by Colin Wilson
Two days later, Kafka's account of another lecture is even more ironically detached and hostile:
Dr Steiner is so very much taken up with his absent disciples. At the lecture the dead press so about him. Hunger for knowledge? But do they really need it? Apparently, though—Sleeps two hours. Ever since someone once cut off his electric light he has always had a candle with him—He stood very close to Christ—He produced his play in Munich (you can study it all the year there and won't understand it). He designed the costumes, composed the music—He instructed a Chemist…
He is, perhaps, not the greatest contemporary psychic scholar, but he alone has been assigned the task of uniting theosophy and science. And that is why he knows everything too. Once a botanist came to his native village, a great master of the occult. He enlightened him.
That I would look up Dr Steiner was interpreted to me by the lady as the beginning of recollection. The lady's doctor, when the first signs of influenza appeared in her, asked Dr Steiner for a remedy, prescribed this for the lady, and restored her to health with it immediately. A French woman said goodbye to him with ‘au revoir’. Behind her back he shook his head. In two months she died. A similar case in Munich. A Munich doctor cures people with colours decided upon by Dr Steiner. He also sends invalids to the picture gallery with instructions to concentrate for half an hour or longer on a certain painting.
End of the Atlantic world, lemuroid destruction, and now through egoism. We live in a period of decision. The efforts of Dr Steiner will succeed only if the Ahrimanian forces do not get the upper hand.
He eats two litres of emulsion of almonds and fruits that grow in the air.
He communicates with his absent disciples by means of thought-forms which he transmits to them without bothering about them after they are generated. But they soon wear out and he must replace them.
Mrs F.: ‘I have a poor memory.’ Dr St.: ‘Eat no eggs.’
Clearly, Kafka regarded Steiner as a fake messiah. This probably tells us more about Kafka than about Steiner. Yet it also enables us to understand why so many people regarded Steiner with hostility. Kafka's own attitude towards him was obviously ambivalent. Shortly after this last lecture, he decided to pay a visit to Steiner, which he describes in detail. Kafka quotes his ‘prepared address’ to Steiner—how he felt that a great part of his being was moving towards theosophy, but at the same time that he had the greatest fear of it: ‘That is to say, I am afraid it will result in a new confusion which would be very bad for me, because even my present unhappiness consists only of confusion.’ He goes on to describe his confusion and unhappiness at great length, and then explains that in certain moments when he is writing, he experiences the state that Steiner seems to describe as clairvoyance. He is tempted to give up his job to become a writer, and yet realizes that this is a thoroughly impractical idea. What advice can Steiner give him?
He listened very attentively without apparently looking at me at all, entirely devoted to my words. He nodded from time to time, which he seems to consider an aid to strict concentration. At first a quiet head cold disturbed him, his nose ran, he kept working his handkerchief deep into his nose, one finger at each nostril.
And that is all Kafka has to tell us about Rudolf Steiner. He sees with the thoroughly unsympathetic eye of a young man of talent who rather resents the fame of other people. Yet if we try to place ourselves behind Steiner's eyes, looking at this nervous, pale young man who talks rapidly and at inordinate length, admitting that he is thoroughly confused, and pouring out his psychological problems, it is impossible not to feel that Steiner deserves admiration for his almost saintly forbearance. Of the crowds of people who demanded personal interviews, probably only one in a thousand happened to possess genius, as Kafka did. But this was hardly any consolation for Steiner. The endless queue of time-wasters undermined his health and finally destroyed him.
During this period, relations with the London-based Theosophical Society were becoming increasingly strained. This was due largely to Steiner's repudiation of ‘orientalism’, and his increasing emphasis on the importance of Christ: in 1911, he had even gone so far as to say: ‘To grasp the idea of freedom without the idea of salvation by Christ ought not to be found possible by mankind; on that condition alone is the idea of freedom justified’—a somewhat baffling statement for the author of The Philosophy of Freedom.
