which his archetypal plant and archetypal animal assume in the main forms of living beings. He wanted first of all to describe the being of the organic as it came to him in his reflections about animals and plants. Then, “starting at one point,” to show how the archetypal organic being develops itself on the one hand into the manifold plant world, on the other hand into the multiplicity of the animal forms, how the particular forms of the worms, insects, higher animals, and the human form can be drawn forth from the common archetypal picture. Light was also meant to be shed upon physiognomy and phrenology. Goethe set himself the task of presenting the outer shape in connection with inner spiritual abilities. He felt moved to trace the organic drive to develop, which presents itself in the lower organisms in a simple outer manifestation, in its striving to realize itself stage by stage in ever more perfect shapes until in man it gives itself a form which makes him able to be the creator of spiritual productions. [ 38 ] This plan of Goethe's was not carried out, nor was another one which started with the fragment, Preliminary Work for a Physiology of the Plants. Goethe wanted to show how all the individual branches of natural science—natural history, physics, anatomy, chemistry, zoology, and physiology—must work together in order that a higher kind of contemplation may use them to explain the shapes and processes of living beings. He wanted to establish a new science, a general morphology of organisms, “not, indeed, with a new subject matter, for this is known, but rather with a new outlook and methodology; this new science would have to give a distinctive form to its findings and also indicate its place relative to other sciences ...” The individual laws of nature provided by anatomy, natural history, physics, chemistry, zoology, and physiology should be taken up by the living mental picture of the organic and placed on a higher level, in the same way that the living being itself takes up the individual natural processes into the sphere of its development and places them on a higher level of working. [ 39 ] Goethe arrived along paths of his own at the ideas which helped him through the labyrinth of living forms. The dominant views on important areas of nature's working contradicted his general world view. He therefore had to develop mental pictures about these areas for himself that were in accordance with his nature. But he was convinced that there is nothing new under the sun and that one “could very well find indications in earlier works about what one is becoming aware of oneself.” For this reason he shares his writing on the Metamorphosis of the Plants with learned friends and asks them to inform him whether something has already been written or handed down on this subject. He is happy when Friedrich August Wolf draws his attention to a “first-rate precursor” in Kaspar Friedrich Wolff. Goethe acquaints himself with Wolff's Theoria Generationis, which appeared in 1759. But one can observe, precisely with this precursor, how someone can have a correct view about the facts and still not come to the complete idea of organic development unless he is able to grasp the sensible-supersensible form of life, through an ability to see which, is higher than that of his senses. Wolff is an excellent observer. He seeks through microscopic investigations to enlighten himself about the beginnings of life. He recognizes the calyx, corolla, stamens, pistil, and seed as transformed leaves. But he attributes the transformation to a gradual decrease in the life force, which supposedly diminishes to the same degree as the vegetation unfolds and then finally disappears entirely. Therefore calyx, corolla, etc. are for him an imperfect development of the leaves. Wolff came on the scene as an opponent of Haller, who advocated the doctrine of preformation or incapsulation. According to it all the parts of a full-grown organism were supposed to exist pre. formed already in miniature within the germ, and even in the same shape and interrelationship as in the complete living being. The development of an organism, consequently, is only the unfolding of what is already present. Wolff accepted as valid only what he saw with his eyes. And since, even with the most careful observations, he could not discover any incapsulated state of a living being, he regarded development as a truly new formation. The shape of an organic being is in his view not yet present in the germ. Goethe is of the same opinion with respect to outer manifestation. He also rejects the incapsulation doctrine of Haller. For Goethe the organism is in fact preformed within the germ, not as outer manifestation but rather as idea. He also regards the outer manifestation as a new formation. But he reproaches Wolff with the fact that where Wolff sees nothing with his physical eyes he also perceives nothing with his spiritual eyes. Wolff had no mental picture of the fact that something can still be present as idea, even if it does not come to outer manifestation. “Therefore his efforts are always to penetrate by microscopic investigations into the beginnings of life formation, and to trace in this way the organic embryos from their earliest manifestation up to full development. But no matter how excellent these methods may be, by which he has accomplished so much, still the admirable man did not think that there is a difference between seeing and seeing, that the spiritual eyes must work in continuous living alliance with the physical eyes, because one otherwise runs the danger of seeing and yet overlooking.—In plant transformation he saw the same organ continuously contracting, growing smaller; but he did not see that this contraction alternated with an expansion. He saw that this organ diminished in volume, and did not notice that it ennobled itself at the same time and therefore, nonsensically, he considered atrophy to be the path to perfection.” [ 40 ] To the end of his life Goethe remained in personal and written contact with numerous investigators of nature. He observed with keenest interest the progress of the science of living beings; he was happy to see how in this realm of knowledge ways of picturing things arose which approached his own ways and also how his expositions on metamorphosis were recognized and made fruitful by individual investigators. In 1817 he began to gather his works together and to publish them in a journal which he founded under the title, On Morphology. In spite of all this he no longer achieved through his own observation or reflection a further development of his ideas about organic development. He was only stimulated two more times to occupy: himself more deeply with such ideas. In both cases his attention was caught by scientific phenomena in which he found a confirmmation of his thoughts. One was the lectures which K. F. Ph. Martius held in gatherings of natural scientists in 1828 and 1829 on the Vertical and Spiral Tendency of Vegetation and from; which the journal Isis published excerpts; the other one was a natural scientific dispute in the French Academy which broke I out between Geoffrey de Saint-Hilaire and Cuvier in 1830. [ 41 ] Martius thought that the growth of plants was governed by two tendencies, by a striving in the vertical direction, which; governed root and stem, and by another one which caused leaf and blossom organs, etc. to array themselves on the vertical organ in accordance with the form of a spiral line. Goethe took up these ideas and brought them into connection with his mental picture of metamorphosis. He wrote a lengthy essay in, which he brought together all his experiences of the plant world; which seemed to him to indicate the presence of the two tendencies. He believes that he has to take up these tendencies into his idea of metamorphosis. “We had to assume that a general': spiral tendency holds sway in vegetation through which, in connection with the vertical striving, every structure, every formation of plants is completed according to the law of metamorphosis.” Goethe grasps the presence of spiral vessels in the individual plant organs as proof that the spiral tendency inherently rules the life of the plant. “Nothing is more in accordance with nature than the fact that what it intends as a whole it brings into activity down to the smallest detail.” “In the summertime go up to a stake driven into the garden upon which a bindweed (convovulus) is climbing, winding up around it from below, and follow its lively growth with close attention. Think of the convovulus and the stake as both equally alive, rising out of one root, alternately bringing each other fon, and in this way progressing ceaselessly. Whoever can transform this sight into an inner beholding will have made this concept much easier for himself. The climbing plant seeks outside itself what it should be giving itself but cannot.” Goethe uses the same comparison on March 15, 1832 in a letter to Count Sternberg and adds the words, “To be sure this comparison is not entirely apt, for at the beginning the creeper would have to wind around the rising stem in hardly noticeable circles. But the closer it came to the upper end the more quickly the spiral line would have to turn, in order finally (in the blossom) to gather together in a circle into a disk, as in dancing where quite often, when young, one was squeezed against one's will, even with the nicest children, breast to breast and heart to heart. Pardon my anthropomorphism.” Ferdinand Cohn remarks about this passage, “If only Goethe could have experienced Darwin! ... how this man would have pleased him who through rigorous inductive methods knew how to find clear and convincing proofs for his ideas ...” Darwin believes himself able to show, about. almost all plant organs, that during their growth period they have the tendency to spiral-like movements, which he calls circummutation. [ 42 ] In September 1830 Goethe refers in an essay to the dispute between the natural scientists Cuvier and Geoffrey de Saint-Hilaire; in March 1832 he continues this essay. In February and March 1830 in the French Academy the fact fanatic Cuvier comes out against the work of Geoffrey de Saint-Hilaire, who, in Goethe's opinion, had “attained a high level of thinking in accordance with the idea.” Cuvier is a master in making distinctions between the individual organic forms. Geoffrey's efforts are to seek the analogies in these forms and to furnish proof that the organization of the animals “is subject to a general plan, modified here and there, from which their differences come.” He strives to know the relatedness of the laws and is convinced that the particular can gradually be developed from the whole. Goethe regards Geoffrey as a kindred spirit; he expresses this to Eckermann on August 2, 1830 in the words, “now Geoffrey de Saint-Hilaire is also definitely on our side and with him all his significant students and adherents in France. This event is of inconceivably great value to me, and I am right to jubilate about the final victory of something to which I have dedicated my life and which is pre-eminently also my own.” Geoffrey practices a way of thinking which is also Goethe's way; in his experience of the world he seeks to grasp, along with the diversity of what is sense-perceptible, also the idea of the unity. Cuvier holds fast to the diversity, to the particular, because when he observes them the idea does not arise for him at the same time. Geoffrey has a right feeling for the relationship of the sense-perceptible to the idea; Cuvier does not have it. He therefore labels Geoffrey's comprehensive principle as presumptuous, yes, even declares it to be inferior. One can have the experience, especially with natural scientists, that they speak derogatorily about what is “merely” ideal, thought. They have no organ for what is ideal and therefore do not know the sphere of its working. Through the fact that he possessed this organ in an especially well-developed form, Goethe was led from his general world view to his deep insights into the nature of the living. His ability to let his eyes of the spirit work in a continuous living alliance with the eyes of the body enabled him to behold the unified sensible-supersensible being that extends through organic development; it enabled him to recognize this being even where one organ develops out of another, where, through transformation, an organ conceals and denies its relatedness, its sameness with the preceding one, changing both in function and form to such a degree that no comparison of outer attributes with the preceding ones can any longer take place. Seeing with the eyes of the body transmits knowledge of the sense-perceptible and material; seeing with the eyes of the spirit leads to the beholding of processes in human consciousness, to the observation of the world of thoughts, of feeling, and of will; the living alliance of spiritual and bodily eye enables one to know the organic which, as a sensible-supersensible element, lies between the purely sense-perceptible and the purely spiritual. |
| 6. Goethe's World View: The Phenomena of the World of Colors
Translated by William Lindemann Rudolf Steiner |
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| He wants to see how nature brings about this formation so that he can understand it in works of art. Goethe describes how in Italy he gradually succeeded in coming to an insight into the natural lawfulness of artistic creation (see Confession of the Author). |
| The spectrum which manifests in a sequence of seven colors from red to violet can only be understood when one sees how other determining factors are added to those through which the border phenomena arise. |
| The colors arise in connection with light and their arising is understood when one shows how they arise in connection with light. Light itself is given in direct perception. |
| 6. Goethe's World View: The Phenomena of the World of Colors
Translated by William Lindemann Rudolf Steiner |
|---|
[ 1 ] The feeling that “men's great works of art are brought forth according to true and natural laws” continuously moved Goethe to seek out these true and natural laws of artistic creation. He is convinced that the effect of a work of art must depend upon the fact that a natural lawfulness shines forth from it. He wants to know this lawfulness. He wants to know for what reason the highest works of art are at the same time the highest works of nature. It becomes clear to him that the Greeks proceeded by exactly the same laws by which nature proceeds as they “developed out of the human shape the sphere of divine formation” (Italian Journey, January 28, 1787). He wants to see how nature brings about this formation so that he can understand it in works of art. Goethe describes how in Italy he gradually succeeded in coming to an insight into the natural lawfulness of artistic creation (see Confession of the Author). “Fortunately I could hold on to a few maxims brought over from poetry and proven to me by inner feeling and long use, so that it was indeed difficult but not impossible for me, through uninterrupted looking at nature and art, through lively effective conversation with more or less insightful experts, and through continuously living with more or less practical or thinking artists, gradually to separate an in general into its parts, without fragmenting it, and to become aware of its different actively interpenetrating elements.” Only one element does not want to reveal to him the natural laws by which it works in the work of art: color. Several canvases are “created and composed in his presence and carefully and thoroughly studied as to components, arrangement, and form.” The artists can give him an account of how they proceed with the composition. But as soon as the topic turns to the use of color everything seems arbitrary. No one knows what relationship holds good between color and chiaroscuro and between the individual colors. Goethe cannot ascertain the basis for the fact that yellow makes a warm and comfortable impression, blue evokes a feeling of cold, that yellow and reddish-blue beside each other produce a harmonious effect. He recognizes that he must first acquaint himself with the lawfulness of the world of color in nature, in order from there to penetrate into the mysteries of the use of colors. [ 2 ] Neither the concepts about the physical nature of color phenomena which Goethe still had in his memory from student days nor the scientific compendia which he consulted for advice proved fruitful for his purpose. “Along with the rest of the world I was convinced that all the colors are contained in the light; no one had ever told me anything different, and I had never found the least cause to doubt it, because I had no further interest in this subject” (Confession of the Author). But as he began to be interested, he found that he could develop nothing for his purpose out of this view. The originator of this view, which Goethe found to dominate natural scientists and which still occupies the same position today, is Newton. This view asserts that white light, as it goes forth from the sun, is composed of colored lights. The colors arise through the fact that the individual component parts are separated out of white light. If one lets sunlight into a dark room through a small round opening and catches it upon a white screen set up at right angles to the direction of the in-streaming light, one obtains a white image of the sun. If one places a glass prism between the opening and the screen so that the light shines through it, the white, round sun image transforms itself. It appears shifted, drawn out lengthwise, and colored. This image is called the sun spectrum. If one holds the prism in such a way that the upper portions of the light have to take a shorter route within the volume of the glass than the lower portions do, then the colored image is shifted downward. The upper edge of the image is red, the lower edge is violet; the red goes downward into yellow, the violet upward into blue; the middle portion of the image is generally white. Only when the screen is a certain distance from the prism does the white in the middle disappear completely; the entire image appears colored, in the sequence from above downward of red, orange, yellow, green, light blue, indigo, and violet. From this experiment Newton and his followers deduced that the colors are originally contained in the white light but mixed with one another. They are separated from each other by the prism. They have the characteristic that in passing through a transparent body they are diverted from their direction to different degrees, which means they are refracted. The red light is least, the violet is most refracted. They appear in the spectrum in the sequence of their refractibility. If one looks through the prism at a narrow strip of paper on a black background, it also appears diverted. It is both broader and colored at the edges. The upper edge appears violet, the lower red; here also the violet goes over into blue, the red into yellow; the middle is generally white. The strip of paper appears totally colored only when the prism is at a certain distance from it. Again green appears in the middle. Here also the white of the paper is supposedly divided into its colored component parts. The Newtonians have a simple explanation for the fact that all the colors appear only when the prism is at a certain distance from the screen or paper strip, whereas the middle otherwise is white. They say that the more strongly diverted lights from the upper pan of the image and the more weakly diverted ones from the lower pan fall together in the middle and mix into white. The colors appear only at the edges because there none of the more strongly diverted parts of the light from above can fall into the most weakly diverted parts of the light, and none of the more weakly diverted ones from below can fall into the most strongly diverted ones. [ 3 ] This is the view from which Goethe can develop nothing for his purposes. He therefore wants to observe the phenomena themselves. He turns to Privy Councillor Buettner in Jena who lends him the equipment with which to perform the necessary experiments. He is busy at first with other work and wants, when pressed by Buettner, to return the equipment. But before doing so he takes up a prism, in order to look through it at a completely white wall. He expects it to appear colored to different degrees. But the wall remains white. Only at those places where the white meets dark do colors arise. The window sashes appeared in the liveliest colors. From these observations Goethe. believes that he can know that the Newtonian view is incorrect and that the colors are not contained in white light. The boundary, the darkness, must have something to do with the arising of colors. He continues his experiments. He looks at white surfaces upon black, and at black surfaces on a white background. He gradually forms his own view. A white disk, viewed through a prism, appears shifted. The upper portions of the disk, in Goethe's opinion, shift themselves up over the black border of the background, whereas this black background extends itself up over the lower portions of the disk. If one now looks through the prism, one sees the black background through the upper portion of the disk as though through a white veil. If one looks at the lower pan of the disk, it appears through the darkness lifted up over it. Above, something light has been brought over something dark; below, something dark over something light. The upper edge appears blue, the lower one yellow. The blue goes over toward the black into violet; the yellow goes over downward into red. If the prism is moved away from the observed disk, the colored edges become broader; the blue downward, the yellow upward. When the prism is moved sufficiently far away, the yellow from below extends over the blue from above; through this overlapping green arises in the middle. To confirm this view, Goethe looks through the prism at a black disk upon a white background. Now up above something dark is brought over something light, below something light over something dark. Yellow appears above, blue below. When the edges are broadened by moving the prism away from the disk, the blue below, which goes over toward the middle into violet, is brought over the yellow above, which in broadening gradually takes on a red tone. A peach blossom color arises in the middle. Goethe said to himself that what is correct for the white disk must also hold good for the black one. “If there the light splits up into so many colors ... then here also the darkness would have to be regarded as split up into colors” (Confession of the Author). Goethe now relates to a physicist he knows his observations and the skepticism toward the Newtonian view which has arisen in him from them. The latter declares his skepticism to be unfounded. He explains the colored edges and the white in the middle, as well as their transition into green when the prism is moved the right distance away from the observed object, in accordance with the Newtonian view. Other natural scientists to whom Goethe brings the subject respond in the same way. He carries on by himself the observations in which he would gladly have had the help of people experienced in the field. He has a large prism made out of plate-glass and fills it with pure water. Because he notices that glass prisms, whose cross-section is an equilateral triangle, often hinder the observer by greatly broadening the colors that appear, he has his large prism made with the cross-section of an isosceles triangle whose smallest angle is only fifteen to twenty degrees. Goethe calls those experiments subjective which are set up in such a way that the eye looks at an object through the prism. These experiments present themselves to the eye but are not fixed in the outer world. He wants to add objective experiments to these as well. He uses a water prism for this. The light shines through a prism and the colors are caught on a screen behind the prism. Goethe now lets sunlight go through openings cut into cardboard. He obtains thereby an illuminated space bounded on all sides by darkness. This bounded light mass goes through the prism and is deflected in its direction by it. If one holds up a screen to this light mass issuing from the prism, there arises on it an image which generally is colored on its upper and lower edges. If the prism is placed in such a way that its cross section tapers downward, then the upper edge of the image is colored blue and the lower one yellow. The blue goes over toward the dark space into violet, and toward the lighted middle into light blue; the yellow toward the darkness into red. Also in this phenomenon Goethe traces the color phenomena to the border. Above, the bright light mass streams into the dark space; it lightens something dark, which thereby appears blue. Below the dark space streams into the light mass; it darkens something light and makes it appear yellow. When the screen is moved away from the prism the colored edges become broader; the yellow approaches the blue. With the streaming of the blue into the yellow, when the screen has been moved a suitable distance from the prism, green appears in the middle of the image. Goethe makes visible to himself the streaming of the light into the dark and of the dark into the light, by shaking into the line which the light mass takes through the dark space a fine white cloud of dust which he produces with fine dry hair powder. “The more or less colored phenomenon is now caught by the white atoms and presented to the eye in its entire breadth and length” (Color Theory, didactic part). Goethe finds that the view which he arrived at through subjective phenomena is confirmed by objective phenomena. The colors are brought forth by the working together of light and dark. The prism serves only to shift light and dark over each other. [ 4 ] After making these experiments Goethe cannot accept the Newtonian view as his own. For him it is the same as with Haller's doctrine of incapsulation. Just as Haller thinks the fully developed organism to be already contained in the germ with all its parts, so the Newtonians believe that the colors, which under certain conditions appear with the light, are already enclosed within it. Against this belief he could use the same words which he brought against the doctrine of incapsulation, that it “rests upon a mere extra-sensory fancy, upon an assumption which one believes one thinks but which can never be demonstrated in the sense world.” For him the colors are new formations which are developed in connection with the light, not beings which are merely unfolded out of the light. Because of his “way of thinking in accordance with the idea” he must reject the Newtonian view. This view does not know the nature of the ideal. It acknowledges only what is factually present, what is present in the same way as the sense-perceptible. And wherever it cannot demonstrate factuality through the senses, it assumes it hypothetically. Because the colors develop in connection with the light, and must therefore already be contained in it as idea, this view believes that they are also factually, materially contained in the light and are only brought out by the prism and the dark border. Goethe knows that the idea is at work in the sense world; therefore he does not transfer something which is present as idea into the realm of the factual. The ideal works in inorganic nature just as in organic nature, only not as sensible-supersensible form. Its outer manifestation is completely material, merely sense-perceptible. It does not penetrate into the sense-perceptible; it does not permeate it with spirit. The processes of inorganic nature run their course in a lawful way, and this lawfulness presents itself to the observer as idea. If a person perceives white light in one place in space and colors in another place which arise in connection with the light, then a lawful relationship exists between both perceptions which can be pictured as idea. But if someone gives this idea a body and sets it out into space as something factual which passes over from the object of the one perception into that of the other perception, then that comes from his crudely physical way of picturing things. It is this crudely physical aspect about the Newtonian view which repelled Goethe. It is the idea that leads one inorganic process over into the other, not something factual which travels from one to the other. [ 5 ] The Goethean world view can acknowledge only two sources for all knowledge of the inorganic nature processes: that which is sense-perceptible about these processes, and the ideal interconnections of the sense-perceptible which reveal themselves to thinking. The ideal interconnections within the sense world are not of the same kind. There are some which are directly obvious when sense perceptions appear beside each other or after each other, and others which one can see only when one traces them back to some of the first kind. In the manifestation which offers itself to the eye when it looks at something dark through something light and perceives blue, Goethe believes he recognizes an interconnection of the first kind between light, darkness, and color. It is the same thing when something light looked at through something dark gives yellow. The spectrum which appears at the borders allows us to recognize an interconnection which becomes clear to immediate observation. The spectrum which manifests in a sequence of seven colors from red to violet can only be understood when one sees how other determining factors are added to those through which the border phenomena arise. The simple border phenomena have joined in the spectrum into a complicated phenomenon which can be understood only when one traces it back to the basic phenomena. That which stands before the observer in its purity in the basic phenomenon appears impure, modified in that which is complicated by the additional determining factors. The simple facts are no longer directly recognizable. Goethe therefore seeks everywhere to trace complicated phenomena back to simple pure ones. He sees the explanation of inorganic nature to consist of this leading back. He goes no further than the pure phenomenon. In it an ideal interconnection of sense perceptions reveals itself which explains itself through itself. Goethe calls the pure phenomenon ”archetypal phenomenon” (Urphaenomen). He regards it as idle speculation to reflect further upon the archetypal phenomenon. “The magnet is an archetypal phenomenon which one only has to state in order to have explained it” (Aphorisms in Prose). A composite, phenomenon is explained when one shows how it is built up out of archetypal phenomena. [ 6 ] Modern science proceeds differently from Goethe. It wants to trace the processes in the sense world back to the movements of the smallest particles of the body and, to explain these movements, uses the same laws by which it comprehends the movements which occur visibly in space. To explain these visible movements is the task of mechanics. If the movement of a body is observed then mechanics asks by which force it was set in motion; what distance it travels in a particular time; what form the line has in which it moves; etc. It seeks to represent mathematically the interrelationships of force, of the distance traveled, of the form of the path. Now the scientist states that the red light can be traced back to the oscillating movement of the body's smallest panicles which spreads itself out in space. This movement is comprehended by applying to it the laws won through mechanics. The science of inorganic nature considers its goal to be gradually to go over entirely into applied mechanics. [ 7 ] Modern physics asks about the number of vibrations in a time unit which correspond to a particular color quality. From the number of vibrations which correspond to red, and from those which correspond to violet, it seeks to determine the physical relationship of both colors. The qualitative disappears from its view; it looks at the spatial and temporal aspects of the processes. Goethe asks what relationship exists between red and violet when one disregards the spatial and temporal and looks merely at the qualitative aspect of the colors. A postulate of the Goethean way of looking at things is that the qualitative is also really present in the outer world and forms one inseparable whole with the temporal and spatial. Modern physics on the other hand must start with the basic view that only the quantitative, only lightless and colorless processes of movement are present in the outer world, and that everything qualitative arises only as the effect of the quantitative upon the sense- and spirit-endowed organism. If this assumption were correct, then the lawful interrelationships of the qualitative could also not be sought in the outer world but would have to be traced back to the nature of the sense organs, of the nervous system, and of the organ of mental picturing. The qualitative elements of processes would then not be for physics to investigate but rather for physiology and psychology. Modern science does proceed in accordance with this presupposition. In its view the organism, in a way appropriate to the constitution of its eyes, optic nerve, and brain, translates one process of movement into the sensation red and another into the sensation violet. Therefore all the outer aspects of the color world are explained when one has seen the interconnection of the processes of movement by which this world is determined. [ 8 ] A proof for this view is sought in the following observation. The optic nerve senses every outer impression as a light sensation. Not only light but also a bump or pressure on the eye, a tug on the retina when the eye is moved quickly, an electric current conducted through the head: all these also cause a sensation of light. A different sense experiences the same things in a different way. Bumps, pressure, tugs, electrical current, when they stimulate the skin, cause sensations of touch. Electricity stimulates in the ear a sound sensation, in the tongue a taste sensation. One deduces from this that the content of sensation, which arises in the organism through an outer effect, is different from the outer process by which it is caused. The red color is not experienced by the organism because the color is connected with a corresponding process of movement outside in space but rather because the eye, optic nerve, and brain of the organism are constituted in such a way that they translate a colorless process of movement into a color. The law expressed in this way was called the law of specific sense energies by the physiologist Johannes Mueller who first established it. [ 9 ] This observation proves only that the sense- and spirit-endowed organism can translate impressions of the most diverse kinds into the language of the senses upon which they act, but not that the content of every sense impression is also present only inside the organism. When the optic nerve is tugged there arises an indefinite, completely general stimulation which contains nothing that would cause one to place its content out in space. A sensation which arises through a real light impression is inseparably connected in its content with the spatial-temporal that corresponds to it. The movement of a body and its color are content of perception in exactly the same way. If one pictures the movement in and for itself, one is abstracting from what is otherwise perceived about the body. All the other mechanical and mathematical mental pictures are taken from the world of perception in the same way as movement. Mathematics and mechanics arise through the fact that one pan is separated out from the content of the world of perception and considered in and for itself. Within reality there are no objects or processes whose content is exhausted when one has grasped about them what can be expressed through mathematics and mechanics. Everything mathematical and mechanical is connected to color, warmth, and other qualities. If it is necessary for physics to assume that for the perception of a color there are corresponding vibrations in space, of which a very small expansion and a very great velocity are characteristic, then these movements can only be thought of as analogous to the movements which occur visibly in space. That means, if the world of objects is thought of as in movement, right into its smallest elements, then it must also be pictured as being endowed, right into its smallest elements, with color, warmth, and other characteristics. Whoever takes colors, warmth, sounds, etc. to be qualities which exist as effects of outer processes through the mentally picturing organism and which exist only inside this organism, must also transfer into it everything mathematical and mechanical which is connected with these qualities. Then, however, nothing more is left him for his outer world. The red that I see and the light vibrations which the physicist demonstrates as corresponding to this red are in reality a unity which only the abstracting intellect can separate from one another. I would see the vibrations in space, which correspond to the quality “red,” as movement, if my eye were organized to do so. But I would have connected with the movement, the impression of the red color. [ 10 ] Modern natural science transfers out into space an unreal abstraction, a vibrating substratum stripped of all qualities of sensation, and is astonished then that one cannot understand what can cause the mentally picturing organism, endowed with nerve apparatus and brain, to translate these indifferent processes of motion into the colorful sense world filled with warmth differentiations and sounds. Du Bois-Reymond therefore assumes that man, because of an insurmountable limit to his knowing, will never understand how the fact that “I taste sweetness, smell the fragrance of roses, hear organ tones, see red” is connected with certain movements of the smallest bodily particles in the brain, whose movements are in turn caused by the vibrations of the tasteless, odorless, soundless, and colorless elements of the outer world of objects. “It is indeed thoroughly and forever incomprehensible that it should not be a matter of indifference to a number of atoms of carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen, etc. how they lie and move, how they lay and moved, how they will lie and move” (Limits to Knowing Nature, Leipzig, 1882). But there are absolutely no limits to knowledge here. Wherever in space there are a number of atoms in a definite movement, there is necessarily a definite quality (red, for example) also present. And conversely, where red appears movement must be present. Only a thinking which abstracts can separate the one from the other. Whoever thinks of the movement as separated within reality from the other content of the process to which the movement belongs cannot find the transition again from the one to the other. [ 11 ] Only that about a process which is movement can be traced back again to movement; that which belongs to the qualitative element of the world of colors and light can also be traced back only to a similar qualitative element within the same realm. Mechanics traces complex movements back to simple ones which are immediately comprehensible. Color theory must trace complicated color phenomena back to simple ones which can be recognized in the same way. A simple process of movement is an archetypal phenomenon just like the emergence of yellow out of the interworking of light and dark. Goethe knows what the mechanical archetypal phenomena can accomplish for the explanation of inorganic nature. Whatever is not mechanical within the world of objects he leads back to archetypal phenomena which are not of a mechanical kind. Goethe has been reproached for having thrown out the mechanical way of looking at nature and for limiting himself only to the observation and stringing together of the sense-perceptible (see Harnack, for example, in his book, Goethe in the Period of his Completeness). Du Bois-Reymond finds (Goethe and More Goethe, Leipzig, 1883) that “Goethe's theorizing limits itself to allowing other phenomena to emerge from an archetypal phenomenon, as he calls it, in somewhat the way fog assumes successive shapes without any intelligible causal connection. It was the concept of mechanical causality which was totally lacking in Goethe.” But what else does mechanics do than let complex processes go forth out of simple archetypal phenomena? Goethe did exactly the same thing in the sphere of the color world that the physicist accomplishes in the sphere of processes of motion. Because Goethe is not of the view that all processes in inorganic nature are purely mechanical, it has therefore been denied that he has any concept of mechanical causality. Whoever does this only shows that he is himself in error as to what mechanical causality signifies within the world of objects. Goethe remains in what is qualitative about the world of light and colors; he leaves it up to others to express the quantitative, mechanical, mathematical. He “sought to keep his theory of color absolutely at a distance from mathematics, although right away certain points manifest clearly enough where the help of the art of measurement would be desirable ... But this lack may even be of benefit, inasmuch as it can now become the business of the ingenious mathematician himself to seek out where color theory needs his help, and how he can make his contribution to the perfecting of this pan of natural philosophy” (Paragraph 727 of the didactic pan of the Color Theory). The qualitative elements of the sense of sight, light, darkness, colors, must first be understood out of their own interconnections, be traced back to archetypal phenomena; then there can be investigated on a higher level of thinking what the relationship is between these interconnections and the quantitative, the mechanical-mathematical elements in the world of light and colors. [ 12 ] Goethe wants to trace the connections within the qualitative realm of the color world back to the simplest elements in just as strict a sense as the mathematician or the mechanic does in his sphere. “We must learn from the mathematicians to take care to place next to each other only the elements which are closest to each other, or rather to deduce from each other the elements which are closest to them, and even where we use no calculations, we must always proceed as though we were obliged to render account to the strictest geometrician.—For actually it is the mathematical method which, because of its carefulness and purity, reveals right away any jump in its assertions, and its proofs are actually only detailed expositions showing that what is presented in combination was already there in its simple components and in its whole sequence, was viewed in its full scope and was correctly and irrefutably devised under all conditions” (The Experiment as Mediator between Subject and Object) [ 13 ] Goethe draws the principles of explanation for phenomena directly from the realm of observation. He shows how the phenomena are interconnected within the experienceable world. For grasping nature he rejects mental pictures which point outside the region of observation. Any kind of explanation that oversteps the field of experience by bringing in factors to explain nature which by their very nature are not observable contradicts the Goethean world view. Just such an explanation is the one which seeks the nature of light in a light substance that as such is not perceived itself but that can only be observed as light in its way of working. Among this kind of explanation is the one which reigns in modern natural science, according to which the processes of movement of the world of light are carried out, not by the perceptible qualities which are given to the sense of sight, but rather by the smallest particles of imperceptible matter. It is not contrary to the Goethean world view to picture to oneself that a particular color is connected to a particular process of movement in space. But it is altogether contrary to it to maintain that this process of movement belongs to some realm of reality located outside of experience, belongs to the world of matter which can, indeed, be observed in its effects, but not in its own being. For one who adheres to the Goethean world view the vibrations of light in space are processes which should not be accorded a kind of reality different from the rest of the content of perception. They elude direct observation not because they lie beyond the realm of experience but rather because human sense organs are not so finely organized that they directly perceive movements of such minuteness. If an eye were organized in such a way that it could observe in every detail the vibration of a thing which repeats itself four hundred billion times in one second, then such a process would present itself in exactly the same way as a process in the crudely perceptible world. That means, the vibrating thing would manifest the same characteristics as other things of perception. [ 14 ] Every kind of explanation which traces the things and processes of experience back to other ones not located within the field of experience can attain content-filled mental pictures about this region of reality lying beyond observation only by borrowing certain characteristics from the world of experience and carrying them over onto the unexperienceable. In this way the physicist carries over hardness, impenetrability, onto the smallest elements of bodies, to which he still further ascribes the ability to attract and repel their own kind; on the other hand he does not attribute color, warmth, and other characteristics to these elements. He believes he explains an experienceable process of nature by leading it back to one that is not experienceable. According to Du Bois-Reymond's view, to know nature is to lead the processes in the world of objects back to the movements of atoms which are caused by their attracting and repelling forces (Limits to Knowing Nature, Leipzig, 1882). Matter, the substance filling space, is considered to be what is moving in all this. This substance is supposed to have been there from all eternity and will be there for all eternity. But matter is not supposed to belong to the sphere of observation but rather to be present beyond it. Du Bois-Reymond therefore assumes that man is incapable of knowing the real nature of matter itself, that he therefore leads the processes of the world of objects back to something whose nature will remain forever unknown to him. “We will never know better than we know today what haunts the space here where matter is” (Limits to Knowing Nature). When considered more exactly this concept of matter dissolves into nothing. The real content which one gives to this concept is borrowed from the world of experience. One perceives movements within the world of experience. One feels a pull when one holds a weight in one's hand, and a pressure when one lays a weight upon the palm of one's hand held out horizontally. In order to explain this perception one forms the concept of force. One pictures to oneself that the earth draws the weight to itself. The force itself cannot be perceived. It is ideal. But it belongs nevertheless to the sphere of observation. The mind observes it, because the mind sees the ideal relationships of the perceptions to one another. One is led to the concept of a force of repulsion when squeezing a piece of rubber and then letting it go. It restores itself to its previous shape and size. One pictures to oneself that the compressed parts of the rubber repel each other and again occupy their previous space. The way of thinking now under consideration carries such mental pictures, derived from observation, into an unexperienceable sphere of reality. It therefore in reality does nothing more than to trace something experienceable back to another experienceable something. Only, it arbitrarily shifts the latter into the sphere of the unexperienceable. It can be shown, of any way of picturing things which speaks of something unexperienceable within its view of nature, that it takes up a few scraps from the sphere of experience and relegates them to a sphere of reality located beyond observation. If one takes the scraps of experience out of the mental picture of the unexperienceable, there then remains a concept without content, a non-concept. The explanation of something experienceable can only consist of one's leading it back to something else which is experienceable. One finally arrives at elements within experience which can no longer be traced back to other ones. These are not further explainable, because they need no explanation. They contain their explanation in themselves. Their immediate being consists of what they present to observation. For Goethe, light is such an element. According to his view, a person has come to know the light who without preconception perceives light in its manifestation. The colors arise in connection with light and their arising is understood when one shows how they arise in connection with light. Light itself is given in direct perception. One knows what is ideally inherent in it when one observes what connection there is between it and the colors. From the standpoint of the Goethean world view it is impossible to ask about the real nature of light, about something unexperienceable which corresponds to the phenomenon “light.” “For actually it is a vain undertaking to express the real nature of a thing. We become aware of workings, and a complete history of these workings would very well comprise, if need be, the real nature of that thing.” This means that a complete presentation of the workings of something experienceable comprises all the manifestations which are inherent in it as idea. “We struggle to no avail to portray the character of a person; but put together his actions, his deeds, and a picture of his character will come to meet us.—The colors are deeds of the light, deeds and sufferings (Leiden). [Translator's note: Leiden, like “to suffer,” connotes a positive “allowing,” as well as its more familiar meaning.] In this sense we can expect from them disclosures about the light” (didactic pan of the Color Theory, Preface). [ 15 ] Light presents itself to observation as “the simplest, most undivided, most homogeneous being that we know” (Correspondence with Jacobi). Confronting it is the darkness. For Goethe darkness is not the completely powerless absence of light. It is something active. It confronts the light and enters with it into a mutual interaction. Modern natural science sees darkness as a complete nothingness. According to this view, the light which streams into a dark space has no resistance from the darkness to overcome. Goethe pictures to himself that light and darkness relate to each other like the north and south pole of a magnet. The darkness can weaken the light in its working power. Conversely, the light can limit the energy of the darkness. In both cases color arises. A view in physics that thinks of darkness as that which is completely inactive cannot speak of any such interaction. It must therefore trace the colors back to light alone. Darkness arises for observation as a phenomenon just as much as light does. What is dark is content of perception in the same sense as what is light. The one is only the opposite of the other. The eye that looks out into the night mediates the real perception of darkness. Were the darkness an absolute nothingness, then no perception at all would arise when the human being looks out into the dark. [ 16 ] Yellow is a light which has been dampened by the darkness; blue is a darkness which has been weakened by the light. [ 17 ] The eye is organized to mediate to the mentally picturing organism the phenomena of the world of light and color and the interconnections of these phenomena. In this it does not conduct itself in a merely receptive way but rather enters into a lively interaction with the phenomena. Goethe's striving is to know the nature of this interaction. He regards the eye as something altogether living and wants to gain insight into what its life manifests. How does the eye relate itself to the individual phenomenon? How does it relate itself to the interconnections of the phenomena? Those are questions which he poses himself. Light and darkness, yellow and blue are opposites. How does the eye experience these opposites? It must lie in the nature of the eye that it also experiences the interrelationships that exist between the individual perceptions. For, “the eye has the light to thank for its existence. Out of indifferent animal auxiliary organs, the light calls forth an organ for itself of its own kind; and thus the eye forms itself in connection with the light for the light, so that the inner light can come to meet the outer light” (didactic pan of the Color Theory, Introduction). [ 18 ] Just as light and darkness act in opposition to each other in outer nature, so are the two states, into which the eye is brought by the two phenomena, opposite to each other. When one keeps one's eye open in a dark space, a certain lack makes itself felt. If on the other hand the eye is turned toward a brightly illuminated white surface, it becomes unable for a time to distinguish moderately illuminated objects. Seeing into the dark increases receptivity; seeing into brightness weakens it. [ 19 ] Every impression upon the eye remains for a time within it. Whoever looks at the black cross-pieces between window panes against a bright background will, when he closes his eyes, still have the phenomenon before him for a while. If, while the impression still lasts, one looks at a light gray surface, the cross appears bright, the panes, on the other hand, dark. A reversal of the phenomenon occurs. It follows from this that the eye is predisposed through the one impression to create out of itself the opposite one. Just as in the outer world light and darkness stand in a relationship with each other, so also do the corresponding states in the eye. Goethe pictures to himself that the place in the eye upon which the dark cross fell is rested and receptive to a new impression. Therefore the gray surface works upon it in a livelier way than upon the other places in the eye which previously have received the stronger light from the window panes. The bright produces in the eye an inclination to the dark, the dark an inclination to the bright. If one holds a dark image in front of a light gray surface and, when the image is taken away, looks fixedly upon the same spot, the space which the dark image occupied appears much lighter than the rest of the surface. A gray image against a dark background appears brighter than the same image does against a light background. The eye is predisposed by the dark background to see the image as brighter, but the light background as darker. Through these phenomena there is indicated to Goethe the great activity of the eye “;and the quiet opposition which every living thing is driven to show when any particular state is presented it. Thus, breathing in already presupposes breathing out, and vice versa ... It is the eternal formula of life which manifests itself here also. When the eye is offered the dark, it then demands the bright; it demands dark when one confronts it with bright and precisely through this shows its liveliness, its right to grasp the object by bringing forth from itself something which opposes the object” (Para. 38 of the didactic pan of the Color Theory). [ 20 ] In the same way as light and darkness, color perceptions also call forth a counter activity in the eye. Hold a small piece of yellow paper in front of a moderately illuminated white screen and look fixedly at the small yellow surface. After a while take the paper away. At the place which the paper filled, one will see violet. The eye is predisposed by the impression of the yellow to produce the violet out of itself. In the same way blue will bring forth orange, and red green as a counter activity. Every color sensation therefore has a living connection in the eye with another. The states into which the eye is brought by perceptions stand in a relationship similar to that of the contents of these perceptions in the outer world. [ 21 ] When light and darkness, bright and dark, work upon the eye, then this living organ comes to meet them with its demands; when they work upon things outside in space, then the things enter into interaction with them. Empty space has the characteristic of transparency. It does not at all affect light and darkness. These shine through it in their own lively nature. The case is different when space is filled with things. This filling of space can be such that the eye does not become aware of it because light and darkness in their original form shine right through it. Then one speaks of transparent things. If light and darkness do not shine unweakened through a thing, then it is called turbid. A turbid filling of space offers the possibility of observing light and darkness, bright and dark in their mutual relationship. Something bright, seen through something turbid, appears yellow; something dark, seen through something turbid, appears blue. What is turbid is something material which has been brightened by light. Against a brighter livelier light located behind it, what is turbid is dark; against a darkness that shines through it, it acts like something bright. Therefore, when something turbid confronts the light or darkness, there really work into one another an existing brightness and an existing dark. [ 22 ] If the turbidity, through which the light is shining, gradually increases, then the yellow passes over into yellowish red and then into ruby red. If the turbidity, through which the dark is penetrating, lessens, then the blue goes over into indigo and finally into violet. Yellow and blue are basic colors. They arise through the working together of brightness or dark with turbidity. Both can take on a reddish tone, the former through an increasing of the turbidity, the latter by a lessening of it. Red, accordingly, is not a basic color. It appears as a color tone connected to yellow or blue. Yellow, with its reddish nuances which intensify as far as pure red, is close to the light; blue, with its shades, is related to the darkness. When blue and yellow mix, green arises; if blue which has been intensified to violet mixes with yellow which has been darkened into red, then the purple color arises. [ 23 ] Goethe pursues these basic phenomena within nature. The bright disk of the sun, seen through a haze of turbid vapors, appears yellow. Dark cosmic space, viewed through the vapors of the atmosphere which are illumined by the light of day, presents itself as the blue of the heavens. “In the same way the mountains also appear blue to us: for, through our viewing them at such a distance that we no longer see their local colors, and that light from their surfaces no longer works upon our eye, they act as a pure dark object which now appears blue through the vapors between them and us” (Para. 156 of the didactic part of the Color Theory). [ 24 ] Out of his absorption in the works of painters the need grew in Goethe to penetrate into the laws to which the phenomena of the sense of sight are subject. Every painting presented him with riddles. How does chiaroscuro relate to the colors? In what relationships do the individual colors stand to one another? Why does yellow give a happy mood, blue a serious one? Out of the Newtonian theory of color there was no way of gaining a viewpoint from which these mysteries could be revealed. This view traces all colors back to light, arranges them sequentially side by side, and says nothing about their relationships to the dark, and also nothing about their living connections to each other. From insights gained along his own path, Goethe was able to solve the riddles which art had posed him. Yellow must possess a happy, cheerful, mildly stimulating character, for it is the color closest to light. It arises through the slightest toning down of the light. Blue points to the dark which works in it. Therefore it gives a feeling of cold just as “it also reminds one of shadows.” Reddish yellow arises through the intensification of yellow toward the dark pole. Through this intensification its energy grows. The happy, cheerful feeling passes over into the blissful. As soon as the intensification goes still further, from reddish yellow into yellowish red, the happy, blissful feeling transforms itself into the impression of something forceful. Violet is blue which is striving toward the bright. Through this the restfulness and cold of blue become restlessness. In bluish red this restlessness experiences a further increase. Pure red stands in the middle between yellowish red and bluish red. The storminess of the yellow appears lessened, the languid restfulness of the blue enlivens itself. The red gives the impression of ideal contentment, of the equalizing of opposites. A feeling of contentment also arises through green, which is a mixture of yellow and blue. But because here the cheerfulness of the yellow is not intensified, and the restfulness of the blue is not disturbed by a reddish tone, the contentment will be a purer one than that which red brings forth. [ 25 ] When a color is brought to it, the eye right away asks for another one. When it looks at yellow, there arises in it the longing for violet; when it perceives blue, it then demands orange; when it sees red, it then desires green. It is comprehensible that the feeling of contentment arises when, beside a color which is presented to the eye, another one is placed for which, in accordance with its nature, it is striving. The law of color harmony results from the nature of the eye. Colors which the eye asks for side by side have a harmonious effect. If two colors appear side by side which do not ask for each other, then the eye is stimulated to react. The juxtaposition of yellow and purple has something one-sided, but happy and magnificent. The eye wants violet next to yellow in order to be able to live in accordance with its nature. If purple takes the place of violet then the object asserts its claims over against those of the eye. It does not accomodate itself to the demands of this organ. Juxtapositions of this kind serve to indicate what is significant about the things. They do not want unconditionally to satisfy but rather to characterize. Those colors lend themselves to such characteristic connections which do not stand in complete opposition to each other but which also do not go directly over into each other. Juxtapositions of this latter kind give something characterless to the things on which they occur. [ 26 ] The becoming and being of the phenomena of light and colors revealed itself to Goethe in nature. He also recognized it again in the creations of the painters in which it is raised to a higher level, is translated into the spiritual. Through his observations of the perceptions of sight Goethe gained a deep insight into the relationship of nature and an. He must have been thinking of this when, after the completion of the Color Theory, he wrote to Frau von Stein about these observations: “I do not regret having sacrificed so much time to them. Through them I have attained a culture which would have been difficult for me to acquire from any other side.” [ 27 ] The Goethean color theory differs from that of Newton and of those physicists who construct their views upon Newton's mental pictures, because Goethe takes his start from a world view different from that of these physicists. Someone who does not really see the connection described here between Goethe's general picture of nature and his theory of color cannot do anything other than believe that Goethe came to his views on color because he lacked a sense for the physicist's genuine methods of observation. Someone with insight into this connection will also see that within the Goethean world view no other theory of color is possible than his. He would not have been able to think differently about the nature of color phenomena than he did, even if all the discoveries made since his time had been spread out before him, and if he himself could have employed with exactness the modern experimental methods which have become so refined. Even if, after becoming aware of the discovery of the Frauenhofer lines, he cannot fully incorporate them into his view of nature, neither they nor any other discovery in the realm of optics contradict his conception. The point in all this is only to build up this Goethean conception in such a way that these phenomena fit themselves into this conception. Admittedly, someone who stands on the point of view of the Newtonian conception would not be able to picture to himself anything of Goethe's views on colors. But this does not stem from the fact that such a physicist knows of phenomena which contradict the Goethean conception but rather from the fact that he has accustomed himself to a view of nature which hinders him from knowing what the Goethean view of nature actually wants. |
| 6. Goethe's World View: Thoughts about the Developmental History of the Earth
Translated by William Lindemann Rudolf Steiner |
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| More and more the hope takes hold in him that he will succeed in spinning a thread which can guide him through the underground labyrinth and give him an overview in the confusion (letter to Frau von Stein on June 12, 1784). |
| Where the division into regular forms does not come to appearance, he assumes that it is present as idea in the masses. On a journey in the Harz Mountains which he undertakes in 1784, he asks Councillor Kraus, who is accompanying him, to execute pastel drawings in which the invisible, ideal is made clear by the visible and brought to view. |
| 6. Goethe's World View: Thoughts about the Developmental History of the Earth
Translated by William Lindemann Rudolf Steiner |
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[ 1 ] Through his involvement with the Ilmenau mine, Goethe was stimulated to study the realm of the minerals, rocks, and types of stone, as well as the superimposed strata of the earth's crust. In July 1776 he accompanies Duke Karl August to Ilmenau. They wanted to see whether the old mine could be started up again. Goethe also devoted further care to this matter. Through this there grew in him more and more the urge to know how nature goes about the formation of its great stone masses and mountains. He climbed high peaks and crept into the depths of the earth in order “to discover the most immediate traces of the great shaping hand.” On September 8, 1780 from Ilmenau he shared with Frau von Stein his joy at learning to know creative nature also from this side. “I am living now body and soul in stone and mountains, and am very happy about the broad perspectives that are opening up to me. These last two days have conquered a large area for me and can suggest a great deal. The world is taking on for me now a new and vast appearance.” More and more the hope takes hold in him that he will succeed in spinning a thread which can guide him through the underground labyrinth and give him an overview in the confusion (letter to Frau von Stein on June 12, 1784). Gradually he extends his observations over other regions of the earth's surface. On his journeys in the Harz Mountains he believes he recognizes how great inorganic masses take shape. He ascribes to them the tendency “to divide in manifold regular directions in such a way that parallelepipeds arise which in turn are inclined to split diagonally.” (See the essay, “The Shaping of Large Inorganic Masses.”) He thinks of stone masses as interpenetrated by an ideal latticework, and this in a six-sided way. Through this, cubic, parallelepipedic, rhombic, rhomboidal, pillar, and plate-shaped bodies are cut out of a basic mass. He pictures to himself within this basic mass forces at work which divide it in the way that the ideal lattice-work makes visible. As in organic nature, so Goethe also seeks in the stone realm for the idea at work in it. Here also he investigates with spiritual eyes. Where the division into regular forms does not come to appearance, he assumes that it is present as idea in the masses. On a journey in the Harz Mountains which he undertakes in 1784, he asks Councillor Kraus, who is accompanying him, to execute pastel drawings in which the invisible, ideal is made clear by the visible and brought to view. He believes that what is actually present can be truly portrayed by the painter only when he is attentive to the intentions of nature which often do not emerge clearly enough in the outer phenomenon. “... in the transition from the soft into the rigid state, a separation results, which either applies now to the whole, or which occurs in the most inward part of the masses” (Essay on “Formation of Mountains as a Whole and in its Parts”). In Goethe's view a sensible-supersensible archetypal picture is livingly present in organic forms; something ideal enters into the sense perception and permeates it. In the regular formation of inorganic masses there works something ideal which as such does not enter into the sense-perceptible form but which does nevertheless create a sense-perceptible form. The inorganic form is not sensible-supersensible in its manifestation but only sense-perceptible; but it must be considered to be an effect of a supersensible force. It is an intermediate thing between the inorganic process whose course is still governed by something ideal but which receives a finished form from this ideal, and the organic in which the ideal itself becomes sense-perceptible form. [ 2 ] Goethe thinks the formation of composite rocks to have been caused by the fact that the substances which were originally present in a mass only as idea are then actually separated out of each other. In a letter to Leonhard on November 25, 1807, he writes, “I gladly admit that I still often see simultaneous operations where other people see a successive operation; that, in many a rock which others consider to be a conglomerate, a rock brought together out of fragments and fused together, I believe I see something differentiated and separated out of a heterogenious mass and then held rigidly together by consolidation.” [ 3 ] Goethe did not reach the point of making these thoughts fruitful for a larger number of inorganic developments of form. It is in accordance with his way of thinking to explain even the ordering of geological strata by ideal formative principles which are inherent in substance by its very nature. He could not adhere to the then widespread geological views of Werner, because Werner did not know such formative principles but rather traced everything back to the purely mechanical action of water. Even more repugnant to him was the Volcanism which Hutton had presented and which Alexander von Humboldt, Leopold von Buch, and others defended, which explained the development of the various periods of the earth by mighty revolutions, brought about by material causes. This view lets great mountain systems shoot suddenly forth from the earth by volcanic forces. Such enormous tours de force seem to Goethe to contradict the being of nature. He saw no reason that the laws of earth development should suddenly change at certain times and, after long, ongoing, and gradual activity, should manifest at a certain point in time as “heaving and shoving, thrusting up and crushing, hurling and smashing.” Nature seemed to him to be consistent in all its parts, so that even a god could change nothing about its inborn laws. He considers its laws to be unchangeable. The forces at work today in the formation of the earth's surface must by their very being have worked in all ages. [ 4 ] From this viewpoint he also arrives at a view, in accordance with nature, as to how the blocks of stone which are to be found strewn about near the Lake of Geneva and which, to judge by their composition, were separated from far-away mountains, got there. He was confronted by the opinion that these rock masses were hurled there by the tumultuous eruption of mountains located far inland. Goethe sought forces which can be observed today and which are able to explain this phenomenon. He found such forces active in the formation of glaciers. He needed only to assume now that the glaciers which today still bring rock from mountains into the plains once had an immensely greater scope than at present. They then carried the rock masses much farther away from the mountains than they do in the present day. As the glaciers receded again, these rocks were left behind. Goethe thought that the granite boulders which lie about in the low plains of northern Germany must also have arrived at their present location in an analogous way. In order to be able to picture to oneself that the areas which are erratically strewn with boulders were once covered by glacial ice, one needs to assume an age of great cold. This assumption became the common property of science through Agassiz, who came to it independently and in 1837 presented it in the Swiss Society for Natural Scientific Research. In recent times this age of cold, which broke in upon the continents of the earth when a rich animal and plant life was already developed, has become the favorite study of eminent geologists. The details which Goethe brings forward about the phenomena of this “ice age” are unimportant in the face of observations made by later researchers. [ 5 ] Just as in his assumption of an age of great cold, Goethe is led by his general view of nature to a correct view about the nature of fossils. It is true that earlier thinkers had already recognized these entities as the remains of organisms from former ages. But this view was so long in becoming the generally dominant one that Voltaire could still consider fossilized mussels to be freaks of nature. After gaining some experience in this area Goethe soon recognized that the fossils, as remains of organisms, stand in a natural relationship to those earth strata in which they are found. That means that these organisms lived during those epochs of the earth in which the corresponding strata were formed. He expresses himself in this way about fossils in a letter to Merck on October 27, 1782: “All the remains of bones of which you speak and which are found everywhere in the upper level of the earth, stem, I am fully convinced, from the most recent epoch which, however, compared to our usual reckoning of time, is immensely old. In this epoch the sea had already receded; on the other hand rivers still flowed, of great breadth, yet relating to the level of the sea, not faster than now and perhaps not even as fast. At the same time, the sand, mixed with lime, settled into all the broad valleys which little by little, as the ocean sank, became free of water; and in the middle of them the rivers dug only shallow beds. At that time elephants and rhinoceroses were at home here upon the exposed mountains, and their remains could very easily be washed down by woodland streams into those great stream basins or ocean flats, where, more or less permeated with minerals, they were preserved and where we now dig them up by accident with the plow or in other ways. It is in this sense that I said earlier that one finds them in the upper level, in that, namely, which the old rivers washed together, as the main crust of the earth's surface was already fully formed. Now the time will soon rome when one will no longer just throw fossils all together but will classify them according to the world epochs.” [ 6 ] Goethe has repeatedly been called a precursor of the geology founded by Lyell. Geology also no longer assumes mighty revolutions or catastrophes in order to explain how one earth period arises out of another. It traces earlier changes of the earth's surface back to the same processes which are still at work now. But one should also be aware of the fact that modern geology brings forth only physical and chemical forces to explain earth formation. That Goethe, on the other hand, assumes formative forces which are at work within the masses and which represent a higher kind of formative principles than physics and chemistry know. |
| 6. Goethe's World View: Introduction
Translated by William Lindemann Rudolf Steiner |
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| [ 1 ] If one wants to understand Goethe's world view, one cannot content oneself with listening to what he himself says about it in individual statements. |
| It is not from the numerous statements in which he leans upon other ways of thinking in order to make himself understood, nor in which he makes use of formulations which one or another philosopher had used that these foundations can be known. |
| I believe that in a book of this kind one has no right to put forward one's own world view in terms of content, but rather that one has the duty to use what one's own world view gives one for understanding what is portrayed. I wanted, for example, to portray Goethe's relationship to the development of Western thought in the way that this relationship presents itself from the point of view of the Goethean world view. |
| 6. Goethe's World View: Introduction
Translated by William Lindemann Rudolf Steiner |