What made the rupture between the English and the German Society inevitable was the discovery of a new ‘messiah’ by the English Theosophist The Revd Charles Leadbeater. In 1909, Leadbeater was on a beach near Adyar, India, when he saw an exceptionally beautiful Indian child. Leadbeater claimed that he was instantly impressed by the boy's remarkable aura, but the fact that Leadbeater was a pederast may also have played its part. Leadbeater persuaded the boy's father, a minor civil servant who held a post in the Theosophical Society in Madras, to allow him to take Jiddu, and his younger brother Nitya, into his house. Mrs Besant met Jiddu and was convinced that he was the latest incarnation of the master Maitreya, and that he would be the saviour of the twentieth century. Leadbeater, who—like Steiner—claimed to be able to divine past incarnations, even wrote an account of the boy's previous thirty lives, starting in 22,662 BC.
The German Theosophists were naturally outraged by this attempt to foist a new messiah on them, not only because it was in direct contradiction to Steiner's teachings about Christ, but because it looked suspiciously like an attempt to upstage their own German Messiah. Steiner was offered a ‘package deal’; if he would accept Krishnamurti as the new Christ, he could be John the Baptist; apparently he rejected this with indignation. When, in 1911, The Society founded the Order of the Star of the East, with Krishnamurti as its object of adoration, the break became inevitable. Steiner declared that no one who joined the new Order could remain a member of his Society. Mrs Besant retaliated by having the charter of the German Society revoked by the General Council. (Fourteen German lodges remained loyal; the rest went with Steiner.) The German Society sent her a telegram demanding her resignation. And finally, in February 1913, Steiner changed the name of the German branch to the Anthroposophical Society. The Theosophists, understandably—and, on the whole, justly—accused him of using the Society purely as a means of forwarding his own ambitions; certainly, Steiner would never have achieved his large following if he had remained an independent lecturer.
Apart from the founding of the Anthroposophical Society, 1913 was much like the previous years. Steiner undertook nine foreign lecture tours, wrote a new Mystery drama, The Soul's Awakening, supervised the first presentation of Eurythmy in public, and turned his attention increasingly to the problem of diet and nutrition, condemning the consumption of meat and alcohol. But he was not dogmatic about it, and did not insist that all Anthroposophists should be vegetarians. When one of them admitted to him he still dreamed about ham, Steiner replied: ‘Better eat ham than think ham.’ And although he disapproved of smoking (he had given it up himself, and switched to snuff) he made no attempt to force his views on his secretary Wachsmuth.
Now the Anthroposophical Society had become a separate entity, and showed every sign of continuing to expand, it was necessary to give some thought to the question of its headquarters. To begin with, Steiner wanted a theatre suitable for presenting his Mystery dramas—he was now planning a fifth. The obvious choice was Munich, Germany's artistic capital, but Stuttgart, which had a large Steiner Society, was a strong rival. Then, to everyone's surprise, the Munich authorities turned down the plan to build an Anthroposophical Society headquarters and theatre; they had no desire to see their city turned into the Bayreuth of a peculiar religious sect. Fortunately, an alternative had already presented itself. A Swiss Anthroposophist, Dr Emil Grossheintz, had purchased a hill at Dornach in Switzerland, and he wished it to be used for some purpose connected with Anthroposophy; Steiner had already been to inspect it when the Munich authorities turned down his application. Steiner decided immediately that he would build his thea
tre at Dornach, and lost no time in designing it. Predictably—in view of his ideas on plasticity and Nature—it was a place with few right angles and straight lines. The idea was to create a building, a temple, that looked as if it might have grown like a tree. The building was called the Goetheanum, a name more-or-less unpronounceable for English readers. The foundation stone was laid on 20 September 1913, large sums of money having been collected or pledged at the Munich festival of the previous month.
As Steiner made a speech and laid the foundation stone—composed of a double pentagonal dodecahedron—a tremendous storm broke, virtually drowning his voice. As night fell prematurely, the small band of followers lighted torches, while Steiner spoke of the increasing forces of Ahriman, ‘who intends to spread darkness and chaos’. It was as if the elements were trying to tell him that it was the worst possible moment to build a temple.