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[ 1 ] If one wants to understand Goethe's world view, one cannot content oneself with listening to what he himself says about it in individual statements. To express the core of his being in crystal-clear, sharply stamped sentences did not lie in his nature. Such sentences seemed to him rather to distort reality than to portray it rightly. He had a certain aversion to holding fast, in a transparent thought, what is alive, reality. His inner life, his relationship to the outer world, his observations about things and events were too rich, too filled with delicate components, with intimate elements, to be brought by him himself into simple formulas. He expresses himself when this or that experience moves him to do so. But he always says too much or too little. His lively involvement with everything that comes his way causes him often to use sharper expressions than his total nature demands. It misleads him just as often into expressing himself indistinctly where his nature could force him into a definite opinion. He is always uneasy when it is a matter of deciding between two views. He does not want to rob himself of an open mind by giving his thoughts an incisive direction. He reassures himself with the thought that “the human being is not born to solve the problems of the world but is, indeed, born to seek where the problem begins, and then to keep himself within the limits of what is comprehensible” A problem which the person believes he has solved takes away from him the possibility of seeing clearly a thousand things that fall into the domain of this problem. He is no longer attentive to them, because he believes himself to be enlightened about the region into which they fall. Goethe would rather have two opposing opinions about an issue than one definite one. For each thing seems to him to comprise an infinitude, which one must approach from different sides in order to perceive something of its entire fullness. “It is said that the truth lies midway between two opposing opinions. Not at all! It is the problem that lies between, the unseeable, the eternally active life, thought of as at rest.” Goethe wants to keep his thoughts alive so that he could transform them at any moment, if reality should induce him to do so. He does not want to be right; he wants always “to be going after what is right.” At two different points in time he expresses himself differently about the same thing. A rigid theory, which wants once and for all to bring to expression the lawfulness of a series of phenomena, is suspect to him, because such a theory takes away from our power of knowledge its unbiased relationship to a mobile reality. [ 2 ] If in spite of this one wants to have an overview of the unity of his perceptions, then one must listen less to his words and look more to the way he leads his life. One must be attentive to his relationship to things when he investigates their nature and in doing so add what he himself does not say. One must enter into the most inward part of his personality, which for the most part conceals itself behind what he expresses. What he says may often contradict itself; what he lives belongs always to one self-sustaining whole. He has also not sketched his world view in a unified system; he has lived his world view in a unified personality. When we look at his life, then all the contradictions in what he says resolve themselves. They are present in his thinking about the world only in the same sense as in the world itself. He has said this and that about nature. He has never set down his view of nature in a solidly built thought-structure. But when we look over his individual thoughts in this area they of themselves join together into a whole. One can make a mental picture for oneself of what thought-structure would have arisen if he had presented his views completely and in relationship to each other. I have set myself the task of portraying in this book how Goethe's personality must have been constituted in its inner-most being in order for him to be able to express thoughts about the phenomena of nature like the ones he set down in his natural scientific works. I know that, with respect to much of what I will say, Goethean statements can be brought which contradict it. My concern in this book, however, is not to give a history of the evolution of his sayings but rather to present the foundations of his personality which led him to his deep insights into the creating and working of nature. It is not from the numerous statements in which he leans upon other ways of thinking in order to make himself understood, nor in which he makes use of formulations which one or another philosopher had used that these foundations can be known. From what he said to Eckermann one could construct a Goethe for oneself who could never have written The Metamorphosis of the Plants. Goethe has addressed many a word to Zelter that could mislead someone to infer a scientific attitude which contradicts his great thoughts about how the animals are formed. I admit that in Goethe's personality forces were at work that I have not considered. But these forces recede before the actually determining ones which give his world view its stamp. To characterize these determining forces as sharply as I possibly can is the task I have set myself. In reading this book one must therefore heed the fact that I nowhere had any intention of allowing parts of any world view of my own to glimmer through my presentation of the Goethean way of picturing things. I believe that in a book of this kind one has no right to put forward one's own world view in terms of content, but rather that one has the duty to use what one's own world view gives one for understanding what is portrayed. I wanted, for example, to portray Goethe's relationship to the development of Western thought in the way that this relationship presents itself from the point of view of the Goethean world view. For the consideration of the world views of individual personalities, this way seems to me to be the only one which guarantees historical objectivity. Another way has to be entered upon only when such a world view is considered in relationship to other ones. |
| 6. Goethe's World View: Preface to the New Edition, 1918
Translated by William Lindemann Rudolf Steiner |
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| [ 1 ] In 1897 I undertook to describe in this book the Goethean world view; I wanted to draw together what the study of the Goethean spiritual life over the course of many years had given me. |
| Neither what I have been able to follow in the Goethe literature since its publication nor the findings presented by recent natural scientific research have changed the thought I expressed in the book. I believe I am not without understanding for the great advances of this research in the last twenty years. But I do not believe that it gives any reason to speak differently at present about Goethe's world view than I did in 1897. |
| 6. Goethe's World View: Preface to the New Edition, 1918
Translated by William Lindemann Rudolf Steiner |
|---|
[ 1 ] In 1897 I undertook to describe in this book the Goethean world view; I wanted to draw together what the study of the Goethean spiritual life over the course of many years had given me. The “Preface to the First Edition” gives a picture of what I felt my goal to be back then. Were I writing this preface today I would not write it any differently with respect to content but only with respect to style. But since I see no reason to change anything essential in the rest of the book, it would seem to me dishonest to take a different tone today in speaking about the feelings with which I sent the book into the world twenty years ago. Neither what I have been able to follow in the Goethe literature since its publication nor the findings presented by recent natural scientific research have changed the thought I expressed in the book. I believe I am not without understanding for the great advances of this research in the last twenty years. But I do not believe that it gives any reason to speak differently at present about Goethe's world view than I did in 1897. What I said about the relationship of the Goethean world view to the situation then with respect to the generally accepted ideas about nature also seems valid to me with respect to the natural science of our day. The stance of my book would not be any different had I written it today. Only some additions and expansions which seemed important to me in many places distinguish this new edition from the old one. [ 2 ] In the epilogue to this new edition I have expressed the fact that what I have published in the last sixteen years about spiritual science also cannot cause me to make any essential change in content. |
| 6. Goethe's World View: Preface to the First Edition
Translated by William Lindemann Rudolf Steiner |
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| And the more I developed my own world view, won for myself, the more I believed I understood Goethe. I tried to find a light that would even illuminate the places in Goethe's soul which remained dark to himself. |
| I believe that this objectivity can paint only dull and pallid pictures. A battle underlies every true presentation of another's world view, and someone who is fully conquered will not be the best portrayer. |
| Historical knowledge robs one of the energy and spring of one's own activity. Whoever wants to understand everything will not be much himself. What is fruitful is alone true, Goethe has said. Insofar as Goethe is fruitful for our time, one ought to live into his world of thoughts and feelings. |
| 6. Goethe's World View: Preface to the First Edition
Translated by William Lindemann Rudolf Steiner |
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[ 1 ] The thoughts which I express in this book are meant to contain the fundamental elements that I have observed in Goethe's world view. In the course of many years I have contemplated the picture of this world view again and again. There was a particular appeal for me in looking upon what nature had revealed of its being and laws to Goethe's refined organs of sense and spirit. I learned to understand why Goethe experienced these revelations as a good fortune and happiness so great that he sometimes valued them more highly than his poetic gift. I lived into the feelings which moved through Goethe's soul when he said that “nothing motivates us so much to think about ourselves as when, after a long interval, we finally see again objects of the highest significance, scenes of nature with particularly decisive characteristics, and compare the impression remaining from the past with the present effect. We will then notice by and large that the object emerges more and more, that, while we earlier experienced joy and suffering in our encounter with the objects and projected our happiness and perplexity onto them, we now, with egoism tamed, grant them their rightful due, which is that we recognize their particularities and learn to value their characteristics more highly by thus living into them. The artistic eye yields the first kind of contemplation; the second kind is suited to the researcher of nature; and I had to count myself, although at first not without pain, still in the end fortunate that, as the first kind of sense threatened to leave me by and by, the second kind developed all the more powerfully in eye and spirit.” One must be acquainted with the impressions which Goethe received from the phenomena of nature if one wants to understand the full content of his poetic works. The secrets which he gleaned from the being and becoming of the creation live in his artistic productions and are revealed only to someone who gives heed to the communications which the poet makes about nature. A person cannot dive down into the depths of Goethean art to whom Goethe's observations of nature are unknown. [ 2 ] Feelings such as these impelled me to occupy myself with Goethe's nature studies. They allowed first of all the ideas to ripen, which more than ten years ago I communicated in Kürschner's Deutscher Nationalliteratur. What I began back then in the first volume I have developed more fully in the three following volumes of the scientific writings of Goethe, of which the last one is appearing just at this time. The same feelings guided me as I undertook some years ago the wonderful task of being responsible for a part of the natural scientific writings of Goethe for the comprehensive Weimar edition of Goethe's works. What I brought to this work in the way of thoughts, and the thoughts that arose in me during it, form the content of the present book. I can characterize this content as experienced in the fullest sense of the word. I have sought to draw near to the ideas of Goethe from many starting points. I have called up all the opposition slumbering in me to Goethe's way of looking at things in order to safeguard my own individuality in the face of the power of this unique personality. And the more I developed my own world view, won for myself, the more I believed I understood Goethe. I tried to find a light that would even illuminate the places in Goethe's soul which remained dark to himself. Between the lines of his works I wanted to read what would make him entirely comprehensible to me. The powers of his spirit, which governed him but of which he did not himself become conscious, these I sought to discover. I wanted to see into the essential character traits of his soul. [ 3 ] When it is a matter of considering a personality psychologically, our age loves to leave its ideas in a kind of mystical semi-darkness. Clarity of thought in such things is held in contempt today as dry intellectual knowledge. It is believed that one can penetrate more deeply if one speaks about one-sidedly mystical abysses of soul life, about demonic powers within the personality. I must admit that this enthusiasm for a misguided mystical psychology appears to me as superficiality. It is present in people in whom the content of the world of ideas arouses no feelings. They cannot descend into the depths of this content; they do not feel the warmth which streams forth from it. Therefore they seek this warmth in unclarity. Whoever is capable of living into the bright spheres of the world of pure thoughts feels within him something that he cannot feel anywhere else. One can come to know personalities like that of Goethe only if one is able to take up into oneself, in all their light-filled clarity, the ideas by which such personalities are governed. A person who loves a false mysticism in psychology will perhaps find my way of looking at things cold. But is it my fault that I cannot regard what is dark and indefinite as one and the same with what is profound? I sought to present the ideas which held sway in Goethe as active powers just as purely and clearly as they appeared to me. Perhaps many will also find the lines I have drawn, the colors I have applied, too simple. I believe, however, that one best characterizes what is great if one tries to present it in all its monumental simplicity. The little adornments and appendages only confuse one's contemplation. It is not the incidental thoughts, to which this or that less significant experience moved Goethe, that are important to me about him but rather the basic direction of his spirit. Although this spirit does also take side paths here and there, one main tendency is always recognizable. And this is what I have sought to follow. If someone believes that the regions through which I have gone are ice-cold, I believe of him that he has left his heart at home. [ 4 ] If someone wants to reproach me by saying that I portray only those aspects of the Goethean world view to which my own thinking and feeling direct me, then I can only respond that I want to look upon another personality only in the way that he must appear to me according to my own being. I do not value very highly the objectivity of those portrayers who want to deny themselves when they present the ideas of others. I believe that this objectivity can paint only dull and pallid pictures. A battle underlies every true presentation of another's world view, and someone who is fully conquered will not be the best portrayer. The other's power must compel my respect, but my own weapons must perform their service. I have therefore stated without reserve that in my view the Goethean way of thinking has its limit, that there are regions of knowledge which remain closed to it. I have shown which direction the observation of world phenomena must take if it wants to penetrate into regions which Goethe did not enter upon, or in which, when he did go into them, he wandered about uncertainly. As interesting as it may be to follow a great spirit upon his path, I want to follow each one only as far as he benefits me myself. For it is not the contemplation, the knowledge, which is valuable, but rather the life, one's own activity. The pure historian is weak, is not a powerful man. Historical knowledge robs one of the energy and spring of one's own activity. Whoever wants to understand everything will not be much himself. What is fruitful is alone true, Goethe has said. Insofar as Goethe is fruitful for our time, one ought to live into his world of thoughts and feelings. And I believe that there will emerge from the following presentation the fact that innumerable treasures lie hidden within this world of thoughts and feelings that have not yet been raised. I have indicated the places where modern science has not kept up with Goethe. I have spoken of the poverty of our present-day world of ideas and contrasted to it the wealth and fullness of the Goethean one. In Goethe's thinking there are seeds which modern science should bring to fruition. This thinking could be an example for science. Science has more material from observations that Goethe had, but it has permeated this material only with a meager and insufficient content of ideas. I hope that there will emerge from my book how little the modern natural scientific way of thinking is in a position to criticize Goethe and how much it could learn from him |
| Mysticism at the Dawn of the Modern Age: About the Author, the People, and the Background of this Book
Paul Marshall Allen |
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| Though his genius for adapting learned, subtle arguments to simple, aphoristic form resulted in his being understood by the every-day mind, nevertheless this ultimately led to the condemnation of his teaching as heretical. |
| He centered his affection in an ideal which he personified under the name of the Eternal Wisdom. He relates how this figure appeared before him and said, “My son, give me your heart.” |
| Throughout the extensive writings of Paracelsus, repeated again and again in every one of the more than two hundred separate publications of his works which appeared between 1542 and 1845, a single theme is to be observed: The life of man cannot be separated from the life of the universe; therefore, to understand man, understand the universe; to understand the universe, understand man. Only upon such an understanding—universal in its scope—Paracelsus believed a medical art worthy of the name could be built. |
| Mysticism at the Dawn of the Modern Age: About the Author, the People, and the Background of this Book
Paul Marshall Allen |
|---|
Shortly before the beginning of the present century, Rudolf Steiner arrived in Berlin to assume the post of editor of the well-known Magazin für Litteratur which had been established by Joseph Lehmann in 1832, the year of Goethe's death. Steiner was well qualified for this position, having already edited and written commentary on the natural scientific writings of Goethe for the Kurschner and the Weimar Editions of Goethe's works, a task for which he had been originally recommended by the celebrated Goethe scholar, Karl Julius Schröer, under whom Steiner had studied at the University of Vienna. Steiner also had edited the works of Schopenhauer and Jean Paul Richter for the well-known Cotta Library of World Literature series. Steiner's work as a writer for various periodicals in Vienna, Weimar and Berlin included observations on current affairs, reviews of books and plays, and comment on scientific, social, and philosophical developments. As an author in his own right, Steiner had already produced his Grundlinien einer Erkenntnistheorie der Goetheschen Weltanschauung, Theory of Knowledge in Goethe's Conception of the World, in 1886 at the age of twenty-five. In this book he revealed his comprehensive grasp of the deeper implications of Goethe's way of thinking. During his Weimar residence while working at the Goethe-Schiller Archives as a free collaborator on the Weimar Edition of Goethe, Steiner developed lines of thought which he later expressed in his Goethes Weltanschauung, Goethe's Conception of the World, published in 1897. These two works, together with his introductions and commentary on Goethe's scientific writings, established Steiner as one of the outstanding exponents of Goethe's methodology. In 1891 Steiner received his Ph.D. at the University of Rostock. His thesis dealt with the scientific teaching of Fichte, and is evidence of Steiner's ability to evaluate the work of men whose influence has gone far to shape the thinking of the modern world. In somewhat enlarged form this thesis appeared under the title Wahrheit und Wissenschaft, Truth and Science, as the preface to Steiner's chief philosophical work, Philosophy of Spiritual Activity as the title of the English translation of this book. Steiner's contact with the circle of Friedrich Nietzsche led to his work in the Nietzsche Archives and Library. Out of the profound impression the ideas of Nietzsche made upon him, he wrote his Friedrich Nietzsche, Ein Kämpfer gegen seine Zeit, now published for the first time in English translation as Friedrich Nietzsche, Fighter for Freedom, as a part of the Centennial Edition of the Major Writings of Rudolf Steiner, 1861–1961. With Steiner's arrival in Berlin, his lecturing activity which had begun years before in Vienna, and had been continued in Weimar, was extended and increased. Eventually this work was to occupy the major portion of his time, and was to take him on repeated lecture tours throughout Western Europe. These journeys extended from Norway, Sweden, and Finland in the north to Italy and Sicily in the south, and included several visits to the British Isles. From about the turn of the century until his death in 1925, Steiner gave well over 6,000 lectures before audiences of most diverse backgrounds and from every walk of life. Steiner's written works, which eventually included over fifty titles, together with his extensive lecturing activity, brought him into contact with increasing numbers of people in many countries. The sheer physical and mental vigor required to carry on a life of such broad, constant activity is sufficient to mark him as one of the most creatively productive men of our time. The present book, Mysticism at the Dawn of the Modern Age, is a fruit of Steiner's lecturing activity. The substance of it was contained in a series of lectures he gave in Berlin beginning just after Michaelmas in 1900, when he was thirty-nine. Steiner wrote later, “By means of the ideas of the mystics from Meister Eckhart to Jacob Boehme, I found expression for the spiritual perceptions which, in reality, I decided to set forth. I then summarized the series of lectures in the book, Mysticism at the Dawn of the Modern Age.” The term mysticism, as Steiner uses it in this book, is a further development of what Goethe indicated in his aphoristic description of mysticism in relation to poetry and philosophy. “Poetry,” said Goethe, “points to the riddles of nature, and tries to solve them by means of the image. Philosophy directs itself to the riddles of reason, and attempts to solve them by means of the word. Mysticism considers the riddles of both nature and reason, and seeks to solve them through both word and image.” This book is significant in the life-work of Rudolf Steiner because it is a first result of his decision to speak out in a direction not immediately apparent in his earlier, more philosophical writings, mentioned above. Here—particularly in Steiner's Introduction—is to be found a vitally fundamental exposition of the science of the spirit, embracing the path of spiritual knowledge suited to the needs and capacities of modern men and women. This subject occupied Steiner increasingly during the whole of the first quarter of this present century, and to it he devoted his entire talents as lecturer and writer. Rudolf Steiner indicated that the present book is not intended to be a history of mysticism. It deals with a problem that had occupied him for decades, and which today has become a cardinal concern of all mankind: the impact of modern scientific thinking upon the experiences of man's inner, spiritual life. In the conflict between reason and revelation which reached its climax in the nineteenth century, but which had its origins in much earlier times, Steiner saw the seed of a still greater conflict to come, a conflict which involves humanity's struggle against the sub-human in modern technical developments. It is now generally realized that the impact of the atomic age challenges man's inner convictions, his spiritual striving, and ultimately his ability to live a truly satisfying life. In this book Steiner tells how eleven men whose lives bridge the four centuries from the Gothic time to the mid-seventeenth century, solved the conflict between their inner spiritual perceptions and the world of individual freedom, invention, and discovery then coming to birth. He explains the positive contribution of their ideas to an understanding and preservation of the humanity of modern men and women in face of contemporary events. In order that the reader may better appreciate Steiner's presentation of the leading thoughts of these men, a brief sketch of their times and their life stories is given in the following pages. The period covered by the lives of the men whose ideas are discussed in this book links such diverse personalities as Dante Alighieri, who expressed the strivings of the Age of Faith in his Divina Commedia, and George Fox, whose experience of the inner light established the spiritual path of the Society of Friends in a century of skepticism and growing materialism. Great changes in human thinking took place in these four hundred years. The world of chivalry and knighthood, of pious hermit and wandering minstrel, of religious pilgrimage and miracle play, so characteristic of the medieval time, gave way to the new learning, the humanism, the centralized governments, the scientific investigation, the expanding horizons, both physical and mental, of the Renaissance. And no single part of human life was untouched by the change. In the political, religious, social, intellectual spheres the Renaissance worked its wonders, and the dream of the Middle Ages awakened to the glorious colors of the dawn of a new world. The transformation in men's minds included a break with their former way of looking at the earth beneath their feet, at their fellow-men, and at the blue vault arching over their heads. From a conception of nature that saw the animate in everything—even in stones—new systems of classification, ways of analysis, of explanation, based more and more upon the evidence of the physical senses, and less and less upon folk-lore and tradition, came into being. The new cosmopolitanism, the recovery of the art and philosophy of ancient Greece, the breaking up of old parties and practices in the social and political life led ultimately to man's growing consciousness of himself, and of his intrinsic worth as a being among other beings. The discovery of the shape of the earth, the rebirth of geographic learning lost in the dimness of forgotten ages, finally brought men to think of the possibility of worlds beyond this world, of whole solar systems beyond ours, and the word infinite began to assume a new importance. In the genius of language is revealed the momentous change that took place in these centuries. One need only recall that to the medieval mind the word reality referred exclusively to spiritual, heavenly things, to see how far-reaching was the change that occurred at the dawn of the modern world. Today, when modern technical developments have extended their sphere of activity to include interstellar space, and space travel is regarded as a rapidly approaching accomplishment, one can recall that to men of the Middle Ages even the high places of the earth itself were regarded with reverence as dwelling-places of Divinity. Medieval man disliked even to approach high mountains, and to climb them would have required a daring inconceivable to him. As Ruskin said, “Men of the Middle Ages believed that mountains were agreeable things enough, so long as they were far away.” With the rise of the new thinking of the Renaissance, however, men began to lose their awe of high mountains, and one of the pioneer mountain climbers was Petrarch, the Italian poet. With his brother Gherado, Petrarch climbed Mount Ventoux, a six thousand foot peak near Avignon, on April 26, 1336. All seems to have gone well until at the summit Petrarch discovered that the very clouds of heaven were beneath his feet. Overcome with excitement not unmixed with concern, he took out of his pocket a copy of Augustine's writings he always carried with him. Opening the book at random his eye fell upon a sentence which struck through him like lightning, for it sternly warned man never to lift his head out of the dust of earth, but always to remember his entire subservience to his Maker. Deeply moved, Petrarch descended the mountain filled with secret shame that he had had the temerity to trespass upon a place denied man by the teaching of the Church Fathers. As men of the Middle Ages believed the mountains to be sacred, so they also regarded the human body as something set apart as the dwelling-place of man's immortal soul. Therefore to them the anatomical studies practiced by Renaissance investigators like Leonardo da Vinci would have seemed blasphemous in the highest degree. As Renaissance man learned to take possession of the earth with his thinking, he reached out to embrace its far places physically as well. The age of discovery and exploration was followed by a period of conquest and colonization. Parallel with the humanistic impulses of the Renaissance ran the current of the Reformation, with the accompanying strife and violence of the Counter-Reformation. Finally, as the four centuries covered by the lives of the men considered in this book drew to a close, strong national states emerged, with cultural, political, and social activities closely interrelated. The year Meister Eckhart was born, Louis IX, known to posterity as Saint Louis of France, leader of the last Crusade, died. When Angelus Silesius died, the Grand Monarque, Louis XIV, destined to rule France for seventy-two years, was thirty-nine years of age, in the full strength of his manhood. From the foregoing can be seen that the period covered by the lives of these men is the time when humanity, particularly in the Western world, evolved into a condition of consciousness in which the things of the sense world dominate all other considerations, in contrast to the preceding age, when the things of the spirit prevailed to such an extent that no sacrifice of earthly things was considered too great if, for example, it would enhance the miraculous, heaven-aspiring glory of a rising Gothic cathedral. 1.In year 1260 while Marco Polo was on his way to China thus giving birth to new East–West relationships, and Niccolo Pisano was calling deathless beauty to life in his sculpture in Pisa, Johannes Eckhart was born in the little Thuringian village of Hochheim near Gotha, in Germany. His father was a steward in a knight's castle, hence Johannes' boyhood was passed in the midst of the then fading pageantry of medieval life. Eckhart was born in the time of transition between the end of the Hohenstaufen rule and the beginning of the reign of the Austrian Hapsburgs in Germany. The one hundred and sixteen years of Hohenstaufen rule (1138–1254) was probably the most interesting period in medieval Germany, and its influence was still active during Eckhart's boyhood, though the last Hohenstaufen had died six years before Eckhart's birth. This was an age of great contrasts. On the one hand were men of strong, vigorous mind, filled with love for all that the world contained of beauty and adventure. On the other were men whose character was equally strong, but whose lives were spent in a continual struggle of rejection of the world and all its gifts. These were the years when these two opposed attitudes toward the world began a conflict which was to lead to the Renaissance in Germany, and at last to the Reformation. Typical of the Hohenstaufen rulers was Frederick II, considered the most brilliant of all German kings. He was a lover of poetry, art, literature, and was a most capable ruler as well. Crowned at Aix-la-Chapelle in July, 1215, Frederick combined the traditional knightly ideals with worldly activity. The rule of the Hohenstaufens corresponded with the golden age of the German Minnesinger, and was a time of architectural development, which included many beautiful churches as well as the famous castle of the Wartburg. At about the age of fifteen, around the year 1275, Eckhart entered the Dominican monastery at Erfurt, where he remained for nine years in preparation for the priesthood. He completed his studies in the year that Philip IV, known as “the Fair” began his fateful reign in France. From Erfurt, Eckhart went to Cologne to take the studium generale at the Dominican institution where the eminent scholastic, Albertus Magnus was a leading teacher until his death in 1280. Through his instructors at Cologne, Eckhart came under the influence of Albertus Magnus' ideas, as well as those of Thomas Aquinas, whose work had advanced Scholasticism to a place of first importance within the Dominican Order. The year 1300 was famous as the Year of Jubilee proclaimed by Boniface VIII, whom Dante criticized by placing him in the Inferno during the Pope's lifetime. In this same year Eckhart is mentioned as “Brother Eckhart, Prior of Erfurt, Vicar of Thuringia” in Dominican records. He was now in his fortieth year, and about this time he produced a little book which bears the charming title, Daz sint die rede der unterscheidunge, die der Vicarius von Düringen, der prior von Erfort, bruoder Eckehart predier ordens mit solichen kinden hete, diu in dirre rede frâgten vil dinges, dô sie sâzen in collationibus mit einander, These are the Instructions which the Vicar of Thuringia, Prior of Erfurt, Brother Eckhart of the Preaching Order, gave for those of his flock who asked him about many things as they sat together at the evening meal. At this time Eckhart was sent to one of the colleges in Paris, where he frequently entered into disputation with Franciscans in defense of Dominican points of view in theology. In his disputations he had to defend the writings of Thomas Aquinas and Albertus Magnus against any charges of heresy which the Franciscans chose to bring forward against them. Thirteenth century Paris was a place of great attraction for scholars, and was the center of European cultural life. Over one hundred fifty years before, Pierre Abèlard had written of his intense desire to visit Paris, the city where logical argumentation, beloved by the medieval scholarly mind, had been raised to the level of a fine art. John of Salisbury, Bishop of Chartres, eminent as a humanist long before the Renaissance, the secretary and counsellor of Thomas Becket of Canterbury, whose assassination he witnessed and whose life he recorded, loved Paris for its generous supply of food, the gaiety of its inhabitants, their appreciation of culture and religion, and the atmosphere of scholarship he found there. He summed up his feelings about Paris in the exclamation, “Indeed the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it!” Years later Eckhart described his Paris activities in terms which perhaps explain why the Franciscans cherished no particular liking for him. With regard to his disputations with the Franciscans, Eckhart said, “When I preached at Paris, I said, and I dare repeat it now, that with all their learning the men of Paris are not able to conceive that God is in the very least of creatures, even in a fly!” Words like these help one to understand Eckhart's popularity with the public of his time. For above all, Eckhart wished to reach the man in the street, the humble peasant, the shepherd from the mountains, the charcoal burner from the forest, the simplest of the simple, rather than the scholar in the cloister. Therefore he used colloquial German in all his writings and discourses rather than the usual theological Latin. Thus the German language was enhanced by the writings of this Dominican, just as the Italian language was enriched by his contemporary, Dante Alighieri. Eckhart was always conscious of his indebtedness to the other great Dominicans who had preceded him, and although he did not follow their learned forms in his sermons and books, he never failed to recognize their superiority in learning. For example, his frequent quotations in his oral and written discourse were invariably introduced by the words, “A Master says,” and the “Master” almost always meant Thomas Aquinas, whom he looked upon as a spiritual father. Though his genius for adapting learned, subtle arguments to simple, aphoristic form resulted in his being understood by the every-day mind, nevertheless this ultimately led to the condemnation of his teaching as heretical. In 1302, the year after the famous Duns Scotus became professor of theology at Oxford, Eckhart received the Licentiate and Master's degree from the University of Paris. Ever since then he has been known as Meister Eckhart. At this time Boniface VIII, who had been informed of the brilliant preaching of this Thuringian Dominican, invited Eckhart to Rome to defend the cause of the papacy against the attacks of the French king, Philip the Fair, which were soon to result in the “Babylonian Captivity” of the Popes at Avignon. In 1304, the year of the birth of Petrarch, Eckhart was appointed provincial of the Dominicans for Saxony. Three years later he was appointed vicar-general for Bohemia, at the moment the arrest and terrible persecution of the Order of the Knights Templar began in France under the direction of Philip the Fair, and with the passive agreement of the French-born Pope, Clement V, who in the meanwhile had succeeded Boniface VIII in the papacy. This was a busy period in the life of Meister Eckhart. His burden of administrative work in the service of the Church and of his Order was increased by his activity as a writer. At this time he composed one of his best-known works, Das Buch der Göttlichen Tröstung, The Book of Divine Comfort, supposedly written to bring consolation to Agnes, daughter of the King of Hungary, whose mother and sister-in-law died and whose father was murdered—all within the space of a few years. The Book of Divine Comfort opens with an enumeration of the three kinds of tribulation Eckhart conceives may happen to one: damage to external goods, to friends near one, to oneself, bringing “disgrace, privation, physical suffering, and mental anguish” in their train. As “comfort” in the midst of such tribulation, Eckhart sets forth “certain doctrines” from which he derives “thirty teachings, any one of which should be enough to comfort.” Whether the suffering of the Queen of Hungary was assuaged by Eckhart's effort in her behalf is not known, but the book brought Eckhart himself considerable tribulation, for it is his one work most strenuously attacked by the Inquisition. This book is evidence of Eckhart's careful study of the famous classic born in the twilight of the ancient Roman world, De Consolatione Philosophiae, The Consolations of Philosophy, by Boethius, loved by Alfred the Great, who translated it into Anglo-Saxon; by Chaucer, who was to translate it into English before 1382; by Queen Elizabeth, who rendered it in the English of her time, and by many others. Aside from its theological teachings, his Book of Divine Comfort shows Eckhart's appreciation of Boethius and other classical writers. The constant travel necessitated by his administrative work brought Eckhart into contact with people and events in central, southern and western Germany, in France, and in Italy. As a result, it is natural that the heads of the Order felt that Meister Eckhart was the ideal man to assume the post of Superior of the entire Dominican Province in Germany. However, a certain conservatism within the Order itself, apparently based on fear of Eckhart's skill as an orator and disputant, his broad knowledge of places, and familiarity with the ways of men in all walks of life prevailed, and his nomination was never finalized. In 1318, the year that Dante completed his Divina Commedia, Eckhart seems to have reached the summit of his development as a preacher. He was in Strassburg at this time, where he served as a preacher and prior. Two years later, in 1320, at the age of sixty, Eckhart received a most important honor: he was called by the Franciscan, Heinrich von Virneberg, Archbishop of Cologne, to assume a professorship in the college there. However, the brightness of this distinction was not long to remain undimmed. Already in the shadows the agents of the Inquisition waited, listening, watching, preparing for the day when this eloquent preacher of the Gospel, this scholar and author, so beloved by the common people who flocked to his sermons, would overstep the limits of prescribed dogma. And it was not long before they believed that they had evidence sufficient to convict him of heresy. By 1325 several charges had been brought against Meister Eckhart in letters addressed to the Superiors of the Dominican Order at its headquarters in Venice. A few months later, the Archbishop of Cologne who already had had sufficient trouble with so-called “mystical societies” which had sprung up along the Rhine in areas under his jurisdiction, decided that heresy certainly could not be allowed to set foot within the precincts of the college itself. Therefore he agreed that the moment had arrived when charges against this too-popular preacher should be laid before the Inquisition. However, a Dominican managed to obtain the task of investigating Meister Eckhart, and naturally it did not take long for the former to report that he found his fellow-Dominican entirely without guilt or taint of heresy. But the matter did not stop there. Perhaps sensing that if Franciscans had undertaken the examination things might have turned out differently, the Archbishop called in two experts in heresy, the Franciscans Benherus Friso and Peter de Estate. They were given the task to thoroughly examine Eckhart's writings and the reports of his sermons. It was not long before an extensive list of “errors” in doctrine had been assembled, and Eckhart in turn replied by means of his famous Rechtferigungsschrift, Defense. On January 24, 1327 Eckhart was required to answer the charges brought against him before the court of the Archbishop of Cologne. About three weeks later he preached in a Cologne church in defense of his ideas, and said that if there were any errors of faith in his writings or sermons, he would retract them gladly, for he certainly considered himself no heretic, and he appealed to Rome, as he was entitled to do under the rights of his Order. However, on February 22, Eckhart was informed that his application to Rome had been refused. On March 27, 1329 Pope John XXII issued a bull describing certain of Meister Eckhart's teachings as contrary to church dogma. But Eckhart was no longer alive to know of his condemnation as one who had been led astray “by the father of lies, who often appears as an angel of light.” This official fiat would doubtless have seriously shaken the soul of one whose life had been devoted to a defense and practise of the tenets from which that organized power had drawn its life-breath. 2.When Meister Eckhart was forty years of age, Johannes Tauler was born in the city of Strassburg in the Papal Jubilee year of 1300, two years before the death of the painter, Cimabue. At the age of fifteen he entered the Dominican monastery where Eckhart was professor of theology. One can imagine the effect of the older Dominican teacher upon the impressionable mind of the young student, who well may have listened to those evening mealtime conversations Eckhart brought together in the little book mentioned above. Eventually Tauler entered the Dominican college in Cologne not long before Eckhart was named professor in that institution. The year 1324 saw the climax of a struggle between Louis IV, king of Germany, and Pope John XXII, which had been increasing steadily for nearly a decade. Fearing that the German king's policy of personal ambition would lead to a weakening of the papal position in France as well as Germany, the Pope called upon the German ruler to abdicate, saying that no one could rightfully wear the German crown who did not have the Pope's express approval to do so. Louis angrily refused, with the result that the Pope declared him deposed and excommunicate. Therefore, in this year 1324, Strassburg, along with other cities and towns of Germany, was placed under a papal interdict. But the times were against the Pope and his French ally, Charles IV, whom he hoped to see on the German throne. The German princes condemned in no uncertain terms the papal interference in German affairs, and the Electors sided with the princes. This attitude was also shared by many of the clergy in Germany, for despite the papal ban, church services continued in some places, and the sacraments were administered to the people. Johannes Tauler was among those in Strassburg who refused to discontinue their priestly functions of celebrating the Mass and preaching to their congregations. With great courage, in defiance of both papal ban and agents of the Inquisition, he said, “While the Church can refuse us the sacrament externally, nobody can take away the spiritual joy of our oneness with God, and nobody can rob us of the privilege of taking the sacrament spiritually.” In 1339, the year before the birth of Geoffrey Chaucer in London, Tauler left Strassburg for a journey which was to have important results for his life work. On his travels he came into contact—particularly in Basel—with Swiss and German members of the famous group of mystics called the Gottesfreunde, The Friends of God. The struggle for power between rival rulers in Germany, together with the interdict of the Pope, brought great hardship to the people. Some areas of the country were not freed from the papal ban for as much as twenty-six years, and the people were in great distress for lack of spiritual help and consolation. Abnormal natural phenomena also began to appear, as though the forces of Nature had joined with spiritual and temporal rulers to make the lot of men as hard as possible. Torrential rains repeatedly destroyed the crops, just before harvest time. The rivers rose in devastating floods several years in succession, making spring planting difficult if not impossible. The winters were severely cold, so that men and animals suffered exceedingly. As a consequence, a series of famines swept the countryside, taking, dreadful toll of human life. Convinced that they were living in the “last days” of the earth, men saw in all the events around them the fulfillment of prophecies of the Apocalypse of John. During these years southern Germany and Switzerland were visited by repeated earthquakes, one of which shook Basel with such force that the city was reduced to a heap of ruins. In the heavens appeared “signs and wonders” prophesied by the Scriptures: mysterious lights flashed upon the skies, men reported strange conditions of cloud and mist, and the stars seemed about to cast themselves upon the earth. Visited by these dire external events, harassed by doubt and insecurity on every side, men withdrew more and more into themselves, seeking the sources of piety and devotion in their hearts. Lacking spiritual consolation from the church, suffering the desolation wrought by food and famine, sword and fire, the people sought the essential truths of life in their personal experience. And in their search for the verities of existence, men reached out to one another in fraternal love and a spirit of true humanity. Thus the Friends of God came into being. It was a free association of human beings in the sense that it was not a sect, had no dogma, no common form of religious devotion or practice, no common political outlook. The only desire the Friends of God shared in common was to strengthen one another in their living relationship with God and the spiritual world. They established “brotherhood houses” as retreat centers in certain areas where a number of the Friends of God were living. One of the outstanding figures among the Friends of God was the wealthy banker of Strassburg, Rulman Merswin. His story is somewhat typical of that of many another layman who found himself drawn to the Friends of God. Born of a good family of Strassburg in 1307, Rulman Merswin was a man of business and high moral and ethical principles. By the time he was forty, due to his business acumen he had amassed a considerable fortune, and had married the daughter of one of the leading families of Strassburg. But although he had everything to give him pleasure, he was far from happy, and just after his fortieth birthday he decided that the time had come for him to take leave of the world, to devote himself and his wealth to the service of God, and to live as a celebate. His wife joined him on his mystical path. A few months later, on the day of Saint Martin, November 1l, 1347, Merswin was walking in his garden in the evening, meditating on the way he and his wife had chosen, when suddenly he experienced a tremendous feeling of exaltation so that, as he later described it, it was as though he was whirled round and round his garden for sheer joy. But as quickly as the mood of exaltation came upon him, it left, and he slipped into a condition of despondency bordering upon despair. He began severe ascetic disciplines with the thought that these might relieve his inner struggle, but no light came. At this time Johannes Tauler became his confessor, and Merswin told him of his suffering and his ascetic practices. Tauler at once forbade him to continue his self-imposed tortures, saying, “We are told to kill our passions, not our flesh and blood.” Merswin obeyed, and only a short while later a Friend of God came to him and led him forward on the road to the spirit. He learned to depend quietly upon the guidance of the spirit alone, to subject himself to no code or rule of conduct, but to cultivate true humility, to seek anonymity, to cease self-assertion, to regard himself as a “captive of the Lord,” to preserve the calmness of his soul like a stainless mirror, to attach less and less importance to himself in a worldly sense, and to think of himself only as “a hidden child of God.” On October 9, 1364 Rulman Merswin had a dream in which he was told that a most important man would shortly visit him, and that in three years he would purchase land which would make a home of peace and rest for the Friends of God in Strassburg. Not long after this, Merswin was visited by a mysterious man whose name is most intimately connected with the whole story of the Friends of God. Called simply, “The Friend of God from the Oberland,” he was long identified with the famous Nicholas of Basel, a noted Friend of God, who suffered martyrdom at the stake in Vienna for his convictions. Others have identified him with Rulman Merswin himself, as a sort of “double,” while others believe that he never lived at all, but was a kind of ideal portrait of what the true Friend of God should be. In any case, The Friend of God from the Oberland visited Merswin and told him that he had had a dream that Merswin would establish a retreat for the Friends of God at Strassburg. Merswin told him that he himself had had the same dream, and the Friend of God from the Oberland told him to wait quietly, to listen for the guidance of the Holy Spirit, and that at the end of three years he would know what was to be done. In the Ill River near Strassburg was a little island called daz Grüne Woerth, The Green Island. In the twelfth century a convent had been established there, but had long since been deserted and had fallen into ruins. Early in October, 1367, just three years after his dream and his talk with the Friend of God from the Oberland, Merswin was walking by the river and saw the little island. Suddenly the realization flashed through him that this was the place he was to buy, that here he was to establish a house for the Friends of God. He promptly sought out the owner, paid him five hundred ten silver marks as the purchase price, and soon the convent building was repaired and a little chapel was constructed. Finally, on November 25, 1367 Merswin opened the house of the Friends of God on the Green Island, which became the center of a group of laymen who wished to live a purely mystical, religious life but without subjecting themselves to any external rule or official religious Order. Five years later Merswin completed arrangements whereby the group was acknowledged as a branch of the Knights of Saint John of Jerusalem, and the place became known as “The House of Saint John of the Green Island.” Not long after this Merswin's wife died, and he spent his remaining years on the Green Island, devoting himself to the Friends of God who came there from far and near. Rulman Merswin died in the House of St. John of the Green Island on July 18, 1382. Four days after his death a sealed chest was opened which had been discovered in his room. Inside was a collection of manuscripts and letters, many of them in an unknown handwriting, giving details of instructions and advice by the Friend of God from the Oberland. One of these manuscripts contained The Story of the Master of Holy Scripture, later included in a collection titled, The Great Memorial. According to the Story of the Master of Holy Scripture, the Friend of God from the Oberland one day arrived at a great city where a famous preacher was expounding the Bible to crowded and enthusiastic congregations. The Friend of God attended the sermons each day for five days. At the conclusion of the fifth day, he sought out the preacher and asked, “Reverend Sir, will you preach tomorrow on a theme I would suggest to you?” The clergyman agreed, and asked what the subject should be. The Friend of God from the Oberland replied, “How to attain the highest degree of spiritual life.” The preacher delivered a brilliant exposition the next morning. Starting from the Gospels he branched out into the Church Fathers, dipped deep into Dionysius, and concluded with a tremendous display of erudition. The congregation was enthralled by his words, but at the end of the service the theologian saw the Friend of God walk away silently and alone, with head bowed as though in deep thought. The next day the Friend of God went to the clergyman and gave him a scathing criticism of the sermon, even saying that if that was the best he could do, then he was not capable of teaching about the spiritual life at all. The preacher's anger knew no bounds, but suddenly an inner voice told him to calm himself and to listen to the stranger's words. Having regained possession of himself once more, he quietly asked the Friend of God what help he could give him. Then the layman gave the Master of the Holy Scriptures twenty-three sentences, saying, “These are the ABC of religion; master these, and events will show their worth.” The theologian withdrew from active service and spent a long time in meditation and prayer. His power of preaching left him, so that he could hardly speak an intelligible sentence, let alone deliver a whole sermon. His congregations deserted him; everywhere he was scorned and ridiculed. After two years he was led by an inner voice which told him to enter the pulpit to preach during the service. Quietly he did so, noting the scorn and derision on the faces of the people as he faced them. For a long moment there was silence, then suddenly without any premeditation at all he gave out as his text, “Behold the Bridegroom cometh; go ye out to meet him!” And the spiritual power which flowed with his words was so great that it is said that forty persons fainted from sheer excitement and joy. Tradition has long connected the “Master of Holy Scripture” with Johannes Tauler, and indicates that this is the account of his meeting with the Friend of God from the Oberland. Tauler became intimately acquainted with leading Friends of God in many places on his travels, and was deeply impressed with their way of life. As he said in a sermon at about this time, “The theologians of Paris study great tomes and turn over many pages, but the Friends of God read the living Book where everything is life.” Among the Friends of God whom Tauler met were Henry of Nordlingen, one of the outstanding representatives of the mysticism of the time, Hermann of Fritzlar, and two pious nuns, Christina Ebner, prioress of the Engelthal Convent near Nuremberg, and Margaretha Ebner, of the Convent of Maria Medingen in Swabia. One of the letters from the famous correspondence between Henry of Nordlingen and Margaretha Ebner is dated 1348, and asks that she “Pray for Tauler, who lives as a matter of course in the midst of great trial and testing because he teaches the truth and lives in conformity with it as perfectly as a preacher can.” Having visited Friends of God in many places during his seven years' absence from Strassburg, Tauler was convinced that a layman has tasks to perform which basically are as spiritually important as those of the clergy. In one of his sermons Tauler reflects the religious-social spirit he had found in the way of life of the Friends of God: “One can spin, another can make shoes, and all these are gifts of the Holy Ghost. I tell you, if I were not a priest, I would esteem it a great gift that I was able to make shoes, and I would try to make them so well that they would be a model to all.” One of the documents which has come down to us from the Friends of God is a public announcement which probably originated in Strassburg, and may have been written by Rulman Merswin himself. It was copied and recopied, and was circulated very widely in southern and western Germany during Tauler's lifetime. It is of interest because it gives a picture of the kind of appeal which was made to the public by the Friends of God in the latters' search for others who might be minded to join them:
In 1348 Strassburg was visited by the Black Death. All who could leave the city fled before the dread disease, and soon few except the sick were left behind. Even relatives, nurses and physicians left for fear of the pestilence. But among those who stayed in the city to care for the sick, to comfort the dying, and to bury the dead, was Johannes Tauler. Week after week, month after month, this fearless Dominican stood in his pulpit in defiance of papal ban and the Black Death and bore witness to the truth that was in him. In one of his sermons He pointed out that “In all the world God desires and requires but one thing: that He find the noble ground he has laid in the noble soul of man bare and ready, so that He may do His noble divine work therein.” Hence it is necessary that men “let God prepare their ground, and give themselves wholly to God and put away the self in all things.” But Tauler had no illusions about the trials that await man on his path of purification, on his way to the spirit: “When our heavenly Father determines to grace a particular soul with spiritual gifts, and to transform it in a special way, He does not purge it gently. Instead, He plunges it into a sea of bitterness, and deals with it as He did with the prophet Jonah.” He knew that “No teacher can teach what he has not lived through himself,” and he continued his work at Strassburg against all odds, encouraging others by his Christianity in action. He had said, “Never trust a virtue which has not been put into practice.” Now he was practicing the virtue of a Friend of God, the virtue of devotion to his fellow-men. It is no wonder that Luther was to write of him, “Never in either the Latin or German language have I found more wholesome, purer teaching, nor any that more fully agrees with the Gospel.” Tauler's words were tried and purified in the fire of personal experience. It is related that the Friend of God from the Oberland gave Tauler two prayers which he was to use every morning and evening. They are significant examples of the spirit which animated the mystical striving of the Friends of God. “In the morning you are to say, ‘O Lord, I wish to keep from all sin today. Help me to do everything I do today according to Thy divine will and to Thy glory, whether my nature likes it or not.’ In similar fashion every evening you are to say, ‘O Lord, I am a poor, unworthy creature. Be merciful to me, forgive my sins, for I repent of them and sincerely desire Thy help that I may commit no more.’” Tauler's writings have great appeal even today because of their freshness, their closeness to everyday life, their common sense. They are not primarily Scholastic speculations like much of Eckhart's writing, but are nearer to the vigorous directness of the Reformers. Although Tauler loved, as he described it, “to put out into the deep and let down the nets” into the world of study and meditation, at the same time he cautioned that such “spiritual enjoyments are food of the soul, and are only to be taken for nourishment and support to help us in our active work.” This thought was echoed in the spirit of the Reformation. In the years following the Black Death and the papal ban, Tauler continued to make Strassburg the center of his work. He kept up his correspondence with many of the Friends of God, especially with Margaretha Ebner. His services were crowded, and his sermons were held in the highest regard by his congregations. On the fifteenth of June, 1361 in the Convent of Saint Nikolaus in Strassburg, Johannes Tauler died at the age of sixty-one. Tradition relates that for him the moment of death was an experience of pure joy, for as he said in one of his last sermons, “Eternity is the everlasting Now.” 3.Linked with the name of Johannes Tauler as a Friend of God and a continuer of the work of Meister Eckhart is that of yet another Dominican, Heinrich Suso. Suso was born in 1295, five years before the birth of Tauler, in the town of Ueberlingen on the Lake of Constance. When he was still a small boy his parents decided he should study for the Church, and his preparatory education began at Constance, and was continued at Cologne, where he came under the influence of the teaching of Meister Eckhart. Suso has revealed himself in his autobiography as a deeply emotional man, with a very unusual gift of expression. In his “glowing, vivid language,” as it has been described, Suso pictures his mystical experiences in great detail, in contrast to the silence in which many other mystics have shrouded their strivings. At about the age of eighteen, in 1313, the year Boccaccio was born in Florence, Suso entered a monastery in Constance. There he voluntarily subjected himself to the most severe ascetic ordeals. He centered his affection in an ideal which he personified under the name of the Eternal Wisdom. He relates how this figure appeared before him and said, “My son, give me your heart.” He took a knife and cut deep into his chest the letters of the name Jesus, so that the scar-traces of each of the letters remained all his life, “about the length of a finger-joint,” as he says. Suso once saw a vision of angels, and asked them in what manner God dwelt in his soul. The angel told him to look within. He did so, and as he gazed he saw that “his body over his heart was as clear as crystal, and in the center sat tranquilly, the lovely form of the Eternal Wisdom. Beside her sat, filled with heavenly longing, the servitor's own soul, which, leaning lovingly toward God's side, and encircled by His arms, lay pressed close to His heart.” Suso wrote his autobiography in the third person, and referred to himself as “the servitor of the Divine Wisdom,” much as Swedenborg in a later century was to refer to himself in his writings as “the servant of the Lord Jesus Christ.” Heinrich Suso took the expression, “No cross, no crown,” with terrible literalness. He imposed fearful penances upon himself, and consumed sixteen long years in cruel austerity. For example, he relates how he donned a hair shirt, and bound himself with a heavy iron chain, but at length he had to give these up, since the loss of blood they occasioned was too much for his strength to bear. Instead he fashioned a crude night-shirt which he wore next to his skin this garment he sewed a series of leather straps in which sharp tacks were fitted to that they pierced his skin with his slightest movement. Later he made a cross of wood as tall as himself, and the cross-beam the length of his outstretched arms. Into this he drove thirty nails, and wore the cross fastened to his bare back, the nails pointing into his flesh. He bore this instrument of torture for some eight years, day and night. Finally, after sixteen years of agony, Suso had a vision at Whitsuntide in which he was assured that God no longer wished him to continue his austerities. Only then did he abate the severity of his asceticism, and threw his instruments of self-torture into a running stream near the monastery. In his autobiography Suso relates that one time he prayed that God would instruct him how to suffer. In response, he had a vision of Christ on the cross in the likeness of a seraphic being with six wings. On each pair of wings the legend was inscribed, “Receive suffering willingly; Bear suffering patiently; Learn suffering in the way of Christ.” The result of this almost unbelievable “receiving, bearing, learning” of suffering was a man whose gentleness and calm, lyric beauty of speech won hearts to his teaching. The fires of affliction had nearly consumed him to ashes, yet, phoenix-like, his spirit rose anew in a sweetness of expression and a grandeur of soul which one could scarcely resist. In 1335, the year Giotto began his work on the Cathedral at Florence, Suso set out on his wanderings through Swabia as a traveling preacher. He advanced the spiritual teachings of Eckhart, but through his mystical fervor they were permeated by a newness, a spontaneous grace and a transcendent beauty. And something of this spirit which was reborn in Suso comes down to us today in his autobiography, issued in 1365, which has established itself as a unique work of its kind, and as “one of the most interesting and charming of all autobiographies.” Suso's preaching was especially popular among the nuns of the convents he visited. Their hearts were deeply impressed by the obvious, overwhelming sincerity and fervor of his manner and words. Heinrich Suso's writings are among the classics of mysticism. His first work, Das Büchlein der Wahrheit, The Little Book of Truth, was written in Cologne in 1329, and springs directly from the mystical teachings of Meister Eckhart. Somewhat later, in Constance he wrote of the more practical aspects of mysticism in his Das Büchlein der Ewigen Weisheit, The Little Book of Eternal Wisdom. This book has been called “the finest fruit of German mysticism.” Something of the romanticism of the troubadour of the Ages of Faith, the charm of days gone by, the sad evanescence of the dream of chivalry and the heroic ideals of knighthood lives in the mystical expressions of Suso. He develops a mood of gentleness, of tender, delicate imagery which sets him apart from all the other men whose lives we are considering here. Concerning his books, Suso wrote, “Whoever will read these writings of mine in a right spirit can hardly fail to be stirred in his heart's depths, either to fervent love, or to new light, or to longing and thirsting for God, or to detestation and loathing of his sins, or to that spiritual aspiration by which the soul is renewed in grace.” These words gain “fearful symmetry,” to use Blake's phrase, when we recall that they were written by one who, for example, had practiced such abstinence in eating and drinking, that often as he stood with his brother monks in choir at Compline, when the holy water was sprinkled over the group during the service, he opened his parched mouth toward the aspergillum in the hope that even a single drop of water might cool his burning thirst. Such a man can write about “longing and thirsting” as very few who have walked this earth have been able to do. About 1348, his wandering in central and southern Germany having come to an end, this love-inspired Swabian poet-knight of the spirit, singer of the glories of Eternal Wisdom, settled at last in Ulm on the river Donau. There he died on the Day of Damascus, the anniversary of St. Paul's first mystical vision of the Risen Christ, January 25, 1366, at the age of seventy-one. Through the Dominican stream the Scholasticism of Thomas Aquinas came to Meister Eckhart in the form of ideas which he shaped and fashioned into aphoristic expression by means of his remarkable powers of thinking; in the hands of Johannes Tauler Scholasticism was transformed into Christian action, into practical deeds of will; in the golden warmth of his loving, devoted heart Heinrich Suso bathed Scholasticism in a lyric splendor of poetic imagery so that it became a thing of transcendent, eternal beauty. 4.Jan van Ruysbroeck was born in the little village of Ruysbroeck on the Senne between Brussels and Hal in 1293, the year after the death of the English Franciscan philosopher and scientist, Roger Bacon. When Jan was eleven years old he decided to run away from home in order that he might more completely dedicate himself and his life to God. He went to the house of his uncle, Jan Hinckaert in Brussels, and asked if the latter would undertake to educate him to the service of God. The uncle, who was a Canon of the Church of Saint Gudale in Brussels, arranged that the boy would live in his home and study with his friend, the learned priest, Franc van Coudenberg, and himself. Eventually Jan took the four year course in the Latin School of Brussels, and from there he attended the well-known theological school in Cologne. At the age of twenty-four Jan van Ruysbroeck was ordained a priest, and was appointed chaplain to his uncle in Brussels. His life for the next two decades seems to have been that of a dedicated pastor, who served his congregation to the best of his ability, but was not otherwise particularly distinguished, at least externally. However, as Jan van Ruysbroeck's fiftieth birthday approached, he had a remarkable experience. He felt that the time had come when he was to withdraw from active work in the world, and that he was called to devote himself entirely to spiritual matters. At about the same time his uncle was deeply confused and depressed one day, and an inner voice directed him to go into the church. As he did so, he saw that a visiting missionary priest had just mounted the pulpit to preach to the congregation. Now the uncle knew that this priest had a serious speech defect. To the uncle's astonishment, as the missionary opened his mouth, the words flowed out in a river of eloquence! At this, the preacher turned to where the uncle was standing and said, “This miracle has happened for the sake of that man standing there, in order that he will repent and turn to God.” In similar manner, van Coudenberg also had a spiritual experience, and was filled with the deep desire to live a more dedicated life. At Easter, 1343 the three men resigned their work in Brussels and went deep into the forest of Soignes where they found a deserted hunting-lodge called Grönendal, The Green Valley. The place had not been used for over a generation, and the men set to work to make a home for themselves there, and soon had built a chapel. Others joined them, and before long a small community had developed. After about six years the community decided to take on the rule and habit of the Augustinian canons. And the moving spirit was Jan van Ruysbroeck himself, who was as devoted to practical tasks as he was to spiritual matters. Whether it was necessary to repair a stove, load a manure cart, discuss deep problems of theology, or nurse the sick, he was always ready and cheerfully willing to do whatever was to be done. The fame of the little forest community spread, and visitors came from far places to see the life that was being lived there. One day two young priests, theological students from the University of Paris, arrived and asked to speak with Jan van Ruysbroeck. They wished his advice concerning their spiritual development, and begged that he would help them to find the way to the spirit, and would speak with them about the condition of their souls. His reply was to the point: “You are as spiritual as you have the desire to be, that is all.” They were somewhat annoyed at the abruptness of his words, and turned away. At once he spoke to them in a loving tone: “My very dear children, I said your spirituality was what you wish it to be so that you would understand that your spirituality is entirely in proportion to your good will. Then enter into yourselves; don't ask others about your progress. Examine your good will, and from that alone you will discover the measure of your spirituality.” One of the guests at Grönendal was Johannes Tauler, who was much impressed with the life he saw there. In turn, Tauler doubtless told Jan van Ruysbroeck about his experiences with the Friends of God. In 1378, the year after Gregory XI condemned John Wycliffe, translator of the Vulgate into English, as a heretic, the famous lay-preacher, Gerard Groote visited the community of Grönendal and had many conversations with Jan van Ruysbroeck. Gerard Groote was born in the town of Deventer, about sixty miles from Amsterdam in 1340. His parents were wealthy, and at the age of fifteen Gerard was sent to the University of Paris. In three years he was given his Master's degree, and then was called to teach at Cologne, where he was soon advanced to the position of professor of philosophy, and also received important appointments of a civil nature. One day Groote was standing with a crowd watching a game in a Cologne square when a modestly dressed stranger, with a serious, sincere face approached him and spoke to him softly: “Why are you standing here? You ought to become another man.” Soon after this incident Groote fell seriously ill, and his life was despaired of. However, when matters were at their worst, he recalled the words of the stranger, and at once promised Heaven that he would do everything in his power to become “another man” if he was allowed to regain his health. Groote recovered, and not long after was sought out by his former teacher from the University of Paris, Henry de Kalkar, who for some years had been the prior of a Carthusian monastery near Deventer. This dedicated man had come to Groote, impelled by an inner urge to call the latter to a new life. Groote retired from the world, and dedicated himself to the pursuit of spiritual things. Eventually the time came when his studies entitled him to be ordained a priest. This he refused, and refused repeatedly to the end of his life. In 1379 Groote sensed a spiritual call to go out into the countryside as an itinerant lay-preacher. The Bishop of Utrecht granted him a license as a preacher, allowing him to speak anywhere in his diocese. According to all accounts Groote was a speaker of marked excellence. He differed radically from other preachers of his time in that he never threatened his hearers with punishments of hell nor sought to bribe them with the bliss of heaven. He spoke simply and directly to them of the love of God, the great way of salvation, the search for the good, and always about the wonderful possibilities of a life lived in consonance with God. He spoke only from his personal experience, never used any Latin phrases in his discourses, and employed only the simplest, most direct forms of expression. The result was that for five years people flocked to hear him wherever he went. In the course of his wanderings Groote visited Grönendal, and was deeply impressed by everything he saw, and most of all by the entirely practical attitude toward life which Jan van Ruysbroeck manifested. The result was that Groote was inspired to form a community, a kind of Christian brotherhood, which would be bound by no permanent vows as were monks, but would consist of individuals who freely chose to live together in poverty, chastity, obedience, simplicity and piety, holding all possessions in common as the early Christians had done, and working together to earn their own livelihood. Groote was soon surrounded by a group of men who enthusiastically wished to take up this life, and who took the name, “The Brotherhood of the Common Lot” or “the Common Life.” The first community house was established at Deventer, and was called a “brother house.” Soon “sister houses” for women were also established. Groote loved books, and therefore he freely gave his fortune for the purchase of rare books which the brothers and sisters copied by hand—this of course was before the invention of the printing press—and the money received from the sale of these volumes was used for the maintenance of the communities. The Brothers and Sisters of the Common Life mingled freely with the world, and soon came to