Steiner was hoping to complete the building by August 1914, so it could be used to present his fifth Mystery drama (which, in the event, remained unwritten). But by the new year it was obvious that the funds they had collected were about to run out; Steiner quickly organized a series of lectures to the faithful, emphasizing the importance of this joint project for the future salvation of humanity. More money flowed in; many Anthroposophists gave up their jobs and moved to Dornach to help build the Goetheanum. By April 1914, the framework was in place, and the two great domes were ready to be covered with slate. Most of the Goetheanum was built of wood, in accordance with Steiner's feeling that it should be ‘natural’. This was a decision that everyone would have reason to regret.
When the Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated at Sarajevo on 28 June 1914, it became increasingly clear that the August festival would not take place. Steiner was on his way to Bayreuth in early August when the war broke out. Steiner was forced to rush back to Dornach, surrounded by increasing chaos: guards on every bridge, soldiers marching, railway stations jammed with people. With the aid of an Anthroposophist who was also a railway official, Steiner and Marie von Sivers were hastily pushed into a compartment of a train in Stuttgart; hours later, they were back across the Swiss border. Marie von Sivers remarks: ‘During this terrible grey night, the world had changed, and the expression of a nightmare which rested during those days upon Dr Steiner's face, his pain on account of humanity, was almost unbearable.’
For all his optimism and determination to continue, Steiner must have sensed that this was the end of his dream. He had hoped that the building of the Goetheanum signalled a new epoch in the evolution of mankind, the beginning of a religion that would sweep across the world as irresistibly as Christianity in the first century or Muhammadism in the seventh. Now it was very clear that the world had other things on its mind beside religion. As far as Europe was concerned, Anthroposophy belonged to the past, not the future.
* * *
*Hitler, Steiner, Schreber, by Dr Wolfgang Treher.
*The Rosy Cross Unveiled (Aquarian Press, 1980).
Eight
Disaster
ALTHOUGH for Europe the war was an unmitigated disaster, for Steiner it had its compensations. He was able to work quietly at the task of completing the Goetheanum, with the aid of many disciples, to spend time in reflection, and to write some of his most significant books, like Riddles of Man and Riddles of the Soul. He was still able to travel and lecture to a remarkable extent—for, as Wachsmuth remarks, the time of endless difficulties with travel permits had not yet arrived—but it was no longer at the same frantic pace as in the pre-war years. He was patriotic, but in a non-nationalistic sense; he lectured in many German cities on the mission of the German spirit, which he saw as acting as a balance between the opposing forces of Russia on the one hand and Britain and the United States on the other. At Dornach, many nationalities, including those at war with one another, continued to gather and work in harmony. It was now apparent that the difficulties about building in Munich had been a blessing in disguise.
The war was going badly with Germany, and, oddly enough, many blamed Steiner. For a long time Germany had been looking for an excuse to go to war against Russia, believing that Russian industrial development constituted a long-term menace to Germany. But when this chance came, with the Serbian problem, the Kaiser suddenly became jittery, and it was his wife who was sent in by his generals to tell him to ‘be a man’ and declare war. The generals were convinced that Germany could not lose. The plan devised by General von Schlieffen involved hurling all the German forces against the French and smashing them in one tremendous blow, then turning the army against the Russians. Von Moltke—husband of Steiner's disciple—was Commander-in-Chief. But the Kaiser's jitters had infected Moltke; he could not make up his mind whether to take the Schlieffen gamble, or play safe and divide his forces. He asked Steiner to go to see him, but it was impossible to arrange a meeting immediately. By the time Steiner arrived at Coblenz on 27 August 1914, the major decisions had been taken, and the German offensive was already in trouble. As a result of that initial mistake of von Moltke's, the war turned into a slogging match fought between two entrenched armies, and the seed of Germany's defeat was planted. Whether Steiner could have given Moltke the advice he needed if they had met three weeks earlier is a matter for speculation. At all events, Moltke made his fatal decisions, was relieved of his command, and died two years later. When it was known that Steiner had been to see him at a crucial moment, he was widely blamed for interfering where he had no business. The misunderstandings that had so far been confined to his doctrines were now directed at his person, and took on a new dimension of malice.