be recognized everywhere in Holland, Belgium and in the German Rhine valley by their plain grey habit and their simple, unassuming manners. Their life was devoted to the care of orphan children, the spreading of knowledge through the sale of books that they copied, and in the teaching of reading and writing to adults. Their method of instruction of children was based on practical life, and was directed toward moral and spiritual improvement. They taught the children under their care to earn a living, but never encouraged them to enter a profession which would give them undue wealth. Jan van Ruysbroeck's last days were spent quietly in the community at Grönendal, and many stories were told of his remarkable spiritual development. For example he was missing one day, and at last was found sitting beneath a tree in the forest, sunk in deep meditation, while according to the tale, the tree itself was surrounded by a heavenly brightness of shimmering colors. He knew the force of directness in conversation. A man once tried to draw him out on the subject of the dreadful wickedness in the world. His only remark was, “What we are, that we behold; and what we behold, that we are.” Like all mystics, he loved animals and flowers, and his greatest earthly joy was in the song of the birds of the forest. His death took place in 1381, the year of the outbreak of the Peasant Revolt in England under the leadership of Wat Tyler, and the priest, John Ball. Stories tell how at the moment of his death, the bells of the churches in neighboring villages began to toll all by themselves, and how after several years when his corpse was exhumed it showed no decomposition, but gave off a sweet odor which healed the sick who were brought near. Gerhart Groote survived Jan van Ruysbroeck by three years Meanwhile, a young man had joined the circle of the Brotherhood of the Common Life who is known as the author of one of the most important books of devotion in the world. His name was Thomas a Kempis, and his Imitatio Christi, Imitation of Christ, is a classic which has inspired men throughout the centuries since it first appeared. Thomas also was the biographer of Gerhard Groote, and his impression of the Brotherhood of the Common Life was, “I never before recall having seen men so devout, so full of love for God and their fellow-men. Living in the world, they were altogether unworldly.” At the conclusion of Thomas' Life of Gerhard Groote is a collection of aphorisms which he attributes to the latter as among the basic teachings of the Brotherhood of the Common Life: “Conquer yourself. Turn your heart from things, and direct your mind continually to God. Do not for any cause allow yourself to lose your composure. Practice obedience, and accept things that are difficult. Continually exercise yourself in humility and moderation. The further one knows himself to be from perfection, the closer he is to it. Of all temptations, the greatest is not to be tempted at all. Never breathe so much as a word to display your religion or learning. Nothing is a better test of a man than to hear himself praised. Above all, and first of all, let Christ be the basis of your study and the mirror of your life.” Years after the deaths of Jan van Ruysbroeck and Gerhard Groote, a twelve-year old boy was brought to the Brethren of the Common Life at Deventer, and was placed in the school there. Destined to be one of the most important figures of the Reformation period, Desiderius Erasmus, became famous for his modesty, his temperance and wisdom. These qualities are no doubt traceable to the early training he received at the hands of the Brethren of the Common Life. Erasmus of Rotterdam advised moderation and tolerance, even when the opposite qualities ran high, as for example in his famous letter in reply to the Pope's invitation to come to Rome in order to advise him on how to deal with Luther and his followers: “You ask me what you should do. Some believe there is no remedy but force. I do not believe this, for I think there would be dreadful bloodshed ... If you intend to try prison, lash, stake and scaffold, you do not need my help ... Discover the roots of the disease and clean them out first of all. Punish nobody, but let what has happened be considered as a visitation of Providence, and extend a general amnesty to all.” Had the moderation counselled in this letter, typical of the spirit of the Brotherhood of the Common Life, been followed, how different might the course of history have been! 5.In 1401, when Ghiberti's Baptistry doors, “worthy to be the gates of Paradise,” were first shown to the admiring eyes of his fellow Florentines, and the English Parliament decreed that all proven heretics were to be burned at the stake, Nicolas Chrypffs was born at Cusa on the Moselle River. Nicolas was to be known as “the last great philosopher of the dying Middle Ages,” and was to fling wide the doors of men's minds to the concept of a universe which is infinite. As a student he made a brilliant record in his study of law and mathematics at the renowned University of Padua, and followed this with a course in theology at Cologne where, as we have seen, he was preceded by Meister Eckhart, Tauler, Suso, van Ruysbroeck, and Groote. Eventually Nicolas became Archdeacon of Liege at about the time that Joan of Arc was burned at the stake in Rouen. The Council of Basel, which had convened intermittently since 1417, was beginning its last ten years of existence when Nicolas attended its sessions in his official capacity as Archdeacon of Liege, in 1437. These sessions took place at the time when Cosimo de Medici was making preparations for the opening of his famous Platonic Academy in Florence, the institution renowned as a center of the revival of the learning of the classical world. Shortly after his attendance at the Council of Basel, Nicolas was sent to Constantinople to try his efforts toward the solution of one of the most vexing problems of the time, the reunion of the churches of East and West. His work at Basel and Constantinople attracted the attention of the Pope, so that in 1440 Nicolas was sent to Germany as papal legate at a very critical moment in the relations between Germany and the Church of Rome. When Nicolas arrived in Germany, Frederick, Duke of Styria was chosen king to rule as Frederick IV. Just at that time the Council of Basel had appointed an “anti-pope,” called Felix V, in opposition to Pope Eugenius IV. In the fact that soon after his election, Frederick decided to extend his influence to the support of Eugenius in opposition to the Council of Basel, one perhaps can see the fruit of the work of Nicolas of Cusa as papal legate in Germany. It also seems something more than coincidence that in 1448, when Frederick IV and Pope Nicolas V signed the Concordat of Vienna, by which the German church was firmly rebound to Rome, Nicolas of Cusa was raised to the rank of Cardinal. Two years later he was appointed Bishop of Britten. The reactionary character of the Concordat of Vienna made impossible any reform of conditions within the German church. The clergy in Germany who had hoped for some easing of the repressive measures of the papacy, were doomed to disappointment. On the other hand, the Concordat of Vienna was one of the principal links in the chain of events that finally culminated on All Saints' Day, 1517, when Martin Luther nailed his theses to the door of the church in Wittenberg, and the German Reformation became a fact. The sixteen years (1448–1464) of the Cardinalate of Nicolas of Cusa coincide with remarkable developments in the social and cultural life of the Western world. The year 1452 is notable as the year of the birth of two men of marked divergence of outlook. The first was Girolamo Savonarola, the Dominican monk, leader of the reaction against the Renaissance, the dogmatic eschatologist from Ferrara, who as “dictator of Florence” held a brief sway over the minds and bodies of men of his time. Also in 1452 was born the genius of the Renaissance, the archetype of the “new man,” the very incarnation of the spirit of progress, of universality, of investigation, of freedom from traditionalism and conservatism—Leonardo da Vinci. At this same time a host of the world's most famous Greek scholars left Constantinople in fear of the advancing Turks under Mohammed II, who finally took the city the following year, which also marked the end of the Hundred Years' War in Western Europe. In 1454, as a kind of picture of things to come in the field of technical development and invention, Johannes Gutenberg issued his first texts printed with movable type, and before two more years were completed, published his edition of the Vulgate Bible at Mainz. 1456 is notable as the year the Turks captured Athens and subsequently all Greece, thus marking the end of the last vestiges of classicism remaining in that country. Pico della Mirandola, famous Renaissance scholar and writer, collector of precious books and manuscripts, master of Greek, Latin, Hebrew, Chaldee and Arabic, student of the mysticism of the Kabbalah and other mystical writings, was born in 1463. The following year, on the 11th of August, Nicolas of Cusa died, renowned as a distinguished prince of the Church, and as a diplomat traveling in the service of the Pope. Today Nicolas of Cusa is remembered for his cosmological conceptions, his originality and breadth of thought, and his courage as a thinker at a time when the rationalized dogmatic system of Scholasticism was breaking down in face of the impact of the new age. As the famous French mathematician and philosopher, Renè Descartes was to write nearly two hundred years after Nicolas' death, “The Cardinal of Cusa and several other theologians have supposed the world to be infinite, and the Church has never condemned them for it. On the contrary, it is thought that to make His works appear very great is one way to honor God.” Nicolas of Cusa's work was appreciated by such men as Giordano Bruno, philosopher, poet, and martyr, Johannes Kepler, the astronomer, and Descartes, to name but a few. The courage necessary for a thinker to grasp the implications of the new age was present in Nicolas of Cusa, and the scope of his investigations in the world of thought is evidence of his importance and stature. 6.The year 1487 is regarded by some as the year of the beginning of the Renaissance. By others it is remembered as the time the Portuguese navigator, Bartholomeu Diaz, sailing along the African coast on a voyage of exploration, discovered the Cape of Good Hope and thereby opened the passage to India and China. Still others recall that this was the year of the birth of one Henry Cornelius, generally known as Agrippa of Nettesheim, in the city of Cologne on September 14, 1487. His family was honored for its service to the royal house of Hapsburg, but little is known of his childhood and youth. Like others whom we have considered, Henry Cornelius studied at the University of Cologne. He also learned eight languages, and passed some time in France while still a young man. In 1486, the year before Henry Cornelius was born, the son of Frederick IV, whom Nicolas of Cusa had supported in signing the Concordat of Vienna, came to the throne of Germany as Maximilian I. The latter was heir to great areas of Austria, was administrator of the Netherlands, and not long after he came to the throne of Germany he united the country, and through the marriage of his son Philip to the heiress of the Spanish kingdoms, his influence soon spread to that country as well. Thus Maximilian exercised a power in Europe as had no German ruler for centuries. While he was still a young man, Henry Cornelius was appointed secretary in the service of Maximilian, and his life of travel and adventure began almost at once. However, the life of the battlefield and he court did not suit him, and not long afterward we find him at the University at Dôle as a lecturer on philosophy. This appointment was made in 1509, the year that Erasmus wrote his Chiliades adagiorum, by which his reputation as an author was established. But Henry Cornelius' lectures did not long escape the attention of the Inquisition, and he went to England on a diplomatic mission for Maximilian as the result of an attack made upon him by the monk, John Catilinet who was lecturing at Ghent. In London Henry Cornelius was a welcome guest in the home of Dr. John Colet, friend and later the patron of Erasmus, student of the teachings of Savonarola, former lecturer at Oxford, at that time dean of St. Paul's Cathedral. In his later life, Colet was to preach on the occasion of Wolsey's installation as Cardinal, and was to become chaplain to Henry VIII. He did much to introduce the humanist teachings of the Renaissance into England, and was an outspoken opponent of auricular confession and the celibacy of the clergy of the Catholic Church. After his return to the Continent, Henry Cornelius went to Italy with Maximilian on one of the latter's expeditions against Venice. During his stay in Italy in 1512, the year the Medici were recalled to Florence, and Martin Luther was made a Doctor of Theology, he attended the Council of Pisa as a theologian. This council had been called by a group of Cardinals in opposition to militaristic plans of Pope Julius II who had laid the cornerstone for the new basilica of St. Peter's in Rome six years before. In all, Henry Cornelius remained in Italy about seven years, and they were a very eventful time, for they coincided with some of the most important events of the Renaissance period. In these years the Aldine edition of Plato appeared in Venice, Niccolo Machiavelli wrote The Prince, a landmark in the history of political thought, and Erasmus published his New Testament in Greek. Julius II died during this period, and Giovanni de Medici, made Cardinal at fourteen, now became Pope Leo X, whose famous exclamation, “Since God has given us the papacy, let us enjoy it,” set a pattern for the Renaissance, while his permission to sell indulgences for the benefit of the construction of St. Peter's led to the upheaval of the Reformation. Henry Cornelius was active as a physician during his first years in Italy, first in the household of the Marquis of Monferrato, later in that of the Duke of Savoy. In 1515 he accepted an invitation to lecture at the University of Pavia on one of the works of the ancient world beloved by the adherents of the new learning of the Renaissance, the Pimander of Hermes Trismegistus. This was the year when Sir Thomas More wrote his Utopia, and Leonardo da Vinci left Rome for the last time enroute to his three year exile and death in France. The university lectures on the Pimander were suddenly broken off as a result of the victorious advance into Italy by the armies of Francis I of France. Henry Cornelius returned to Germany, and in 1518, the year Zwingli began the Reformation among the Swiss, he was appointed town advocate of Metz. But he was not left in peace for long. First, the death of Maximilian at the beginning of 1519 and the subsequent election of Charles V, King of Spain, Naples, Sicily, ruler of the Netherlands, Austria, Burgundy, and of dominions in the New World, to be ruler of Germany brought changes in the life of Henry Cornelius. Second, a woman was tried in Metz for witchcraft. In his position as town advocate Henry Cornelius went to her defense, with the result that he became involved in a serious controversy with one of the most dreaded agents of the Inquisition, the notorious Nicholas Savin. Finally, in 1520, the year of Magellan's voyage around the world, of the death of the painter, Raphael, and of Luther's burning of the papal bull, Henry Cornelius quietly left Metz for Cologne, where he remained in discreet retirement for about two years. He appeared in public life once more, first in Geneva, afterward in Freiburg, where he practiced as a physician. In 1524, a year before Tyndale's English translation of the New Testament appeared, he went to Lyons to accept a post as physician to Louise of Savoy, mother of Francis I. But the unsettled times—now accentuated by the terrible sack of Rome by the armies of Constable Bourbon in 1527—caused him to relinquish the position in favor of some post further north which might offer greater security for his study and work. That Henry Cornelius was considered an able scholar is evidenced by the fact that at about this time he was offered the opportunity to participate in a disputation concerning the legality of the divorce action between Henry VIII of England and Catherine of Aragon, which was then taking place. However, he accepted an offer to be archivist and historian to Charles V, which Louise of Savoy obtained for him. The death of Louise of Savoy in 1531 weakened his position, and in addition to all of the other ferment of the time, the news that Henry VIII had declared himself “Supreme Head of the Church of England” only increased the uncertainty of conditions. Henry Cornelius also had published several works which had attracted the attention of the Inquisition, and for a time he was imprisoned in Brussels. However, despite the publication of his De occulta philosophia, Concerning Secret Science, written about 1510, printed in Antwerp 1531, which the Inquisition did their best to prevent, Henry Cornelius was able to live for some time at Cologne and Ronn under the personal protection of the great Hermann von Wied, Archbishop of Cologne, who recognized and appreciated his remarkable qualities as a scholar and man. At the very end of his life, while he was visiting Paris, Francis I had him arrested on the strength of a report that he had spoken badly of the reputation of the queen mother. The charge was proven false and he was released after a brief imprisonment, but the strain of the experience was too great for him to bear, and he died suddenly at Grenoble on February 18, 1535 at the age of forty-nine. His death took place in the same year as that of Sir Thomas More, and five years after that of Erasmus. Henry Cornelius was married three times, and was the father of a large family of children. His memory—despite attacks on his reputation and teachings by the Inquisition long after his death—has been kept alive through the years because of his writings, mainly his De occulta philosophia. A man of unusual courage and in some ways a kind of universal genius, Henry Cornelius was typical of the men whose lives spanned the period that opened the way to the modern age. 7.Columbus had reached America on his western voyage; Lorenzo de Medici had died in Florence; the Spaniard, Rodrigo Borgia, along with his mistress and children now inhabited the Vatican as Pope Alexander VI, whose frankly pagan orgies were more fitting to the later Roman emperors than to the Vicar of Christ upon earth; and in the little Swiss town of Einsiedeln in Canton Schwyz, the local physician, illegitimate son of a Grand Master of the Teutonic Order, was in turn the father of a son whom he named Theophrastus Bombast von Hohenheim. Later the son himself chose the name by which he is known to history—Paracelsus. The boy's early education was in the hands of his father; at the age of sixteen he entered the University of Basel. However, his restless nature and his independent thinking made formal study most unattractive to him, and he determined to seek an education in his own way. About this time he heard of the great Benedictine scholar, Johannes Trithemius, originally Abbot of the Monastery of Wurzburg, later of Sponheim near Kreuznach. The Abbot of Sponheim was celebrated for the remarkable library he had collected, for his studies in cryptography, for his writings on history, and for his researches in alchemy and related sciences. This same Abbot of Sponheim had greatly influenced Henry Cornelius in the latter's work on his De occulta philosophia. Paracelsus decided to apply to the Abbot of Sponheim for the opportunity to study science with him. He was accepted, but the association did not last very long. Led by a desire to learn more about the nature and properties of minerals first-hand, he went to the Tyrolean mines owned by the famous merchant-administrators and bankers to the German Emperors, the Fuggers. Paracelsus felt at home among the miners. He soon came to the conviction that what he gained through direct observation was the best education of all. He learned about the processes involved in mining operations, the nature of ores, the properties of mineral waters, and the stratification of the rocks of the earth. Meanwhile he came to know the home life of the miners, studied their illnesses and the types of accidents to which they were most prone. In brief, from his experiences in the mines he concluded that formal schooling is not education in the mysteries of nature. He was convinced that only by reading the book of nature first-hand and through personal contact with those who work with nature can one come to anything like truly natural scientific knowledge. This point of view followed Paracelsus throughout his life, and colored his relationships with those scholars with whom he came into contact. He based his work entirely on the results of his own observation and experience, and not on theories acquired from others. Paracelsus wandered over a great part of central Europe in order that he might come to a direct personal knowledge of things. He once said that the physician must read the book of nature, and that to do so he must “walk over its pages.” He came to the conclusion that since the temperaments, constitutions and activities of different peoples are different, the diseases from which they suffer must also be different. Therefore he believed that it was incumbent upon the physician to know other peoples as the key to understanding his own. The summation of Paracelsus' method of study is contained in his questions, “From where do I obtain all my secrets, from what authors? It would be better if one asked how the animals have learned their skills. If nature can teach irrational animals, can it not much more teach men?” In all, Paracelsus spent nearly a full decade in his wanderings in search of knowledge. At the end of his travels, while the mass of information he had gathered lacked order and coherence, there is no doubt that here was a man whose experiences, observations of peoples, places and events, as well as knowledge of the elements and processes of nature gave his words and deeds the weight of direct evidence. His superiority to his contemporaries was unquestionable. When Paracelsus returned to Basel in 1527 he was appointed city physician, and also was made professor of physic, medicine, and surgery at the University. He undertook to give a course of lectures in medicine, but the latter provoked a storm of protest because they were so unconventional, as might have been expected from one holding his views on education. First of all, Paracelsus lectured in German, not Latin, which was unheard of in academic circles of the time. Then his lectures were composed of statements derived from his experience, and presented his own methods of cure, based upon his personal points of view. But worst of all to the traditionalists, Paracelsus' lectures dealt with cure of the diseases current among the peoples of Europe in the year 1527, and not only did not include comment on the classic medical texts of Galen or Avicenna, an accepted part of every medical lecture worthy of the name, but they attacked these sacrosanct authorities and ridiculed those who followed their teachings. Above all, Paracelsus plead for a medical practice which met the needs of the time, which followed the results of direct observation, and which did away with the ignorance and greed of physicians which hid behind a mask of pompousness and reliance upon the dicta of men who had been dead for centuries. Paracelsus also was hard at work proving the practical worth of his knowledge in curing the sick. His success was phenomenal. Maladies previously considered incurable were healed quickly and efficiently by his methods. Case after case which had been given up by other physicians of Basel and the surrounding towns, was brought to him and cured. For two or three years Paracelsus' reputation spread far and wide. Never before had such a physician practiced in Basel! But this success did not last. At first, his learning, derived from his practical experience, his appeal to the common sense of his hearers, captured the imagination of his students. His successful practice was proof of the correctness of his teaching, and all opposition based on traditionalism was pushed aside. Slowly, however, the tide began to turn; the waters of opposition gathered their strength. No single detail escaped the vigilant eyes of his enemies; nothing was too insignificant to throw into the scale against him. There was the matter of his having no degree; the conservatives demanded that he be forced to prove his qualifications before continuing his teaching and practice. And his prescriptions were a source of annoyance to the pharmacists of Basel, for Paracelsus had worked out his own system of drug compounding, which differed radically from that generally employed by other physicians. Therefore the apothecaries attacked Paracelsus, because he did not use their products as did the Galenists. On the other hand, Paracelsus requested the city authorities to keep close watch on the purity of the drugs sold in Basel, to be certain that the apothecaries really knew their work, and, above all, to be watchful of the commercial relationships between the apothecaries and physicians. At last the day came for which the enemies of Paracelsus had long been waiting. Among his patients was one Canon Cornelius von Lichtenfels, who had called upon Paracelsus for professional aid when his own physician had given up his case. Although he had promised to pay Paracelsus' fee in the event of a cure, von Lichtenfels now refused to do so. Eventually the matter was taken into a court of law, where the judges found in favor of von Lichtenfels. Noted for his quickness of temper and outspokenness, Paracelsus candidly told the judges his opinion of them, their conduct of the case, and their method of administering the law. When he left the court, Paracelsus' friends advised him to leave Basel without delay, for his enemies would surely see to it that he be severely punished for his speech before the justices. Paracelsus took this advice, and departed from Basel in haste. Once again Paracelsus resumed his wandering life. For a brief time he remained in Esslingen, then went to Colmar, but the pinch of poverty drove him from town to town in search of work. Twelve years were passed in these journeyings, Paracelsus never remaining in one place for more than a year. Finally, in 1541 when Paracelsus was forty-eight, he received an invitation which seemed to be the fulfillment of his longing for a permanent home where he could pursue his work undisturbed and in peace. Archbishop Ernst of Salzburg offered Paracelsus his protection if the latter would come to that city and take up his professional activities there. But Paracelsus was in Salzburg only a few months when he died at almost the same time Michelangelo completed his painting of the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel at Rome. Even the reports of Paracelsus death reflect the efforts of his enemies to defame him. One tale recounts that his death was caused by a drunken brawl in which he was a participant. A report with sinister implications tells that Paracelsus did not die a natural death, but was thrown over a steep cliff at night by assassins in the employ of the apothecaries and physicians, whose vengeance followed him through all his years of exile. One of Paracelsus' most far-reaching concepts is that of Signatures, that is, the idea that each single part of the microcosmic world of man corresponds with each single part of the macrocosmic world outside man. This leads directly to his teaching concerning Specifics. He realized that the latter were not to be discovered in the labyrinth of often fantastic nostrums and combinations of substances prescribed in the writings of the Galenists. Through careful observation extending over many years, Paracelsus concluded that mineral, plant and animal substances contain within themselves what he called “active principles.” It was his conviction that if a method of purification and intensification could be discovered whereby these substances could be caused to release their “active principles,” the latter would be infinitely more efficacious and safer in producing a cure than would their crude and often dangerous originals. Paracelsus died before he could discover the method which could unlock the potency, the healing power latent in mineral, plant and animal substances. This problem was not solved until two and a half centuries later when another physician, Samuel Hahnemann, discovered a method of so handling mineral, plant and animal substances that their innate healing powers were enhanced and made available to a medical practice in line with the highest ideals of cure envisioned by Paracelsus. This method of preparation of substances and the manner of their selection and administration to the sick, Hahnemann called Homeopathy. The first of Paracelsus' extensive works was published in Augsburg in 1529, memorable as the year when the Reformers' presentation of a protest to the Diet of Spires won them the name of Protestants. Throughout the extensive writings of Paracelsus, repeated again and again in every one of the more than two hundred separate publications of his works which appeared between 1542 and 1845, a single theme is to be observed: The life of man cannot be separated from the life of the universe; therefore, to understand man, understand the universe; to understand the universe, understand man. Only upon such an understanding—universal in its scope—Paracelsus believed a medical art worthy of the name could be built. To the proclamation of such a goal of medicine he devoted his life. In one of his writings, Paracelsus says, “There is a light in the spirit of man ... by which the qualities of each thing created by God, whether it be visible or invisible to the senses, may be perceived and known. If man knows the essence of things, their attributes, their attractions, and the elements of which they consist, he will be a master of nature, of the elements, and of the spirits.” Robert Browning expressed Paracelsus' thoughts in the well-known lines:
8.Eight years before the death of Paracelsus, Valentine Weigel was born at Naundorff, near Grossenheim in the district of Meissen. This year 1533 was also the year of the birth of Montaigne, the skeptic, of the completion of the rape of Peru by the most notorious of all Spanish conquistadores, Francisco Pizarro, of the proclamation of Anne Boleyn, soon to be the mother of Elizabeth, as Queen of England by Henry VIII, and of the final preparation of Luther's complete German Bible which was published the next year. The details of Weigel's childhood are obscure, but in course of time he received his Bachelor's and Master's degrees at the University of Leipzig. He continued his studies at the University of Wittenberg until 1567, three years after the death of Michelangelo. In that year he was ordained a Lutheran pastor and was called to the church at Zschopau, not far from Chemnitz in eastern Germany. His life was passed entirely in this place, and he continued as pastor of this church until his death in 1588, the year the English defeated the Spanish Armada. While the external events of Weigel's life are few and somewhat unimpressive when compared with some of the biographies discussed thus far, his inner development and his dedication to his pastoral tasks are very remarkable. He is remembered as a loving, devoted man, a true shepherd of his flock, a man whom all his parishioners loved, and who loved them in return. Twenty-one years after the death of their pastor, his parishioners came to know that in addition to the Valentin Weigel they knew, another man, as it were, had been active all the years in Zschopau. This was Valentin Weigel, student, mystic, and author. Weigel had long been a close student of the writings of Paracelsus, whose work he deeply admired, but whose fate he was determined not to share. Therefore while he studied and wrote a great deal during his lifetime, he never revealed his interest in mysticism to anyone, and left instructions that his writings were not to be published until sometime after his death. So while Pastor Weigel stood in his pulpit and preached to his flock Sunday after Sunday without interruption for twenty-one years, he never shared his most cherished interests and convictions with them. Weigel was well acquainted with the works of Eckhart and Tauler and also with such classical mystics as Dionysius and the Neo-Platonists. But with all his study he recognized that the ultimate truth of things is not acquired from without, but is to be found within each man. He wrote, “Study nature, physics, alchemy, magic, and so on, but it is all in you, and you become what you have learned.” In 1609, twenty-one years after Weigel's death, the year Henry Hudson sailed up the river that now bears his name, Weigel's book that was to greatly influence English mystics after its translation into English in 1648, was published. It bore the title, Von den Leben Christi, das ist, vom wahren Glauben, Of the Life of Christ, that is, of True Faith, and one of its outstanding passages is, “Faith comes by inward hearing. Good books, external preaching, have their place; they testify to the real Treasure. They are witnesses to the Word within us. But faith is not tied to books; Faith is a new birth, which cannot be found in books. The one who has the inner Schoolmaster would lose nothing of his salvation, even though all the preachers should die and all books be burned.” When one considers the theological ideas prevailing in his time, one of Weigel's interesting concepts deals with the location of heaven and hell. In an age when basically materialistic descriptions of heavenly wonders were contrasted with equally materialistic portrayals of hellish tortures, and men were assured by their pastors that these were definite places, Weigel's conviction, which probably he never voiced from his pulpit, is surprisingly modern. He wrote that “Heaven and Hell are in the soul of man, after all; both Trees of the Paradise, the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, as well as the Tree of Life, flourish in the human soul.” (See Weigel's Erkenne dich Selbst, Know Thyself) Like Luther and others, Weigel prized and edited the little book, Theologia Germanica, or The Golden Book of German Theology, as Henry More called it, and spoke of it as “A precious little book, a noble book.” Weigel also loved the sermons of Johannes Tauler because “they testify to the experience of the Heavenly Jerusalem within us.” For Weigel, the immanence of the spiritual world was a profound conviction, born of his personal experience. His expression of this is one of the classic statements of mysticism: “God is nearer to us than we are to ourselves.” 