Steiner himself evidently felt that the war marked some kind of turning point in the history of his movement, for he abandoned the idea of the fifth Mystery play, and instead concentrated on producing the first complete stage version of Faust, including the second part. In December 1915, he drilled his amateur actors to speak Austrian dialect in traditional Christmas plays, and revealed that, under different circumstances, he would have made a successful commercial director.
According to Steiner's theory of seven-year cycles, 1916 marked a new beginning. He had devoted the last seven years to blending art and Anthroposophy; now, in a world divided by war, he felt it was time to turn his thoughts to social questions, and to the reconstruction of civilization after the war. In a book called Riddles of the Soul (Von Seelenrätsel) he spoke at length of his teacher Brentano, and in one long footnote, threw off an idea that came to be regarded as one of his major pronouncements: that man's main faculties—thinking, feeling, willing—are carried out through different parts of his physical organism. Thinking involves the head and nervous system, feeling involves the breathing rhythms and circulation of the blood, willing involves the metabolic system—such as digestion. Thinking is conscious, feeling is semi-conscious—like breathing, which is ‘automatic’, but can still be influenced by the will—while willing belongs wholly to the realm of the unconscious, like the growing of the nails or hair.
When Steiner turned his thought to social reconstruction, he found himself thinking naturally in this ‘threefold’ terminology. Like the traditional division of man into body and soul, the division of society into Church and State must be an oversimplification. According to Steiner, society should consist of the equivalent of head, circulatory system, and metabolic system. The head should be human creativity, the circulatory system should be the political government, while the metabolic system should be the economic system. These three he linked with the French revolutionary ideal of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. The essence of creativity is liberty: creators cannot be equals, or even brothers; they must stand alone. The business of government should be to make sure that, as political animals, men are equals. This concept of equality cannot—obviously—apply to the business community; its purpose should be to aim at fraternity, at producing wealth and goods for the good of the community, not the individual. The result should be a threefold social order—or commonwealth—in which each part preserves it
s separate identity, yet works harmoniously with the other two.
Early in 1917, as it became clear that Russia was drifting towards social revolution, a distinguished Anthroposophist, Count Otto Lerchenfeld, a member of the Bavarian state council, asked Steiner for his views on social reconstruction after the war. The two sat together for three days and discussed the idea of the ‘threefold commonwealth’, and when Lerchenfeld finally left, he was bubbling with enthusiasm. With the aid of another Anthroposophist, Count Ludwig Polzer-Hoditz, a memorandum was drawn up. The intention was to send it to all the statesmen of Europe, including the Allies. Polzer-Hoditz passed on the memorandum to his brother, who was the chief councillor of the new emperor, Karl of Austria. Whether Karl read it or not is unknown; at all events, Steiner heard no more of it.
This is hardly surprising. What Steiner was offering was, in fact, a form of anarchism. The state is to have its authority reduced; its main business is simply to ensure that all citizens have equal rights. It has no role to play in the economy—that is the task of the ‘economic domain’—and none in education, which is the task of the cultural domain. Moreover, the aim of the business domain is not to make excessive profits, but simply to supply the goods that everyone needs. The cultural leaders will fertilize economic life with new ideas, and will in turn have their own basic needs taken care of.
The idea is inspiring, but the objections are obvious. Throughout history, politicians have been in charge of central government, and have never shown the slightest inclination to see their power reduced—hence those bitter struggles between Church and State in the Middle Ages. Politicians become politicians because they are interested in power. Neither have businessmen ever shown the slightest inclination to devote their talents to the general good and turn their backs on the motive of personal enrichment; businessmen become businessmen because they are interested in money. As to the ‘guardians of culture’—thinkers, artists, teachers—they have never yet succeeded in exercising any real influence either on businessmen or politicians. Steiner's vision of a commonwealth in which the artists and thinkers are, quite literally, the head, while businessmen and politicians listen to them respectfully and agree to take a back seat, is charming and delightful to contemplate, but totally unrealistic. The fate of Steiner's own memorandum should have taught him what practical politicians think of idealistic amateurs.