9.Jacob Boehme was born on April 24, 1575 in the little German village of Alt Seidenberg on a hillside south of Goerlitz, near the Bohemian border. Jacob was the fourth child of his parents, of old German peasant stock, noted for their honesty and devoutness. The Boehme family were staunch Lutherans, and the children were brought up according to the family faith. Jacob was a sickly child, and was not thought strong enough to work in the fields. Therefore his childhood summers were spent watching the herds, and in winter he received the rudiments of reading, writing, simple arithmetic and a little Latin. His favorite reading was his Bible, which he carried with him in the fields, and came to know as few other men have. When he was fourteen, his father apprenticed him to the village cobbler for three years, since it was clear that Jacob's health would never permit him to be a farmer. In 592 Jacob Boehme began his journeyman's wanderings. Abraham von Franckenberg, whom we shall meet again as the friend of Johannes Scheffler (Angelus Silesius), knew Jacob Boehme, and described the latter's appearance in these years: “Jacob's body was worn and plain. He was short, with low forehead, wide temples, his nose slightly crooked, his eyes grey, lighting up at times like the windows of Solomon's Temple. He had a short beard, somewhat thin, a slight voice, but very gentle in conversation. His manner was modest, mild and humble. He was of patient heart, and his spirit was lightened by God beyond anything to be found in nature.” In the chapter in this book dealing with Jacob Boehme, Rudolf Steiner relates the famous story of the stranger and the pair of shoes, which took place during Boehme's apprentice days, sometime before 1599. In May of that year Boehme was officially made a citizen of Goerlitz, became established as a master shoemaker there, and soon afterward married Catherina Kuntzsch, daughter of a butcher of Goerlitz, by whom he had four children. In the year 1600, when Jacob Boehme was twenty-five, he had the remarkable spiritual experience which Rudolf Steiner mentions in this book. Boehme saw the sunlight reflected on the surface of a polished pewter dish, and it was suddenly as though he could penetrate into the most secret depths of the universe, could probe the secrets of nature, and could fathom the essential being of everything in creation. This is comparable to Paracelsus' observation: “Hidden things which cannot be perceived by the physical senses may be discovered by means of the sidereal body, through whose organism we can look into nature just as the sun shines through a glass.” Boehme later explained his spiritual experience or “illumination” in the introduction to his book, Aurora: “In a quarter of an hour I observed and knew more than if I had attended a university for many years. I recognized the Being of Beings, both the Byss and Abyss the eternal generation of the Trinity, the origin and creation of this world and of all creatures through the Divine Wisdom. I saw all three worlds in myself: first, the Divine World; second, the dark world and the source of fire; third, the external, visible world as an outbreathing of the inner or spiritual worlds. I also saw the fundamental nature of evil and good, and how the pregnant Mother, the eternal genetrix, brought them forth. My experience is like the evoking of life in the presence of death, or like the resurrection from the dead. My spirit suddenly saw all created things, even the herbs and grass, in this light. I knew who God is, what He is like, and the nature of His Will. Suddenly in that light my will was seized by a mighty impulse to describe the Being of God.” For ten long years after this spiritual experience, to which Boehme referred repeatedly throughout the remainder of his life, he meditated on his vision. He came to believe that what he had to tell others was entirely unique with him, and that his mission was to purify Christianity, which he thought had become corrupt once again. He had no use for theology born of reason, nor for creeds and dogmas established on purely intellectual foundations. He was convinced that only one's personal experience of the reality of the spiritual world can enable one to overcome evil and advance into genuine knowledge of the spirit. In 1610, the year when Galileo discovered the satellites of Jupiter by means of the newly-invented telescope, Jacob Boehme knew that the moment had come when he could write down an account of what he had seen a decade before: “To write these things was strongly urged upon my spirit, however difficult they might be for my outer self to understand, and for my pen to express. Like a child beginning school I was compelled to start my work on this very great Mystery. Within myself I saw it well enough, as in a great depth, but the describing and explaining of it seemed impossible.” Boehme wrote in the early morning before he went to his cobbler's bench, and in the evening after he returned home from his work. And at last, after two years of diligent effort, Jacob Boehme produced his Aurora one of the masterpieces of mystical literature. That Boehme knew that the twenty-six chapters of his Aurora are not easy to read, and are not for everyman, is clear from his words: “If you are not a spiritual overcomer, then let my book alone. Don't meddle with it, but stick to your old ways.” “Art was not written here, nor did I find time to consider how to set things down accurately, according to rules of composition, but everything followed the direction of the Spirit, which often hastened so that the writer's hand shook. As the burning fire of the Spirit hurried ahead, the hand and pen had to follow after it, for it came and went like a sudden shower.” Handwritten copies of the manuscript were made by Carl Ender von Sercha, Boehme's friend and student. Sercha believed that in Boehme's work a prophecy of Paracelsus had been fulfilled, which announced that the years between 1599 and 1603 would bring about a new age for mankind, a time of “singing, dancing, rejoicing, jubilating.” Therefore many who heard of Boehme's remarkable spiritual experience when he had, to use his own words, “wrestled in God's presence a considerable time for the knightly crown ... which later, with the breaking of the gate in the deep center of nature, I attained with much joy,” believed that in him the words of Paracelsus had come true. Their enthusiasm, however, was not universally shared. A copy of the manuscript of Aurora fell by chance into the hands of the Lutheran Pastor Primarius Gregorius Richter of Goerlitz. After the clergyman read the pages that John Wesley was later to describe as “sublime nonsense, inimitable bombast, fustian not to be paralleled,” and the celebrated English Bishop Warburton characterized as something that “would disgrace Bedlam at full moon,” he went to his pulpit the next Sunday and poured out his indignation upon Boehme's work. Among the congregation that morning sat Jacob Boehme himself, listened quietly and without a shadow of emotion to the stern denunciations of his pastor. Afterward he went to Richter and attempted to explain the passages of Aurora to which the latter took most violent exception. But the clergyman would have neither Boehme nor his book, asked the town council to expel Boehme from Goerlitz. His effort failed, but the justices warned Boehme that since he was a shoemaker, he must abandon writing and stick to the trade for which he was licensed. Boehme, who had said, “In Yes and No all things consist,” accepted their injunction, and entered upon still another time of silence. This period lasted from 1612, the year the King James Version of the English Bible was issued, until 1619, when a Dutch ship landed in Jamestown, Virginia, with the first African slaves to be sold in North America. Meanwhile, Boehme's fame was spreading as more and more people read the manuscript copies of his Aurora, which were circulated by his admirers. Among the latter were the physician of Goerlitz, the learned Dr. Tobias Kober, the director of the Elector of Saxony's chemical laboratory at Dresden, Dr. Balthazar Walther, the nobleman Carl Ender von Sercha, and the Paracelsus student, who was to be Boehme's biographer, Abraham von Franckenberg. Again and again these men urged Boehme to ignore the order of the magistrates of Goerlitz, and to continue his writing, but he consistently refused. However, early in 1619 their urgings met with success, and Boehme resumed his writing, and continued with increasing zeal during the following years. As he wrote, “I had resolved to do nothing in future, but to be quiet before God in obedience, and to let the devil with all his host sweep over me. But with me it was as when a seed is hidden in the earth. Contrary to all reason, it grows up in storm and rough weather. In the winter, all is dead, and reason says, ‘Everything is ended for it.’ But the precious seed within me sprouted and grew green, oblivious of all storms, and, amid disgrace and ridicule, it has blossomed into a lily!” Through all the following years Boehme remained faithful to his original conviction that everything he wrote was not the fruit of his own intellectual creativeness, but was the gift of the spiritual world. In 1620, the memorable year of the Pilgrim Fathers at Plymouth, he said, “I did not dare to write other than as I was guided. I have continued writing as the Spirit directed, and have not given place to reason.” Boehme was one of those people who suffer much from the enthusiasm and admiration of their friends The latter were responsible for the attack by Pastor Primarius Richter, because of their circulating copies of Aurora, as we have seen. Again, toward the end of 1623, Boehme's friend, Sigismund von Schweinitz published three small works of Boehme, the first of the latter's writings to appear in print. Immediately the enemy in the person of clergyman Richter attacked Jacob Boehme, and once again complained to the magistrates of Goerlitz. This time, since he had broken their injunction against his writing, they ordered Boehme to leave town. Before receiving the sentence of the magistrates, however, Boehme had been invited to visit the Court of the Elector of Saxony in Dresden. Therefore, early in May the shoemaker, exile from Goerlitz arrived in Dresden to attend “a conference of noble people,” as he described it. Boehme was fast becoming famous. The second attack upon him by Pastor Primarius Richter was known widely, and the sale of his writings, which were rapidly appearing in print, steadily increased. He was convinced that in only a short time “the nations will take up what my native town is casting away.” He regarded the invitation to the Elector's Court as an opportunity to defend his works before some of the leading theologians and scholars of his time, and he was right. His devoted student, Dr. Balthazar Walther, had arranged that Boehme was to be a guest in the home of Dr. Benedict Hinckelmann, Walther's successor as director of the Elector's laboratory, and the court physician. Boehme's reception in Dresden was all that his most devoted friends could have desired. He was entertained with consideration and appreciation, and found that important members of the court circle had studied his writings, and welcomed this opportunity to discuss them with him. One of the prominent noblemen of the Elector's household, Joachim von Loss, invited Boehme to visit his castle in order that they might have conversation together. Major Stahlmeister, chief master of horse to the Elector, did everything possible to inform the Elector favorably concerning Boehme's work. Finally, at the request of the Elector, Boehme was examined orally by six eminently learned doctors of theology, and by two mathematicians. As a contemporary account describes it, “The illustrious Elector found great satisfaction in Boehme's answers. He asked Boehme to come to him privately, spoke with him, extended many favors to him, and gave him permission to return to his home in Goerlitz.” At the conclusion of his visit, which lasted nearly two months, Boehme left Dresden, his teachings at least partly accepted. He did not return directly to Goerlitz, but visited three of his noblemen friends on the way. At the home of one of them he was taken ill, and as soon as possible, he hastened home to Goerlitz, where his friend and physician, Dr. Tobias Kober undertook his care. It was not long, however, before Dr. Kober, realizing that Jacob Boehme's death was near, arranged that he should receive the sacrament of the Lord's Supper after he had made a confession of faith. This was done on November, 15 1624. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning of the following Sunday that Jacob Boehme asked his son, Tobias, “Do you hear that beautiful music, my son?” Tobias replied that he did not. Then Boehme said, “Open the door then, so we can hear it better.” He inquired as to the hour, and when he was told that it was not yet three o'clock, he replied, “Then my time has not yet come.” With the first faint touches of Aurora on the eastern sky, Jacob Boehme spoke words of farewell to his wife and children, and with a smile of joyful expectancy on his face, breathed out his spirit with the words, “Now I go to Paradise.” A great crowd of the everyday people of Goerlitz, the shoemakers, tanners, craftsmen, along with devoted students of Boehme's writings, attended his funeral. The pall-bearers were shoemakers of Goerlitz, and the funeral service was conducted by the Lutheran clergyman who succeeded Richter. On the tombstone of porphyry are inscribed the words, “Jacob Boehme, philosophus Teutonicus.” Jacob Boehme once described life as “a curious bath of thorns and thistles,” and his experience witnessed the truth of his words. But all the difficulties of his comparatively short life of forty-nine years were more than compensated by his vision of the greatness of man and of man's destiny. As he wrote, “Man has a spark of the spirit as a supernatural gift of God, to bring forth by degrees a new birth of that life which was lost in Paradise. This sacred spark of the divine nature within man has a natural, strong, almost infinite longing for that eternal spirit of God from which it came forth. It came forth from God, it came out of God; therefore it is always in a state of return to God. All this is called the breathing, the quickening of the Holy Spirit within us, which are so many operations of this spark of life, tending toward God.” 10.In 1548, the year Michelangelo was made chief architect of St. Peter's in Rome, Giordano Bruno was born beneath the shadow of Mount Vesuvius in the little village of Cicala near Nola. His boyhood was passed in the midst of earthquakes, plagues and famine, while robbers and outlaws frequented the hills and fields of his native countryside. His father was a soldier, and the boy was named Philip. At the age of fifteen he was enrolled in the Dominican monastery in Naples, the same cloister where Thomas Aquinas had lived three hundred years before. There he was given the name Giordano, which had been the name of one of the intimate companions of St. Dominic himself. For nearly thirteen years he studied in this monastery, and became learned in the works of the ancient philosophers, particularly of Plotinus and Pythagoras. He was of an independent spirit, and gave considerable concern to his censor on this account. For example, he removed the saints' pictures from his cell, leaving only the crucifix on the wall. When he discovered a monk reading The Seven Joys of Mary, he advised him to read something more rational. He also questioned points in the Church dogma such as the Transsubstantiation, the Trinity, and the Immaculate Conception. At an early age he was deeply impressed with the scientific writings of Copernicus, and after some twenty years of reading them recalled that the force of their teaching still worked strongly upon him. The teachings of the Neo-Platonists and of Nicolas of Cusa formed the basis of his own philosophy, and during his early years he wrote considerable poetry as well. In 1572, when Bruno was twenty-four, he took holy orders, read his first Mass, and began to perform the other priestly functions. About this time he took some of his companions into his confidence, and frankly told them some of the questions he entertained on matters of Church dogma. They lost no time in informing their superiors, and soon the Holy Office of the Inquisition reprimanded Bruno sharply. Plans were made to bring him before a court of the Inquisition, but Bruno secretly left Naples and went to Rome, where he stayed in the Della Minerva Monastery. However, he was not long left in peace. Fra Domenico Vito, provincial of the Order, charged him with heresy, and orders for his arrest were sent to Rome. Letters from friends informed Bruno that soon after his departure from Naples his books which he had hidden, had been discovered, including works by Chrisostom and Hieronymous, with notes by Erasmus. Bruno's situation was very serious, and he left the monastery, divested himself of his Dominican habit, and wandered over the Campagna in the vicinity of the ruins of Hadrian's villa dressed as a poor beggar, which indeed he was. These events occurred in 1576–1577, at about the time of the birth of the painter, Peter Paul Rubens. Now began Bruno's years of wandering, during which he sought to make known the new teachings about the universe as set forth by Copernicus. He also continued his own writings, creating philosophical masterpieces and poetic works of unusual mystical depth and content. He took passage in a ship bound for Genoa, but was unable to land because of the plague and civil war. Therefore he stopped at Noli, on the Riviera, where he taught boys grammar and delivered lectures on the work of Copernicus, the plurality of worlds, and the shape of the earth. But this was too much for the local clergy, and once again Bruno wandered to Turin, where he hoped to obtain an opportunity to lecture in the University through the celebrated patron of scholars, Duke Emmanuele Filberto. However, the latter was under the influence of the Jesuits, and once again Bruno was denied the post he sought. Bruno reached Venice after traveling across northern Italy from Turin, but here too he found that the deadly plague had done its work as in Genoa, and a large part of the inhabitants—including the painter Titian at the age of ninety-nine—had died. However, Venice was the center of the publishing activities of Italy, and Bruno braved the plague in order to have some of his work printed there. Shortly afterward he visited the Dominicans at Padua, and “they persuaded me to wear the habit again, even though I would not profess the religion it implied, because they said it would help in my travels to be thus dressed. And so I put on the white cloth robe and the hood which I had kept by me when I left Rome.” When Bruno arrived in Geneva, the Marchese Galeazzo Carraciola, nephew of Pope Paul IV, also a refugee from persecution by the church, and a member of the Calvinist Protestant religion, befriended him. The Marchese asked him to cease wearing the Dominican habit and to assume the usual dress of the lay scholar, and Bruno did so, never again wearing a religious habit. During his stay in Geneva, Bruno found himself in trouble with Antoine de la Faye, a member of the Academy, because he took exception to one of the latter lectures, and attacked some twenty points in it. Bruno was arrested and imprisoned for a short time, and after his release was informed that he must either adopt Calvinism or leave the city. Shortly after this Bruno entered France, visiting Lyons and afterwards Toulouse. In the latter place he received his Doctors degree, and held the position of professor of philosophy in the university for two years, lecturing to appreciative hearers on astronomy and general philosophical subjects. But again the clergy interfered with his work, and he left Toulouse for Paris, where he arrived in 1581. Henry III, king of France, had heard of Bruno's great gifts as a lecturer, and of his unusual learning, eloquence and memory. Therefore he wished to appoint Bruno to the faculty of the Sorbonne, but before doing so, it was necessary for Bruno to confess and attend Mass as a professing Catholic. Bruno fearlessly and uncompromisingly refused, and so greatly did his honesty and sincerity impress the king that the latter allowed him to assume the position without regard to his scruples concerning religion. The Paris lectures of Giordano Bruno were based on his study of the famous treatise, the Ars Magna, which Raimon Lull, the eminent Majorcan author, Arabic scholar, mystic, educational reformer, and traveler, had written in 1275. In addition, Bruno discussed logic, general philosophy, astronomy, the symbolism of Pythagoras, and the teachings of Copernicus. After two years' teaching in Paris, Bruno was offered the post of secretary to Michel de Castelnau, sieur de Mauvissiere, ambassador to England. Bruno found London in a ferment of excitement, since attempts had recently been made on the life of Queen Elizabeth. Added to this were constant rumors that the Spanish were preparing to launch a massive invasion attempt against the coasts of England, and after Bruno had been in England for about a year, these rumors were confirmed by accurate information that a great Armada was gathering in the Tagus with designs upon England. But politics, rumors of invasion, and tales of military exploit did not interest Bruno. He visited Oxford, and was disappointed with what he found there. From the time he first landed in the country, he had been repelled by what he considered the brutality of English manners in contrast with those he had known in Italy and France. In Protestant Oxford Bruno found a narrowness and sectarian dogmatism entirely foreign to the ideas of objective freedom he believed should prevail among scholars. The presence of the distinguished Polish Prince Johann a Lesco at Oxford was the occasion for a debate in which Bruno defended his new cosmology based on the teachings of the Polish Copernicus, against a group of theologians. Bruno won easily, but was soon forbidden to continue his lectures in Oxford. While Bruno found the manners of the British distasteful, and the attitude of the Oxford scholars hopelessly bigoted, in the person of the Queen he found something to admire. He was frequently invited to private conversations with Elizabeth, who was always happy when she could display her knowledge of Italian, and who appreciated Bruno's learning and charm. In London, Bruno met the brilliant statesman, Sir Philip Sydney, to whom he dedicated one of his works, Lord Bacon of Verulam, and other prominent figures of the Elizabethan court. Bruno's duties at the embassy apparently were not arduous, since he seems to have had time to mingle with the court, to form acquaintances with the leading men of the time (there is a tradition that he met Shakespeare in the printing shop of Thomas Vautrollier), to hold lectures at Oxford, and, most important for posterity, to devote himself to writing. In 1584 while Sir Walter Raleigh's expedition in Virginia was taking place, and the plot involving Mary Queen of Scots was fast coming to a head, Bruno wrote his two most famous metaphysical works, De la Causa, Principio, ed Uno, and D l'Infinito, Universo, e Mondi. Early in 1585, with the plans for an English invasion of the Netherlands taking shape, and the raids on the Spanish American coasts by Sir Francis Drake making certain a crisis with Spain, the French ambassador decided he should return to France for a time. Therefore Bruno left England, probably not too unwillingly, though the years of his English residence were among the most productive and happiest of his life. Bruno's ideas were found acceptable to the superiors of the college of Cambrai, and he found a temporary place among the lecturers there. However, his outspokenness brought him into trouble, for he prepared a thesis of one hundred twenty articles, in which he attacked the philosophy of Aristotle. His works and teaching evoked enthusiasm such as had not been witnessed in academic circles in France since the times of Abèlard. Bruno's theses were printed by permission of the censor, and the debate on them was held on May 5, 1588, at Whitsuntide. At once after his triumph, Bruno left France for Germany, where he hoped to find freedom to lecture. In Marburg he was disappointed, but in Wittenberg he was welcomed, and found the atmosphere congenial to his creative activity. There he produced several more written works. In 1588, with Europe ablaze with the tale of the defeat of the Spanish Armada, and with it the hope of Philip II to crush English Protestantism under the tread of invading Spanish Catholic armies, Bruno decided to visit Prague. From there he went to the university at Helmstadt where he remained for a year, but at the end of that time was driven out by the attacks of Boethius, Lutheran Rector of Helmstadt. Bruno decided to go to Frankfort, where he hoped to prepare and publish several works, but he was not allowed to enter the city. Instead he found refuge in a Carmelite cloister just outside the city, through the kind assistance of the famous publishers, Wechel and Fischer. In the cloister he worked with feverish haste, and produced a number of works which were published. The Prior of the monastery recalled Bruno as “a man of universal mind, skillful in all sciences, but without a trace of religion.” During this period—when he wrote his Seven Liberal Arts—the Frankfort Fair took place, and many publishers from foreign countries were present. There Bruno met the Venetian booksellers, Bertano and Ciotto, and it was the latter who took Bruno's writings to Venice. There these were found by a young nobleman, Giovanni Mocenigo, who read them with great interest, and inquired for details about the author. Sometime later, when Bruno was in Zurich a letter reached him from the young Mocenigo, inviting him to visit him in Venice, promising him safe conduct for the journey. As soon as Bruno's friends heard of the invitation, they urged him not to accept it, for they feared for his safety at the hands of the Inquisition. But Bruno brushed their fears aside. He had confidence in this young nobleman, a member of one of the finest and most honorable families of Venice. Therefore, Bruno crossed the Alps and descended into Italy, arriving in Venice in October, 1591. The first months after Bruno's arrival were filled with scholarly activity. He began to tutor the young Mocenigo, and also lectured privately to German students at Padua, where he was soon to be followed by Galileo. Bruno frequented the Venetian philosophical and literary societies, and was welcomed in the home of Andrea Morosini and of his student Mocenigo. Finally, after some time Bruno decided that he would like to return to Frankfort in order to publish some of his works there. But this was not to be. From the moment he had arrived in Italy the spies of the Inquisition were on his track, and Giovanni Mocenigo cooperated with them. And now that Bruno wished to leave the country, Mocenigo had him arrested, and thrown into the prison of the Inquisition. He was charged with many heresies, most serious being his teaching of the infinity of the universe. Bruno was kept in the prison at Venice for nine months, and at the end of that time was taken in chains to the Bridge of Sighs, and was conveyed through the lagoons to Ancona, where he remained until he was taken to Rome. After torture and solitary confinement at Ancona, Bruno was turned over to the Roman Inquisition, and for seven years he experienced the terrors of the prison of the Holy Office. To the last he refused to give up his beliefs, and defied his opponents in all they brought against him. On February 9, 1600 Bruno was excommunicated with the cries of “Anathema.” On February 6th in the Campo dei Fiori, a Roman flower market, Giordano Bruno was burned at the stake. He was hardly fifty years of age, and his body showed signs of dreadful torture. With his head erect, his eyes showing full consciousness, he walked unassisted to the stake. Rudolf Steiner said in a lecture on January 12, 1923, “The flaming pyre in which Giordano Bruno was put to death in the year 1600 was an outer sign of a most significant phase of inner development ... The flames in Rome are a glorious memorial in history, as Giordano Bruno himself indicated. While he was burning, he said, Something will come into being. And what was destined to come into being, what drew forth the cry, You can put me to death, but not through centuries will my ideas be able to be put to death,—that is precisely what must live on.” 11Shortly after the beginning of the Thirty Years' War, in the year Virginia became a royal colony, with governor and council appointed by the British crown, and two years after New Netherlands was established as a Dutch colony in America, Johannes Scheffler was born in the German city of Breslau in Silesia, in 1624, the year Jacob Boehme died. When Johannes was five, his mother enrolled him and his brother at the Elizabeth Gymnasium in Breslau, shortly before her death. At the age of nineteen Johannes Scheffler matriculated at the University of Strassburg, where he intended to study medicine and law. After a year at Strassburg, he entered the University of Leyden and remained there two years. While he was at Leyden Scheffler discovered the works of Jacob Boehme, which had been published at Amsterdam in 1642. As he expressed it, “When one is in Holland, all sorts of things come one's way.” From Leyden, Scheffler went to the greatest medical school at that time, the University of Padua, where he received his degree of Doctor of Medicine and Philosophy in 1648. At about this time he wrote in the album of one of his fellow students, Mundus nihil pulcherrimum, The world is a very beautiful Nothing. In 1649 Johannes Scheffler was appointed Court physician to the strict Lutheran Duke Sylvanus Nimrod at Oels in Württemberg. Shortly before Scheffler arrived in Oels, the town of four thousand inhabitants had been reduced to less than two thousand, due to an action which had been fought there in the Thirty Years' War. The cattle had been killed, crops destroyed, houses ruined, and even the castle of the Duke was slightly damaged. At the same time that Scheffler came to Oels, an older man also arrived in the town. He had been born there fifty-six years before, and was destined to play an important role in the life of Scheffler. This man was Abraham von Franckenberg, whom we have already met as the friend and biographer of Boehme; as Scheffler's friend he was to guide the latter on his spiritual path. Years before, von Franckenberg had given over his estate to his eldest son, and had reserved only two small rooms in the house for himself, where he studied and lived. During the plagues which swept over the district from time to time, he was of great help to the sick. It was at a time of plague that he met Jacob Boehme, and eventually printed the latter's writings at his own expense. Von Franckenberg studied Kaballa, alchemy, the works of Giordano Bruno and Copernicus, with the single aim of solving the secrets of the science of nature. Because of his studies von Franckenberg was attacked by the Lutheran clergy, and finally left Oels in 1641, and went to Danzig where he lived for eight years as the guest of the famous astronomer, Helvelius. From Danzig he returned to Oels in 1649. When he was asked by the Duke if he was a Catholic, a Lutheran, or a Calvinist, von Franckenberg answered, “I am the heart of all these religions.” Johannes Scheffler was attracted to von Franckenberg at their first meeting, and soon the young physician became the devoted student of the older scientist. Long hours were spent by the two of them in von Franckenberg's little rooms discussing Boehme, alchemy, astronomy, the mystics of medieval times, and so on. Two and one-half years after their meeting, von Franckenberg died, and bequeathed many of his precious books and manuscripts to Scheffler. Among these works, which Scheffler referred to as “a real pharmacy of the soul,” were the Theologia Germanica, the writings of Boehme, Weigel, Paracelsus, Bruno, Tauler and Rulwin Merswin. One volume of this collection is preserved, and bears the date 1652 inscribed on the flyleaf, and in the handwriting of Scheffler, the words, “From my faithful friend, Abraham von Franckenberg.” Another volume from this collection also contains extensive notations in Scheffler's handwriting. Shortly after von Franckenberg's death, Scheffler decided to write a book composed of passages from his favorite mystical authors. This he intended to issue as a New Year gift volume. As a matter of course the printer submitted the book to Christoph Freytag, court chaplain and censor. Freytag struck out long passages, and not only refused to give his imprimatur, but also declined to so much as speak with Scheffler about it. This was a turning-point in Scheffler's spiritual life. He realized that the Lutheran church could no longer be his religious home. He resigned his post, left Oels immediately, and returned to Breslau. Among the writers whom Scheffler had quoted in his book, many were Catholic. Now he began to read Catholic books more and more, spending some months in Breslau in thorough study of them. On June 12, 1653 Johannes Scheffler embraced the Roman Catholic faith. As Abraham von Franckenberg had been a strong influence in Scheffler's life at one point, now a second man exerted a powerful effect upon him. This was Sebastian von Rostock, born the son of a poor ropemaker, now the vicar general of the diocese of Breslau. As a simple parish priest in the village of Niesse he had witnessed the hardships of the Thirty Years' War. For example, when the Lutheran armies rounded up many Catholics and imprisoned them in buildings, he risked his life by climbing in the windows to give them spiritual consolation. One day while he was walking through the forest, he was set upon by a Lutheran cavalryman. He drew his sword, which all men, clergymen or not had to wear at that time for self-protection, returned the attack, and killed his opponent. However, the instant the cavalryman fell from his horse, von Rostock rushed to him in order to give him absolution that he might die in a state of grace. In the Catholic Counter-Reformation of 1653–1654, von Rostock was extremely severe on the Lutherans, with the result that over two hundred fifty churches were returned to Catholic use in Silesia alone. At this point, however, von Rostock wished to have some proof that Lutherans were finding it possible to embrace the Catholic faith without pressure or force. Therefore the free conversion of the celebrated former court physician, Johannes Scheffler, was precisely the example he was looking for. He sought out Scheffler, who by this time had decided to change his name. First he adopted the name of Johannes de Angelis, a Spanish mystic of the sixteenth century, calling himself Johannes Angelus. But he discovered that there existed a certain Protestant doctor of theology, Johannes Angelus of Darmstadt, so he added “Silesius” from his birthplace, calling himself Johannes Angelus Silesius, by which he is known to posterity. Sebastian von Rostock invited Angelus Silesius to his palace, and after talking with him arranged that the Austrian Emperor, Frederick III would give him the title of Court physician, but without either duties or salary. Nevertheless the title alone gave Angelus Silesius good reputation in Catholic circles particularly. More important, however, is the fact that von Rostock give his imprimatur to Angelus Silesius' Geistreiche Sinn und Schlussreime, Witty Sayings and End-Rhymes, which, when it was reprinted in 1674 was given the name by which it has since become famous, Cherubinischer Wandersmann, The Cherubinean Wanderer. The book was approved in July, 1656, but was not published until 1657, the year before the birth of the English composer, Henry Purcell. In 1674 Angelus Silesius' collection of some two hundred poems was published under the title, Heilige Seelenlust, oder geistliche Hirtenlieder der in ihren Jesum verliebten Psyche, Holy Ecstasies, or Sacred Shepherd Songs in Adoration of Jesus. From this collection, several poems were eventually included in the Lutheran hymnal, and today are among the best-loved hymns of the Protestant church. Angelus Silesius became extremely zealous in developing the activities of the Catholic church in Breslau. Now a Franciscan priest, he organized the first Catholic procession held in Breslau for well over a century. And to drive the lesson home to observers, Angelus Silesius himself carried the cross and wore the crown of thorns in the procession. The next twelve years were a period of intense controversy, for in that time Angelus Silesius wrote and published some fifty-five attacks on Protestantism, most of them extremely bitter. Finally he was persuaded to give up this activity by the superior of his Order. In 1664 Angelus Silesius was appointed marshal and counsellor to Sebastian von Rostock, who meanwhile had become Prince-Bishop of Breslau. Seven years later the Prince-Bishop died suddenly, and a sadness settled upon Angelus Silesius which did not leave him until death. Just as Sebastian von Rostock had appeared after the death of Abraham von Franckenberg, now a third man befriended Angelus Silesius. This was Bernard Rose, Abbot of the Cistercian monastery of Grüssau, and Vicar General of the Cistercians in Silesia. Abbot Rose was a man of great strength, kindness of heart, a stern disciplinarian in his monastery, and a firm supporter of the Counter-Reformation. The monastery of Grüssau was located about fifty miles from Breslau, and was noted for its hospitality to all who knocked at its gates. Angelus Silesius was received with warmth and kindliness at Grüssau. He found understanding, support, and comfort, of inestimable value to him, since now he was a dying man. The months he lived at Grüssau were spent in writing, meditation, and prayer. There he completed his last work, the Ecclesiologia, which he dedicated to Abbot Bernard Rose, his friend. The last three months of Angelus Silesius' life were marked by severe suffering, but through it all he was able to maintain an attitude of inner calm, of lofty spiritual vision, and of clear consciousness. He died on July 9, 1677, and to the last moment of his life he never ceased to manifest the spirit of love and peace which had settled upon him during his severe illness. In his last days Angelus Silesius repeated again and again, “Tranquillity is the best treasure that one can have.” In the Loggia di San Paolo on the south side of the square, opposite the Church of Santa Maria Novella in Florence is a famous terra cotta relief created by Andrea della Robbia sometime around 1492. Influenced by a work of Fra Angelico, it depicts the historic meeting between St. Francis and St. Dominic. When one contemplates what is represented there, one is reminded of the Scripture, “Mercy and truth are met together.” An Italian, whose life-work was centered in a love which is ever merciful, embraces a Spaniard, whose striving for truth was expressed in knowledge of the eternal spirit. Rudolf Steiner once observed that “External events, which at first glance seem to be trifling occurrences in the course of history, are deeply and inwardly rooted in the evolution of mankind.” In this sense, this artistic creation, fashioned at the moment of emergence of the modern world, portraying the meeting of the founders of two great streams of spiritual aspiration which arose in the Middle Ages, bearing the classic Platonic and Aristotelian impulses into later times, expresses their significance in the development of mankind. The series of eleven men around whom this book is created, begins with Meister Eckhart, a Dominican, and concludes with Angelus Silesius, a Franciscan. Midway between the two Rudolf Steiner places Henry Conelius, Agrippa of Nettesheim, typical of the “new man” of the Renaissance: scholar, courtier, diplomat, physician, master of the “new learning” which came to the fore at the dawn of the modern age. Between the Dominicans, for whom the ideal picture of the world was embodied in the word Order, and the Franciscans, for whom the essence of creation was expressed in the word Love, Rudolf Steiner has placed the figure whom he calls “a protagonist for a genuine science of nature.” In the lives of these eleven men is united the progressive unfoldment of ideas and events at a moment of supreme importance in the course of man's life on earth. Their struggles, tensions, and resolutions epitomize the historical process as it unveiled itself in the important development then taking place in the evolution of humanity. In their life-experiences we see the birth-pangs of the appearance of a new stage in the life of mankind—the dawn of the modern age. |
| 7. Mysticism at the Dawn of the Modern Age: Agrippa of Nettesheim and Theophrastus Paracelsus
Translated by Karl E. Zimmer Rudolf Steiner |
|---|
| In suggestion we can see an acting of man on man, which points to an interrelationship between beings in nature that is obscured by the higher activity of the spirit. In this connection it becomes possible to understand what Paracelsus interprets as an “astral body.” It is the sum of the natural influences to which we are exposed or can be exposed through special circumstances, which emanate from us without involving our soul, and which nevertheless do not fall under the concept of purely physical phenomena. |
| When he says that the “divine word” called forth the plurality of beings from the primordial matter, this is only to be understood in somewhat the same manner as the relationship of force to matter is to be understood in modern natural science. |
| For instance, he ascribes to man a twofold flesh, that is, a twofold corporeal constitution. “The flesh must therefore he understood to be of two kinds, namely, the flesh whose origin is in Adam, and the flesh which is not from Adam. |
| 7. Mysticism at the Dawn of the Modern Age: Agrippa of Nettesheim and Theophrastus Paracelsus
Translated by Karl E. Zimmer Rudolf Steiner |
|---|
[ 1 ] The road which is indicated by the way of thinking of Nicolas of Cusa was walked by Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa of Nettesheim (1487–1535) and Theophrastus Paracelsus (1493–1541). They immerse themselves in nature and, as comprehensively as possible, seek to explore its laws with all the means their period makes available to them. In this knowledge of nature they see at the same time the true foundation for all higher cognition. They themselves seek to develop the latter out of natural science by letting science be reborn in the spirit. [ 2 ] Agrippa of Nettesheim led an eventful life. He was descended from a noble family and was born in Cologne. He studied medicine and jurisprudence at an early age and sought to inform himself about natural phenomena in the way customary at the time in certain circles and societies, or by contact with a number of scholars who carefully kept secret whatever insights they gained into nature. With such purposes he repeatedly went to Paris, to Italy, and to England, and he also visited the famous Abbot Trithemius of Sponheim in Würzburg. He taught in scientific institutions at various times and here and there entered the services of rich and noble personages, at whose disposal he placed his talents as a statesman and scientist. If his biographers describe the services he rendered as not always above reproach, if it is said that he acquired money under the pretext of being adept in secret arts, and of securing various advantages to people by means of these arts, this is counterbalanced by his unmistakable and ceaseless urge to acquire the entire learning of his time honestly and to make this learning deeper in the spirit of a higher cognition of the world. In him distinctly appears the endeavor to achieve a clear position with regard to natural science on the one hand, with regard to higher cognition on the other. Such a position is attained only by one who has an insight into the ways by which one reaches the one and the other cognition. Just as it is true that at last natural science must be raised into the region of the spirit if it is to lead into higher cognition, so it is true that it must at first remain in the field proper to it if it is to provide the right foundation for a higher level. The “spirit in nature” exists only for the spirit. As certainly as nature is in this sense spiritual, as certain is it that nothing perceived in nature by bodily organs is immediately spiritual. Nothing spiritual can appear to my eye as being spiritual. I must not seek the spirit as such in nature. I do this when I interpret a process of the external world in an immediately spiritual way: when, for instance, I ascribe to plants a soul which is only distantly analogous to the human soul. I also do this when I ascribe a spatial or temporal existence to the spirit or the soul itself; when, for instance, I say of the eternal human soul that it lives in time without the body, but still in the manner of a body, rather than as pure spirit. Or when I even believe that the spirit of a deceased person can show itself in some kind of sensorily perceptible manifestations. Spiritualism, which commits this error, thereby only shows that it has not penetrated to the true conception of the spirit, but wants to see the spirit directly in something grossly sensory. It fails to understand the nature of the sensory as well as that of the spirit. It deprives of spirit the ordinary sensory phenomena, which take place hour by hour before our eyes, in order to consider something rare, surprising, unusual as spirit in a direct sense. It does not understand that for one who is capable of seeing the spirit, what lives as “spirit in nature” reveals itself, for instance, in the collision of two elastic spheres, and not only in processes which are striking because of their rarity and cannot be immediately grasped in their natural context. In addition, the spiritualist draws the spirit down into a lower sphere. Instead of explaining something that takes place in space and that he perceives with the senses by means of forces and beings which in turn are only spatial and sensorily perceptible, he has recourse to “spirits,” which he thus equates completely with the sensorily perceptible. Such a way of thinking is based on a lack of capacity for spiritual comprehension. One is not capable of looking at the spiritual in a spiritual manner, therefore with mere sensory beings one satisfies one's need for the presence of the spirit. To such people the spirit does not show any spirit; therefore they seek it with the senses. As they see clouds sailing through the air, so they also want to see spirits hurrying along. [ 3 ] Agrippa of Nettesheim fights for a true natural science, which does not attempt to explain the phenomena of nature by spiritual beings which haunt the world of the senses, but sees in nature only the natural, in the spirit only the spiritual.—One would of course completely misunderstand Agrippa if one were to compare his natural science with that of later centuries, which has altogether different data at its disposal. In such a comparison it might easily appear that he still refers what is due only to natural causes, or based on erroneous data, to the direct action of spirits. Moritz Carriere does him this injustice when he says—although not with ill will—, “Agrippa gives a long list of the things which belong to the sun, the moon, the planets, or the fixed stars, and receive their influences; for instance, related to the sun are fire, blood, laurel, gold, chrysolite; they bestow the gift of the sun: courage, serenity, light ... The animals have a sense of nature which, more exalted than human reason, approaches the spirit of prophecy ... Men can be enjoined to love and hate, to sickness and health. Thus one puts a spell upon thieves that enjoins them from stealing somewhere, upon merchants so that they cannot trade, ships and mills so that they cannot move, lightning so that it cannot strike. This is done with potions, salves, images, rings, charms; the blood of hyenas or basilisks is suitable for this purpose,—one is reminded of Shakespeare's witches' cauldron.” No, one is not reminded of it, if one understands Agrippa aright. He did of course believe in things which were considered to be indubitable in his time. But we do this today also with regard to what is nowadays considered “factual.” Or is one to believe that future centuries also will not throw much of what we set up as indubitable facts into the store-room of “blind” superstition? It is true that I am convinced that there is a real progress in man's knowledge of facts. When the “fact” that the earth is round had once been discovered, all earlier suppositions were banished into the realm of “superstition.” Thus it is with certain truths of astronomy, of biology, etc. The doctrine of natural descent, in comparison with all earlier “hypotheses of creation,” represents a progress similar to the insight that the earth is round compared to all previous suppositions concerning its shape. Nevertheless I am aware that there is many a “fact” in our learned scientific works and treatises which will no more appear as fact to future centuries than does much of what is maintained by Agrippa and Paracelsus to us today. It is not a matter of what they considered to be a “fact,” but of the spirit in which they interpreted these facts.—In Agrippa's time one found, it is true, little comprehension of the “natural magic” which he advocated, and which seeks in nature the natural, and the spiritual only in the spirit; men clung to the “supernatural magic” which seeks the spiritual in the realm of the sensory, and against which Agrippa fought. This is why the Abbot Trithemius of Sponheim advised him to communicate his views as a secret doctrine only to a few chosen ones, who were able to rise to a similar conception of nature and spirit, for “one gives only hay to oxen and not sugar, as to songbirds.” It is perhaps to this abbot that Agrippa himself owes the right point of view. In his Steganographie, Steganography, Trithemius has written a work in which he treats, with the most veiled irony, the way of thinking which confounds nature with the spirit. In this book he appears to speak entirely of supernatural phenomena. One who reads it as it stands must believe that the author is speaking of the conjuring of spirits, of the flying of spirits through the air, etc. But if one omits certain words and letters of the text there remain, as Wolfgang Ernst Heidel showed in the year 1676, letters which, when assembled into words, describe purely natural phenomena. (In one case for instance, in a formula of incantation, one must completely omit the first and the last word, and then cross out the second, fourth, sixth, etc. of those remaining. In the remaining words one must again cross out the first, third, fifth, etc. letter. What remains, one then assembles into words, and the formula of incantation is transformed into a communication of a purely natural content.) [ 4 ] How difficult it was for Agrippa to work his way out of the prejudices of his time and to raise himself to a pure conception, is proven by the fact that he did not let his Philosophia occulta, Secret Philosophy, appear until the year 1531, although it had been composed as early as 1510, because he considered it to be immature. Further evidence of this is given in his work, De vanitate scientiarum, Of the Vanity of the Sciences, where he speaks with bitterness about the scientific and general activity of his time. There he says quite plainly that only with difficulty has he liberated himself from the delusion of those who see in external events direct spiritual processes, in external facts prophetic hints about the future, etc. Agrippa proceeds to the higher cognition in three stages. At the first stage he deals with the world as it is presented to the senses, with its substances, and its physical, chemical, and other forces. Insofar as it is viewed at this stage he calls nature elemental. At the second stage one regards the world as a whole in its natural connections, in the way it arranges everything belonging to it according to measurements, number, weight, harmony, etc. The first stage brings those things together which are in close proximity to each other. It seeks the causes of a phenomenon which lie in its immediate environment. The second stage looks at a single phenomenon in connection with the whole universe. It carries out the idea that each thing is under the influence of all the remaining things of the universal whole. This universal whole appears to it as a great harmony, of which every separate entity is a part. The world, seen from this point of view, is designated by Agrippa as the astral or celestial one. The third stage of cognition is that where the spirit, through immersion in itself, looks directly upon the spiritual, the primordial essence of the world. Here Agrippa speaks of the spiritual-soul world. [ 5 ] The views which Agrippa developed about the world and man's relationship to it we encounter in a similar, but more complete form in Theophrastus Paracelsus. They are therefore better considered in connection with the latter. [ 6 ] Paracelsus characterizes himself when he writes under his portrait, “No one who can stand alone by himself should be the servant of another.” His whole position with regard to cognition is given in these words. Everywhere he himself wants to go back to the foundations of natural science in order to ascend, through his own powers, to the highest regions of cognition. As a physician he does not simply want to accept, like his contemporaries, what the old investigators who at the time were considered authorities, as for instance Galen or Avicenna, had affirmed in times gone by; he himself wants to read directly in the book of nature. “The physician must pass through the examination of nature, which is the world, and all its causation. And what nature teaches him he must commend to his wisdom, not seeking anything in his wisdom, but only in the light of nature.” He does not recoil from anything in order to become acquainted with nature and its manifestations from all sides. For this purpose he travels to Sweden, Hungary, Spain, Portugal, and the Orient. He can say of himself, “I have pursued the art in danger of my life and have not been ashamed to learn from strollers, hangmen, and barbers. My teachings have been tested more severely than silver in poverty, anxiety, wars, and perils.” What has been handed down from old authorities has no value for him, for he believes that he can only attain the right conception if he himself experiences the ascent from natural science to the highest cognition. This experiencing in his own person puts the proud words in his mouth, “One who wants to pursue the truth must come into my realm ... After me, not I after you, Avicenna, Rhases, Galen, Mesur! After me, and I not after you, you of Paris, you of Montpellier, you of Swabia, you of Meissen, you of Cologne, you of Vienna, and whatever lies on the Danube and the river Rhine, you islands in the sea, you Italy, you Dalmatia, you Athens, you Greek, you Arab, you Israelite; after me, and I not after you! Mine is the realm!”—It is easy to misjudge Paracelsus because of his rough exterior, which sometimes hides deep seriousness behind jest. He himself says, “Nature has not made me subtle, nor have I been raised on figs and white bread, but rather on cheese, milk, and oat bread, and therefore I may well be uncivil to the hyperclean and the superfine; for those who were brought up in soft clothes and we, who were brought up among fir-cones, do not understand each other well. Thus I must seem rough, though to myself I appear gracious. How can I not be strange for one who has never gone wandering in the sun?” [ 7 ] Goethe has described the relationship of man to nature (in his book on Winkelmann) in the following beautiful sentences: “When the healthy nature of man acts as a whole, when he feels himself to be in the world as in a great, beautiful, noble, and valued whole, when harmonious ease affords him a pure and free delight, then the universe, if it could experience itself, would exult, as having attained its goal, and admire the climax of its own becoming and essence.” Paracelsus is deeply penetrated with a sentiment like the one that expresses itself in such sentences. Out of this sentiment the mystery of man shapes itself for him. Let us see how this happens, in Paracelsus' sense. At first the road which nature has taken in order to bring forth its highest achievement is hidden from the human powers of comprehension. It has attained this climax; but this climax does not say, I feel myself to be the whole of nature; this climax says, I feel myself to be this single man. What in reality is an act of the whole world feels itself to be a single, solitary being, standing by itself. Indeed, this is the true nature of man, that he must feel himself as being something other than what, in the final analysis, he is. And if this is a contradiction, then man can be called a contradiction come to life. Man in his own way is the world. His harmony with the world he regards as a duality. He is the same as the world is, but he is this as a repetition, as a separate being. This is the contrast which Paracelsus perceives as microcosm (man) and macrocosm (universe). For him man is the world in little. What causes man to regard his relationship with the world in this way is his spirit. This spirit appears to be bound to a single being, to a single organism. By its whole nature, this organism belongs to the great chain of the universe. It is a link in it, and has its existence only in connection with all the others. The spirit, however, appears to be an outcome of this single organism. At first it sees itself as connected only with this organism. It tears this organism loose from the native soil out of which it grew. For Paracelsus a deep connection between man and the entire universe thus lies hidden in the natural foundation of existence, a connection which is obscured by the presence of the spirit. For us humans, the spirit, which leads us to higher cognition by communicating knowledge to us and by causing this knowledge to be reborn on a higher level, has at first the effect of obscuring for us our own connection with the universe. For Paracelsus human nature thus at first falls into three parts: into our sensory-corporeal nature, our organism, which appears to us as a natural being among other natural beings, and which is just like all other natural beings; into our hidden nature, which is a link in the chain of the whole world, which thus is not enclosed within our organism, but sends out and receives influences to and from the whole universe; and into the highest nature, our spirit, which lives its life only in a spiritual manner. The first part of human nature Paracelsus calls the elemental body; the second the ethereal-celestial or “astral body;” the third part he calls soul.—In the “astral” phenomena Paracelsus thus sees an intermediate level between the purely corporeal phenomena and the true phenomena of the soul. They will become visible when the spirit, which obscures the natural foundation of our existence, ceases its activity. We can see the simplest manifestation of this realm in the world of dreams. The images which flit through our dreams, with their peculiar, significant connection with events in our environment and with our own internal states, are products of our natural foundation which are obscured by the brighter light of the soul. When a chair collapses near my bed, and I dream a whole drama, which ends with a shot fired in a duel, or when I have palpitations of the heart, and dream of a seething stove, then meaningful and significant natural manifestations are appearing which reveal a life lying between the purely organic functions and the thinking processes taking place in the bright consciousness of the spirit. With this realm are connected all the phenomena which belong to the field of hypnotism and of suggestion. In suggestion we can see an acting of man on man, which points to an interrelationship between beings in nature that is obscured by the higher activity of the spirit. In this connection it becomes possible to understand what Paracelsus interprets as an “astral body.” It is the sum of the natural influences to which we are exposed or can be exposed through special circumstances, which emanate from us without involving our soul, and which nevertheless do not fall under the concept of purely physical phenomena. That in this field Paracelsus enumerates facts which we doubt today, has no importance when looked at from the point of view I have already adduced above.—On the basis of such views of human nature Paracelsus divides the latter into seven parts. They are the same as we find in the teachings of the ancient Egyptians, among the Neoplatonists, and in the Cabala. Man is first of all a physical-corporeal being; hence he is subject to the same laws to which every body is subject. In this sense he is thus a purely elemental body. The purely corporeal-physical laws combine in the organic life process. Paracelsus designates the organic laws as “Archaeus” or “Spiritus vitae;” the organic raises itself to spiritlike manifestations which are not yet spirit. These are the “astral” manifestations. From the “astral” processes emerge the functions of the “animal spirit.” Man is a sense being. He combines his sensory impressions in a rational manner by means of his reason. Thus the “rational soul” awakens in him. He immerses himself in his own spiritual products; he learns to recognize the spirit as spirit. Therewith he has raised himself to the level of the “spiritual soul.” At last he understands that in this spiritual soul he experiences the deepest stratum of the universal existence; the spiritual soul ceases to be an individual, separate one. The insight takes place of which Eckhart spoke when he felt that it was no longer he himself who spoke in him, but the primordial essence. Now that condition prevails in which the universal spirit regards itself in man. Paracelsus has expressed the feeling aroused by this condition in the simple words: “And this which you must consider is something great: there is nothing in Heaven and on earth which is not in man. And God, who is in Heaven, is in man.”—It is nothing but facts of external and internal experience that Paracelsus wants to express with these seven fundamental parts of human nature. That what for human experience falls into a plurality of seven parts is in higher reality a unity, is not thereby brought into question. The higher cognition exists precis to show the unity in everything which in his immediate experience appears to man as a plurality because of his corporeal and spiritual organization. On the level of the highest cognition Paracelsus strives to fuse the living, uniform, primordial essence of the world with his spirit. But he knows that man can only know nature in its spirituality if he enters into immediate intercourse with it. Man does not understand nature by peopling it, on his own, with arbitrarily assumed spiritual entities, but by accepting and valuing it as it is as nature. Paracelsus therefore does not seek God or the spirit in nature; but for him nature, as it presents itself to his eye, is immediately divine. Must one first attribute to the plant a soul like the human soul in order to find the spiritual? Therefore Paracelsus explains the development of things, insofar as this is possible with the scientific resources of his time, entirely in such a way that he regards this development as a sensory process of nature. He lets everything arise out of the primordial matter, the primordial water (Yliaster). And he regards as a further process of nature the separation of the primordial matter (which he also calls the great limbus) into the four elements, water, earth, fire, and air. When he says that the “divine word” called forth the plurality of beings from the primordial matter, this is only to be understood in somewhat the same manner as the relationship of force to matter is to be understood in modern natural science. A “spirit” in the real sense is not yet present on this level. This “spirit” is not an actual cause of the natural process, but an actual result of this process. This spirit does not create nature, but develops out of it. Many words of Paracelsus could be interpreted in the opposite sense. Thus, for instance, he says: “There is nothing corporeal that does not carry a living spirit hidden within it. And not only that has life which stirs and moves, such as men, animals, the worms in the earth, the birds in the sky, and the fish in the water, but all corporeal and substantial things.” But with such sayings Paracelsus only wants to warn against the superficial view of nature which thinks that it can exhaust the nature of a thing with a few “rammed-in” concepts (to use Goethe's apt expression). He does not want to inject an invented nature into things, but rather to set all the faculties of man in motion in order to bring forth what actually lies within a thing.—It is important not to let oneself be misled by the fact that Paracelsus expresses himself in the spirit of his time. Rather, one should try to understand what he has in mind when, looking upon nature, he sets forth his ideas in the forms of expression of his time. For instance, he ascribes to man a twofold flesh, that is, a twofold corporeal constitution. “The flesh must therefore he understood to be of two kinds, namely, the flesh whose origin is in Adam, and the flesh which is not from Adam. The flesh that is from Adam is a coarse flesh, for it is earthly and nothing but flesh, and is to be bound and grasped like wood and stone. The other flesh is not from Adam; it is a subtle flesh and is not to be bound or grasped, for it is not made of earth.” What is the flesh that is from Adam? It is all that has come down to man through his natural development, which he has therefore inherited. To this is added what in the course of time man has acquired for himself in intercourse with his environment. The modern scientific concepts of inherited characteristics and of characteristics acquired through adaptation emerge from the above-mentioned thought of Paracelsus. The “subtler flesh,” which makes man capable of spiritual activities, has not been in man from the beginning. He was “coarse flesh” like the animals, a flesh that “is to be bound and grasped like wood and stone.” In the scientific sense the soul is therefore also an acquired characteristic of the “coarse flesh.” What the natural scientist of the nineteenth century has in mind when he speaks of the inheritances from the animal world, is what Paracelsus means when he uses the expression about “the flesh whose origin is in Adam.” These remarks, of course, are not intended to obliterate the difference which exists between a natural scientist of the sixteenth and one of the nineteenth century. After all, it was only the latter century which was capable of seeing, in the full scientific sense, the forms of living organisms in such a connection that their natural relationship and their actual descent as far as man became evident. Science sees only a natural process where Linnè in the eighteenth century still saw a spiritual process, which he characterized in the following words: “There are as many species of living organisms as there were, in principle, forms that were created.” While Linnè thus had to transfer the spirit into the spatial world and assign to it the task of producing spiritually, of “creating” the forms of life, the natural science of the nineteenth century could ascribe to nature what is nature's and to the spirit what is the spirit's. Nature itself is assigned the task of explaining its creations, and the spirit can immerse itself into itself where it alone is to be found, within man.—But while in a certain sense Paracelsus thinks quite in the spirit of his time, yet just with regard to the idea of development, of becoming, he has grasped the relationship of man to nature in a profound manner. In the primordial essence of the world he did not see something which in some way exists as something finished, but he grasped the divine in its becoming. Hence he could really ascribe a self-creating activity to man. If the divine primordial essence exists, once and for all a true creating by man is out of the question. Then it is not man, who lives in time, who creates, but God, Who is eternal. For Him there is only an eternal becoming, and man is a link in this eternal becoming. That which man forms did not previously exist in any way. What man creates, as he creates it, is an original creation. If it is to be called divine, this can only be in the sense in which it exists as a human creation. Therefore in the building of the universe Paracelsus can assign to man a role which makes him a co-architect in this creation. The divine primordial essence without man is not what it is with man. “For nature brings forth nothing into the light of day which is complete as it stands; rather, man must complete it.” This self-creating activity of man in the building of nature, Paracelsus calls alchemy. “This completion is alchemy. Thus the alchemist is the baker when he bakes the bread, the vintager when he makes the wine, the weaver when he makes the cloth.” Paracelsus wants to be an alchemist in his field, as a physician. “Therefore I may well write so much here concerning alchemy, so that you can know it well and learn what it is and how it is to be understood, nor be vexed that it is to bring you neither gold nor silver. Rather see that the arcana (remedies) are revealed to you ... The third pillar of medicine is alchemy, for the preparation of remedies cannot take place without it, because nature cannot be put to use without art.” [ 8 ] Thus Paracelsus' eyes are directed in the strictest sense upon nature, in order to discover from nature itself what it has to say about its products. He wants to investigate the laws of chemistry in order to work as an alchemist in his sense. He considers all bodies to be composed of three basic substances, namely, of salt, sulphur, and mercury. What he so designates of course does not correspond to what later chemistry designates by this name, any more than what Paracelsus considers to be a basic substance is one in the sense of later chemistry. Different things are designated by the same names at different times. What the ancients called the four elements, earth, water, air, and fire, we still have. We call these four “elements” no longer “elements” but states of aggregation, for which we have the designations: solid, liquid, aeriform, etheriform. Earth, for instance, for the ancients was not earth but the “solid.” The three basic substances of Paracelsus we can also recognize in contemporary concepts, but not under the homonymous contemporary names. For Paracelsus, solution in a liquid and combustion are the two important chemical processes of which he makes use. If a body is dissolved or burned it is decomposed into its parts. Something remains as residue; something is dissolved or burns. For him the residue is salt-like, the soluble (liquid), mercury-like; the combustible he calls sulphurous. [ 9 ] One who does not look beyond such natural processes may be left cold by them as by things of a material and prosaic nature; one who at all costs wants to grasp the spirit with the senses will people these processes with all kinds of spiritual beings. But like Paracelsus, one who knows how to look at such processes in connection with the universe, which reveals its secret within man, accepts these processes as they present themselves to the senses; he does not first reinterpret them; for as the natural processes stand before us in their sensory reality, in their own way they reveal the mystery of existence. What through this sensory reality these processes reveal out of the soul of man, occupies a higher position for one who strives for the light of higher cognition than do all the supernatural miracles concerning their so-called “spirit” which man can devise or have revealed to him. There is no “spirit of nature” which can utter more exalted truths than the great works of nature themselves, when our soul unites itself with this nature in friendship, and, in familiar intercourse, hearkens to the revelations of its secrets. Such a friendship with nature, Paracelsus sought. |
| 7. Mysticism at the Dawn of the Modern Age: Cardinal Nicolas of Cusa
Translated by Karl E. Zimmer Rudolf Steiner |
|---|
| Such a person can easily be misled into the belief that there is only one way of knowing. He will then either under—or over—estimate this knowing, which leads to the goal in things pertaining to the different sciences. |
| If he shuts himself off from seeing, he foregoes the nature of things; if he were to shut himself off from sensory knowing, he would deprive himself of the things whose nature he wants to understand.—The same things reveal themselves to the lower understanding and to the higher seeing, only they do this at one time with regard to their external appearance, at the other time with regard to their inner essence. |
| He must find the way back to nature through his own resources. He must understand that now he himself must integrate his wealth into the chain of universal effects, as nature herself had integrated his poverty before. |
| 7. Mysticism at the Dawn of the Modern Age: Cardinal Nicolas of Cusa
Translated by Karl E. Zimmer Rudolf Steiner |
|---|
[ 1 ] A gloriously shining star in the firmament of medieval spiritual life is Nicolas Chrypffs of Cusa (near Treves, 1401–1464) He stands upon the heights of the learning of his time. In mathematics he has produced outstanding work. In natural science he may be described as the precursor of Copernicus, for he held the point of view that the earth is a moving heavenly body like others. He had already broken with the view on which the great astronomer, Tycho Brahe, still relied a hundred years later when he flung the following sentence against the teaching of Copernicus: “The earth is a coarse and heavy mass, unsuited for movement; how can Copernicus make a star of it and lead it around in the atmosphere?” Nicolas of Cusa, who not only encompassed the knowledge of his time but developed it further, also to a high degree had the capacity of awakening this knowledge to an inner life, so that it not only elucidates the external world but also procures for man that spiritual life for which he must long from the most profound depths of his soul. If one compares Nicolas with such spirits as Eckhart or Tauler, one reaches an important conclusion. Nicolas is the scientific thinker who wants to raise himself to a higher view as the result of his research into the things of the world; Eckhart and Tauler are the believing confessors who seek the higher life through the contents of their faith. Nicolas finally reaches the same inner life as Meister Eckhart, but the content of the inner life of the former is a rich learning. The full meaning of the difference becomes clear when one considers that for one who interests himself in the various sciences there is a real danger of misjudging the scope of the way of knowing which elucidates the different fields of learning. Such a person can easily be misled into the belief that there is only one way of knowing. He will then either under—or over—estimate this knowing, which leads to the goal in things pertaining to the different sciences. In the one case he will approach objects of the highest spiritual life in the same way as a problem in physics, and deal with them in terms of concepts that he uses to deal with the force of gravity and with electricity. According to whether he considers himself to be more or less enlightened, to him the world becomes a blindly acting mechanism, an organism, the functional construction of a personal God, or perhaps a structure directed and penetrated by a more or less clearly imagined “world soul.” In the other case he notices that the particular knowledge of which he has experience is useful only for the things of the sensory world; then he becomes a skeptic who says to himself: we cannot know anything about the things which lie beyond the world of the senses. Our knowledge has a boundary. As far as the needs of the higher life are concerned, we can only throw ourselves into the arms of a faith untouched by knowledge. For a learned theologian like Nicolas of Cusa, who was at the same time a natural scientist, the second danger was especially real. In his education he was after all a product of Scholasticism, the dominant philosophy in the scholarly life of the Church of the Middle Ages, which had been brought to its highest flower by Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274), the “Prince of Scholastics.” This philosophy must be used as a background if one wants to depict the personality of Nicolas of Cusa. [ 2 ] Scholasticism is in the highest degree a product of human ingenuity. In it the logical faculty celebrated its greatest triumphs. One who aims to elaborate concepts in their sharpest and clearest contours should serve an apprenticeship with the Scholastics. It is they who provide the highest schooling for the technique of thinking. They have an incomparable agility in moving in the field of pure thought. It is easy to underestimate what they were capable of accomplishing in this field. For in most areas of learning the latter is accessible to man only with difficulty. Most people attain it clearly only in the realms of counting, of arithmetic, and in thinking about the properties of geometric forms. We can count by adding a unit to a number in our thoughts, without calling sensory images to our help. We also calculate without such images, in the pure element of thought alone. As for geometric forms, we know that they do not completely coincide with any sensory image. In the reality of the senses there exists no (conceptual) circle. And yet our thinking occupies itself with the latter. For objects and processes which are more complicated than numerical and spatial structures, it is more difficult to find conceptual counter-parts. This has led to the claim made in some quarters that there is only as much real knowledge in the various fields of investigation as there is that in them which can be measured and counted. This is as decidedly wrong as is anything one-sided; but it seduces many, as often only something one-sided can. Here the truth is that most people are not capable of grasping purely conceptual when it is no longer a matter of something measurable or countable. But one who cannot do this in connection with higher realms of life and knowledge resembles in this respect a child who has not yet learned to count in any other way than by adding one pea to another. The thinker who said that there is as much true knowledge in any field of learning as there is mathematics in it, did not grasp the full truth of the matter. One must require that everything which cannot be measured and counted, is to be treated in the same conceptual fashion as numerical and spatial structures. And this requirement was respected by the Scholastics in the highest degree. Everywhere they sought the conceptual content of things, just as the mathematician seeks it in the area of the measurable and countable. [ 3 ] In spite of this accomplished logical skill the Scholastics attained only a one-sided and subordinate concept of cognition. According to this concept, in the process of cognition man produces in himself an image of what he is to grasp. It is quite obvious that with such a concept of cognition, one must place all reality outside of cognition. For in the process of cognition one cannot then grasp a thing itself, but only an image of this thing. Man also cannot grasp himself in his self-knowledge; what he grasps of himself is only an image of his self. It is quite in the spirit of Scholasticism that someone who is closely acquainted with it says (K. Werner in his Franz Suarez und die Scholastik der letzten Jahrhunderte, Francisco Suarez and the Scholasticism of the Last Centuries, p. 122): “In time man has no perception of his self, the hidden foundation of his spiritual nature and life; ... he will never be able to look at himself; for either, forever estranged from God, he will find in himself only a bottomless dark abyss and endless emptiness, or he will, blessed in God, and turning his gaze inward, find only God, Whose sun of grace shines within him, and Whose image reflects itself in the spiritual traits of his nature.” One who thinks about all cognition in this way has only a concept of that cognition which is applicable to external things. What is sensory in a thing always remains external to us. Therefore into our cognition we can only receive images of what is sensory in the world. When we perceive a color or a stone we cannot ourselves become color or stone in order to know the nature of the color or of the stone. And neither can the color or the stone transform itself into a part of our own natura! But it must be asked, Is the concept of such a cognition, focused as it is upon the external in things, an exhaustive one?—It is true that for Scholasticism all human cognition coincides in its essentials with this cognition. Another writer who knows Scholasticism extremely well, (Otto Willmann, in his Geschichte des Idealismus, History of Idealism, V. 2, 2nd ed., p. 396) characterizes the concept of cognition of this philosophy in the following way: “Our spirit, associated with the body as it is in earthly life, is primarily directed toward the surrounding world of matter, but focused upon the spiritual in it; that is, the essences, natures, and forms of things, the elements of existence which are akin to it and provide it with the rungs by which it ascends to the supra-sensory; the field of our cognition is thus the realm of experience, but we should learn to understand what it offers, penetrate to its sense and idea, and thereby open to ourselves the world of ideas.” The Scholastic could not attain a different concept of cognition. He was prevented from doing so by the dogmatic teaching of his theology. If he had fixed his spiritual eye upon what he considered to be a mere image, he would have seen that the spiritual content of things reveals itself in this supposed image; he would then have found that God does not merely reflect Himself within him, but that He lives in him, is present in him in His essence. In looking within himself he would not have beheld a dark abyss, an endless emptiness, nor merely an image of God; rather would he have felt that a life pulses in him which is the divine life itself, and that his own life is the life of God. This the Scholastic could not admit. In his opinion God could not enter into him and speak out of him; He could only exist in him as an image. In reality, the Divinity had to be presupposed outside the self. Thus it had to reveal itself through supernatural communications from the outside, and could not do so within, through the spiritual life. But what is intended by this is exactly what is least achieved. It is the highest possible concept of the Divinity which is to be attained. In reality, the Divinity is degraded to a thing among other things, but these other things reveal themselves to man in a natural manner, through experience, while the Divinity is to reveal Itself to him supernaturally. However, a difference between the cognition of the Divine and of the creation is made in saying that, as concerns the creation, the external thing is given in the experience, that one has knowledge of it. As concerns the Divine, the object is not given in the experience; one can only attain it through faith. Thus for the Scholastic the highest things are not objects of knowledge, but only of faith. It is true that, according to the Scholastic view, the relationship of knowledge to faith is not to be imagined in such a way that in a certain field only knowledge reigns, in another only faith. For “cognition of the existing is possible for us, because it originates in a creative cognition; things are for the spirit because they are from the spirit; they tell us something because they have a meaning which a higher intelligence has put into them.” (O. Willmann, Geschichte des Idealismus, History of Idealism, V. 2, p. 383.) Since God has created the world according to His ideas, if we grasp the ideas of the world, we can also grasp the traces of the Divine in the world through scientific reflection. But what God is in His essence we can only grasp through the revelation which He has given us in a supernatural manner, and in which we must believe. What we must think concerning the highest things is not decided by any human knowledge, but by faith; and “to faith belongs everything that is contained in the Scriptures of the New and Old Covenant, and in the divine traditions.” (Joseph Kleutgen, Die Theologie der Vorzeit, The Theology of Antiquity, V. 1, p. 39.)—We cannot make it our task here to describe in detail and to explain the relationship of the content of faith to that of knowledge. In reality, the content of all faith originates in an inner experience man has had at some time. It is then preserved, according to its external import, without the consciousness of how it was acquired. It is said of it that it came into the world through supernatural revelation. The content of the Christian faith was simply accepted by the Scholastics as tradition. Science and inner experience were not allowed to claim any rights over it. Scholasticism could no more permit itself to create a concept of God than science can create a tree; it had to accept the revealed concept as given, just as natural science accepts the tree as given. The Scholastic could never admit that the spiritual itself shines and lives within man. He therefore drew a limit to the jurisdiction of science where the field of external experience ends. Human cognition could not be permitted to produce a concept of the higher entities out of itself. It was to accept revealed one. That in doing this it actually only accepted one which had been produced at an earlier stage of human spiritual life, and declared it to be a revealed one, this the Scholastics could not admit.—In the course of the development of Scholasticism therefore, all those ideas had disappeared from it which still indicated the manner in which man has produced the concepts of the Divine in a natural way. In the first centuries of the development of Christianity, at the time of the Fathers of the Church, we see how the content of the teachings of theology came into being little by little through the inclusion of inner experiences. This content is still treated entirely as an inner experience by Johannes Scotus Erigena, who stood at the height of Christian theological learning in the ninth century. Among the Scholastics of the succeeding centuries this quality of an inner experience is completely lost; the old content is reinterpreted as the content of an external, supernatural revelation.—One can therefore interpret the activity of the mystical theologians Eckhart, Tauler, Suso and their companions by saying: They were inspired by the content of the teachings of the Church, which is contained in theology, but had been reinterpreted, to bring forth a similar content out of themselves anew as an inner experience. [ 4 ] Nicolas of Cusa enters upon the task of ascending by oneself to inner experiences from the knowledge one acquires in the different sciences. There can be no doubt that the excellent logical technique the Scholastics had developed and for which Nicolas had been educated, furnishes an excellent means for attaining inner experiences, although the Scholastics themselves were kept from this road by their positive faith. But one will only understand Nicolas completely when one considers that his vocation as priest, which raised him to the dignity of Cardinal, prevented him from making a complete break with the faith of the Church, which found its contemporary expression in Scholastic theology. We find him so far advanced along a certain path that every further step would of necessity have led him out of the Church. Therefore we understand the Cardinal best if we complete that step which he did not take, and then in retrospect illuminate what had been his intention. [ 5 ] The most important concept of the spiritual life of Nicolas is that of “learned ignorance.” By this he understands a cognition which represents a higher level, as opposed to ordinary knowledge. Knowledge in the subordinate sense is the grasping of an object by the spirit. The most important characteristic of knowledge is that it gives information about something outside the spirit, that is, that it looks at something which it itself is not. In knowledge, the spirit thus is occupied with things thought of as being outside of it. But what the spirit forms in itself concerning things is the essence of things. Things arc spirit. At first man sees the spirit only through the sensory covering. What remains outside the spirit is only this sensory covering; the essence of things enters into the spirit. When the spirit then looks upon this essence, which is substance of its substance, it can no longer speak of knowledge, for it does not look upon a thing which is outside of it; it looks upon a thing which is a part of itself; it looks upon itself. It no longer knows; it only looks upon itself. It is not concerned with a “knowing,” but with a “not-knowing.” It no longer grasps something through the spirit; it “beholds, without grasping,” its own life. This highest level of cognition, in relation to the lower levels, is a “not-knowing.”—It will be seen that the essence of things can only be communicated through this level of cognition. With his “learned not-knowing” Nicolas of Cusa thus speaks of nothing but the knowledge reborn as inner experience. He himself tells how he came to have this inner experience. “I made many attempts to unite my thoughts about God and the world, about Christ and the Church in one fundamental idea, but of them all none satisfied me until finally, during the return from Greece by sea, the gaze of my spirit lifted itself, as if through an inspiration from on high, to the view in which God appeared to me as the highest unity of all contrasts.” To a greater or lesser extent the influences which derive from a study of his predecessors are involved in this inspiration. In his way of thinking one recognizes a peculiar renewal of the ideas we encounter in the writing of a certain Dionysius. Scotus Erigena, mentioned above, had translated this work into Latin. He calls the author “the great and divine revealer.” These writings were first mentioned in the first half of the sixth century. They were ascribed to that Dionysius the Aeropagite mentioned in the Acts of the Apostles, who was converted to Christianity by Paul. Here we shall not go into the problem as to when these writings were really composed. Their contents had a strong effect on Nicolas, as they already had on Johannes Scotus Erigena, and as they must also have been stimulating in many respects for the way of thinking of Eckhart and his companions. The “learned not-knowing” is prefigured in a certain way in these writings. Here we shall record only the main feature of the way of thinking of these writings. Man first comes to know the things of the sensory world. He reflects on their existence and activity. The primordial foundation of all things must lie higher than the things themselves. Man therefore cannot expect to grasp this primordial foundation with the same concepts and ideas as he grasps the things themselves. If therefore he attributes to the primordial foundation (God) qualities which he knows from lower things, these qualities can only be auxiliary ideas of the weak spirit, which draws the primordial foundation down to itself in order to be able to imagine it. In reality, therefore, no quality which lower things have can be said to belong to God. It cannot even be said that God is. For “being” too is a concept which man has formed in connection with lower things. But God is exalted above “being” and “not-being.” Thus the God to Whom we ascribe qualities is not the true one. We arrive at the true God if we imagine a “Supergod” above a God with such qualities. Of this “Supergod” we can know nothing in the ordinary sense. In order to reach Him, “knowing” must flow into “not-knowing.”—One can see that such a view is based on the consciousness that out of what his sciences have furnished him man himself—in a purely natural way—can develop a higher cognition, which is no longer mere knowledge. The Scholastic view declared knowledge to be incapable of such a development, and at the point where knowledge is supposed to end, it had faith, based on an external revelation, come to the aid of knowledge.—Nicolas of Cusa thus was on the way toward once again developing that out of knowledge which the Scholastics had declared to be unattainable for cognition. [ 6 ] From the point of view of Nicolas of Cusa therefore, one cannot say that there is only one kind of cognition. Cognition, on the contrary, is clearly divided into what mediates a knowledge of external things, and what is itself the object of which one acquires knowledge. The former kind of cognition rules in the sciences which we acquire concerning the things and processes of the sensory world; the latter kind is in us when we ourselves live in what has been acquired. The second kind of cognition develops from the first. Yet it is the same world to which both kinds of cognition refer, and it is the same man who shares in both. The question must arise, How does it come about that one and the same man develops two kinds of cognition of one and the same world?—The direction in which the answer to this question is to be sought was already indicated in our discussion of Tauler (cf. above). Here this answer can be formulated even more definitely with regard to Nicolas of Cusa. First of all, man lives as a separate (individual) being among other separate beings. To the influences which the other beings exercise upon one another, in him is added the faculty of (lower) cognition. Through his senses he receives impressions of the other beings, and he works upon these impressions with his spiritual faculties. He directs his spiritual gaze away from external things and looks at himself, at his own activity. Thus self-knowledge arises in him. As long as he remains upon this level of self-knowledge he does not yet look upon himself in the true sense of the word. He can still believe that there is some hidden entity active within him, and that what appears to him as his activity are only the manifestations and actions of this entity. But the point can come at which it becomes clear to man through an incontrovertible inner experience that in what he perceives and experiences within himself he possesses, not the manifestation, the action, of a hidden force or entity, but this entity itself in its primordial form. He can then say to himself: All other things I encounter in a way ready-made, and I, who stand outside them, add to them what the spirit has to say with regard to them. But in what I myself thus creatively add to things in myself, in that I myself live, that is what I am, that is my own essence. But what is it that speaks in the depths of my spirit? It is knowledge that speaks, the knowledge I have acquired about the things of the world. But in this knowledge it is not some action, some manifestation which speaks; something speaks which keeps nothing back of what it has in itself. In this knowledge speaks the world in all its immediacy. But I have acquired this knowledge from things and from myself, as from a thing among things. Out of my own essence it is I myself and the things who speak. In reality I no longer merely express my nature; I express the nature of things. My “I” is the form, the organ through which things declare themselves with regard to themselves. I have gained the experience that I experience my own essence within myself, and for me this experience becomes enlarged into another, that in me and through me the universal essence expresses itself, or, in other words, knows itself. Now I can no longer feel myself to be a thing among things; I can only feel myself to be a form in which the universal essence has its life.—It is therefore only natural that one and the same man should have two kinds of cognition. With regard to the sensory facts he is a thing among things, and, insofar as this is the case, he acquires a knowledge of these things; but at any moment he can have the higher experience that he is the form in which the universal essence looks upon itself. Then he himself is transformed from a thing among things into a form of the universal essence—and with him the knowledge of things is changed into an utterance of the nature of things. This transformation however can in fact be accomplished only by man himself. What is mediated in the higher cognition is not yet present as long as this higher cognition itself is not present. It is only in creating this higher cognition that man develops his nature, and only through the higher cognition of man does the nature of things come into actual existence. If therefore it is required that man should not add anything to the things of the senses through his higher cognition, but should express only what already lies in them in the outside world, then this simply means renouncing all higher cognition.—From the fact that, as regards his sensory life, man is a thing among things, and that he only attains higher cognition when as a sensory being he himself accomplishes his transformation into a higher being, from this it follows that he can never replace the one cognition by the other. Rather, his spiritual life consists of a perpetual moving to and fro between the two poles of cognition, between knowing and seeing. If he shuts himself off from seeing, he foregoes the nature of things; if he were to shut himself off from sensory knowing, he would deprive himself of the things whose nature he wants to understand.—The same things reveal themselves to the lower understanding and to the higher seeing, only they do this at one time with regard to their external appearance, at the other time with regard to their inner essence.—Thus it is not due to things themselves that at a certain stage they appear only as external objects; rather it is due to the fact that man must first transform himself to the point where he can reach the stage at which things cease to be external. [ 7 ] It is only with these considerations in mind that certain views natural science elaborated in the nineteenth century appear in their proper light. The adherents of these views say to themselves: We hear, see, and touch the things of the material world through the senses. The eye, for instance, communicates to us a phenomenon of light, a color. We say that a body emits red light when, by the mediation of our eye, we have the sensation “red.” But the eye gives us this sensation in other cases too. If it is struck or pressed, if an electric current passes through the head, the eye has a sensation of light. Hence in those instances also in which we have the sensation that a body emits light of a certain color, something may be occurring in that body which does not have any resemblance to color. No matter what is occurring in outside space, as long as this process is suitable for making an impression upon the eye, a sensation of color arises in me. What we perceive arises in us because we have organs that are constituted in a certain way. What goes on in outside space remains outside of us; we know only the effects which external processes bring forth in us. Hermann Helmholtz (1821–1894) has given expression to this idea in a clearly defined way. “Our perceptions are effects produced in our organs by external causes, and the way such an effect manifests itself is of course substantially dependent on the kind of apparatus acted upon. Insofar as the quality of our perception gives us information about the characteristics of the external influence by which it is caused, it can be considered as a sign of the latter, but not as a likeness of it. For of an image one requires some kind of similarity to the object represented: of a statue, similarity of form; of a drawing, similarity of the perspective projection in the field of view; of a painting, in addition to this, similarity of colors. But a sign need not have any kind of resemblance to that of which it is a sign. The relationship between the two is limited to this, that the same object, exercising its influence under the same circumstances, calls forth the same sign, and that therefore unlike signs always correspond to unlike influences ... If in ripening berries of a certain variety develop both a red pigment and sugar, then red color and sweet taste will always be found together in our perception of berries of this kind.” (cf. Helmholtz: Die Tatsachen der Wahrnehmung, The Facts of Perception, p. 12 f.) I have characterized this way of thinking in detail in my Philosophie der Freiheit, Philosophy of Spiritual Activity, and in my Rätsel der Philosophie, Riddles of Philosophy, 1918.—Let us now follow step by step the train of thought which is adopted in this view. A process is assumed in outside space. It produces an effect upon my sensory organ; my nervous system transmits to my brain the impression produced. Another process is effected there. I now perceive “red.” Now it is said: The perception of “red” is thus not outside; it is in me. All our perceptions are only signs of external processes, the real character of which we know nothing. We live and act among our perceptions, and know nothing about their origin. In line with this way of thinking one can also say: If we had no eye there would be no color; nothing would then transform the external process, which is unknown to us, into the perception “red.” For many this train of thought is something seductive. Nevertheless it rests upon a complete misinterpretation of the facts under consideration. (If many contemporary natural scientists and philosophers were not deluded to a truly monstrous degree by this train of thought, one would not have to talk about it so much. But this delusion has in fact vitiated contemporary thinking in many respects.) Since man is a thing among things, it is of course necessary that things should make an impression upon him if he is to find out anything about them. A process outside of man must give rise to a process in man if the phenomenon “red” is to appear in the field of vision. One must only ask, What is outside, what inside? Outside is a process which takes place in space and time. But inside doubtless is a similar process. Such a process exists in the eye and communicates itself to the brain when I perceive “red.” I cannot directly perceive the process which is “inside,” any more than I can immediately perceive the wave motion “outside,” which physicists consider corresponds to the color “red.” But it is only in this sense that I can speak of an “outside” and an “inside.” Only on the level of sensory perception does the contrast between “outside” and “inside” have any validity. This perception leads me to assume a spatial-temporal process “outside,” although I cannot perceive it directly. And, further, the same perception leads me to assume such a process within me, although I cannot perceive it directly either. But, after all, I also assume spatial-temporal processes in ordinary life which I cannot directly perceive. For example, I hear a piano being played in the next room. Therefore I assume that a human being with spatial dimensions sits at the piano and plays. And my way of representing things to myself is no different when I speak of processes within me and outside of me. I assume that these processes have characteristics analogous to those of the processes which fall within the domain of my senses, only that, for certain reasons, they are not accessible to my direct observation. If I were to deny to these processes all those qualities my senses show me in the realm of the spatial and the temporal, I would in truth be imagining something like the famous knife without a handle of which the blade is missing. Thus I can only say that “outside” occur spatial-temporal processes, and that they cause spatial-temporal processes “inside.” Both are necessary if “red” is to appear in my field of vision. Insofar as it is not spatial-temporal I shall look for this red in vain, no matter whether I look for it “outside” or “inside.” The natural scientists and philosophers who cannot find it “outside” should not attempt to look for it “inside” either. It is not “inside” in the same sense in which it is not “outside.” To declare that the entire content of what the world of the senses presents to us is an inner world of perceptions, and to look for something “external” corresponding to it, is an impossible idea. Therefore we cannot say that “red,” “sweet,” “hot,” etc. are signs which as such, are only caused to arise in us and to which something quite different on the “outside” corresponds. For what is really caused in us as the effect of an external process is something quite different from what appears in the field of our perceptions. If one wants to call what is in us signs, then one can say: These signs appear within our organism in order to communicate perceptions to us which, as such, in their immediacy are neither inside nor outside us, but rather belong to that common world of which my “external world” and my “interior world” are only parts. It is true that in order to be able to grasp this common world I must raise myself to that higher level of cognition for which an “inside” and an “outside” no longer exist. (I am well aware that people who rely on the gospel that “our entire world of experience” is made up of sensations of unknown origin will look down haughtily upon this exposition, in somewhat the same way as Dr. Erich Adikes in his work, Kant contra Haeckel says condescendingly: “For the time being, people like Haeckel and thousands of his kind philosophize merrily on, without worrying about any theory of cognition or about critical introspection.” Such gentlemen of course have no suspicion of how paltry their theories of cognition are. They suspect a lack of critical introspection only in others. We shall not begrudge them their “wisdom.”) [ 8 ] It is just on the point under consideration here that Nicolas of Cusa has excellent ideas. His keeping the lower and the higher cognition clearly separated from each other permits him on the one hand to gain a full insight into the fact that as a sensory being man can have within himself only processes which must, as effects, be unlike the corresponding external processes; on the other hand, it preserves him from confusing the inner processes with the facts which appear in our field of perception and which, in their immediacy, are neither outside nor inside, but are elevated above this contrast.—Nicolas was “prevented by his priestly cloth” from following without reservations the path which this insight indicated to him. We see him making a good beginning with the advance from “knowing” to “not-knowing.” But at the same time we must observe that in the field of “not-knowing” he has nothing to show except the theological teachings which are offered to us by the Scholastics also. It is true that he knows how to develop this theological content in an ingenious manner: on providence, Christ, the creation of the world, man's redemption, the moral life, he presents teachings which are altogether in line with dogmatic Christianity. It would have been in keeping with his spiritual direction to say: I have confidence that human nature, having immersed itself in the sciences of things on all sides, is able from within itself to transform this “knowing” into a “not-knowing,” hence that the highest cognition brings satisfaction. Then he would not have accepted, as he has, the traditional ideas of soul, immortality, redemption, God, creation, the Trinity, etc., but would have upheld those which he himself had found.—But Nicolas, personally was so penetrated with the concepts of Christianity that he could well believe he was awakening his own proper “not-knowing” within himself, while he was only putting forth the traditional views in which he had been educated—However it must be considered that he was standing before a fateful abyss in human spiritual life. He was a scientific man. And science at first removes man from the innocent concord in which he exists with the world as long as the conduct of his life is a purely naïve one. In such a conduct of life man dimly feels his connection with the totality of the universe. He is a being like others, integrated into the chain of natural effects. With knowledge he separates himself from this whole. He creates a spiritual world within himself. With it he confronts nature in solitude. He has become richer, but this wealth is a burden which he bears with difficulty. For at first it weighs upon him alone. He must find the way back to nature through his own resources. He must understand that now he himself must integrate his wealth into the chain of universal effects, as nature herself had integrated his poverty before. It is here that all the evil demons lie in wait for man. His strength can easily fail. Instead of accomplishing the integration himself, when this occurs, he will take refuge in a revelation from the outside, which again delivers him from his solitude, and leads the knowledge he feels to be a burden back into the primordial origin of existence, the Divinity. He will think, as did Nicolas of Cusa, that he is walking his own road, while in reality he will only find the one his spiritual development has shown him. Now there are three roads—in the main—upon which one can walk when one arrives where Nicolas had arrived: one is positive faith, which comes to us from outside; the second is despair: one stands alone with one's burden and feels all existence tottering with oneself; the third road is the development of man's own deepest faculties. Confidence in the world must be one leader along this third road. Courage to follow this confidence, no matter where it leads, must be the other.3
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| 7. Mysticism at the Dawn of the Modern Age: Epilogue
Translated by Karl E. Zimmer Rudolf Steiner |
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| Today one knows that one need not step outside the realm of the factual and sensory in order to understand, in a purely natural fashion, the sequence of beings in its development up to man.—And the nature of the human “I” too has been illuminated by the discernment of J. |
| I calmly acknowledge my animal ancestors, because I believe I understand that where these animal ancestors have their origin, no soul-like spirit can be active. |
| One who interprets my ideas in this sense will understand in the same way as I the last saying of the Cherubinic Wanderer, which shall also sound the last note of this work: “Friend, it is enough now. |
| 7. Mysticism at the Dawn of the Modern Age: Epilogue
Translated by Karl E. Zimmer Rudolf Steiner |
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[ 1 ] Almost two and a half centuries have passed since Angelus Silesius gathered together the profound wisdom of his precursors in his Cherubinic Wanderer. These centuries have brought rich insights into nature. Goethe opened a great perspective into natural science. He sought to pursue the eternal, iron laws of nature's action up to that peak where they bring forth man with the same inevitability with which, on a lower level, they produce a stone (cf. my book, Goethes Weltanschauung, Goethe's Conception of the World). Lamarck, Darwin, Haeckel and others have continued to work in the spirit of this way of thinking. The “question of all questions,” that concerning the natural origin of man, was answered in the nineteenth century. Other problems in the realm of natural processes connected with this question, have been solved. Today one knows that one need not step outside the realm of the factual and sensory in order to understand, in a purely natural fashion, the sequence of beings in its development up to man.—And the nature of the human “I” too has been illuminated by the discernment of J. G. Fichte, which has shown the human soul where it should seek itself and what it is (cf. above, and the section on Fichte in my book, Welt-und Lebensanschauungen im neunzehnten Jahrhundert, Conceptions of the World and of Life in the Nineteenth Century, published in a new edition as Rätsel der Philosophie, Riddles of Philosophy). Hegel has extended the domain of thought over all fields of being, and has endeavored to grasp in thought the external, sensory existence of nature as well as the highest creations of the human spirit, together with the laws by which they are governed (cf. my presentation of Hegel in Rätsel der Philosophie, v. 1)—How do the spirits, whose thoughts have been traced in this work, appear in the light of a conception of the world which takes into account the scientific achievements of the periods succeeding theirs? They still believe in a “supernatural” history of creation. How do their thoughts appear when confronted by the “natural” one which the science of the nineteenth century has developed?—This science has not given anything to nature which does not belong to it; it has only taken from it what does not belong to it. It has banished from it everything which is not to be sought in it, but is to be found only within man. It no longer sees something in nature that resembles the human soul and that acts in the same way as man. It no longer lets the forms of organisms be created by a manlike God; it traces their development in the world of the senses in accordance with purely natural laws. Meister Eckhart as well as Tauler, and Jacob Boehme as well as Angelus Silesius, would needs feel the most profound satisfaction in the contemplation of this natural science. The spirit in which they wished to regard the world has passed in the fullest sense into this conception of nature when it is properly understood. What they could not yet do, that is, to place the facts of nature into that light which had arisen in them, would no doubt have become their desire if this natural science had been accessible to them. They could not do this, for no geology, no “natural history of creation” told them of the processes of nature. The Bible alone, in its own way, told them of such processes. Therefore, as well as they could, they sought the spiritual where alone it is to be found: within the human being. Today they would employ quite different resources than at their time in order to show that, in a form accessible to the senses, the spirit is only to be found in man. Today they would entirely agree with those who seek the spirit as fact, not at the root of nature, but in its fruit. They would admit that the spirit in the sensory body is the result of development, and that such a spirit cannot be sought on lower levels of development. They would understand that no “creative thought” was active in the formation of the spirit in the organism, any more than such a “creative thought” made the ape develop out of the marsupials.—Our present time cannot speak about the facts of nature in the same way as Jacob Boehme spoke about them. But today also there is a point of view which brings the way of thinking of Jacob Boehme close to a conception of the world that takes account of modern science. One need not lose the spirit when one finds in nature only what is natural. It is true that today there are many who think that one must slip into a shallow, dry materialism if one accepts the “facts” discovered by natural science without further ado. I myself stand completely upon the ground of this natural science. I have the definite conviction that with a conception of nature such as that of Ernst Haeckel, only he can become shallow who approaches it with a world of ideas that is already shallow. I feel something higher and more glorious when I let the revelations of the “natural history of creation” act upon me than when I am confronted with the stories of supernatural miracles of the Creed. I know of nothing in any “holy” book that reveals to me anything as sublime as the “dry” fact that, in the womb, every human fetus rapidly goes through a succession of all those forms through which its animal ancestors have evolved. Let us fill our mind with the magnificence of the facts our senses perceive, and we shall care little for the “miracles” which do not lie within the course of nature. If we experience the spirit within ourselves we do not require one in external nature. In my Philosophie der Freiheit I have described my conception of the world, which does not think that it is driving out the spirit because it regards nature in the same way as do Darwin and Haeckel. A plant, an animal, do not gain anything for me if I people them with souls of which my senses tell me nothing. I do not seek a “deeper,” “spiritual” nature of things in the external world, I do not even assume it, because I believe that the cognition which illuminates my inner self preserves me from doing so. I believe that the things of the sensory world are what they appear to us to be, for I see that a true self-knowledge leads us to seek in nature nothing but natural processes. I seek no divine spirit in nature, because I believe that I perceive the essence of the human spirit in myself. I calmly acknowledge my animal ancestors, because I believe I understand that where these animal ancestors have their origin, no soul-like spirit can be active. I can only agree with Ernst Haeckel when he prefers “the eternal stillness of the grave” to such an immortality as many a religion teaches (cf. Haeckel's Welträtsel, The Riddle of the Universe, p. 239). For I find a degradation of the spirit, a repugnant sin against the spirit, in the conception of a soul which continues to exist after the fashion of a sensory being.—I hear a shrill dissonance when the facts of natural science in Haeckel's presentation encounter the “piety” of the creeds of many contemporaries. But in creeds which are in but poor harmony with natural facts, there resounds for me nothing of the spirit of the higher piety which I find in Jacob Boehme and Angelus Silesius. This higher piety is rather in full harmony with the action of the natural. There is no contradiction in becoming penetrated with the insights of modern science and at the same time in entering upon the road which Jacob Boehme and Angelus Silesius pursued in their search for the spirit. One who enters upon this road in the spirit of these thinkers need not fear that he will slip into shallow materialism if he lets the secrets of nature be described to him by a “natural history of creation.” One who interprets my ideas in this sense will understand in the same way as I the last saying of the Cherubinic Wanderer, which shall also sound the last note of this work: “Friend, it is enough now. If you wish to read more, go and become yourself the writing and the essence.” [ 2 ] Addition to the 1923 edition: The last sentences above must not be misinterpreted as expressing an unspiritual conception of nature. Through them I only wanted to emphasize strongly that the spirit which lies at the root of nature must be found in it, and is not to be brought into it from the outside. The rejection of “creative thoughts” refers to an activity which is similar to human activity, and proceeds according to ideas of usefulness. What is to be said about evolutionary history one may find in my book, Erkenntnistheorie der Goetheschen Weltanschauung, The Theory of Knowledge in Goethe's Conception of the World, preface to the new edition. |