"Verwandlung des Lebens", a book about Rudolf Steiner
which was written by Boris Bugayev, a distinguished Russian symbolist poet who
wrote under the pen name of Andrei Belyi, was published long after the author's
death in a German translation, but never has appeared in Russian, the language
in which it was written in 1928. Belyi spent four years in Germany from 1912 to 1916, during this
time attending as many lectures of Steiner's as he could. After the Russian
Revolution he was able to return to the West on a temporary visa, but he was
required to return home in 1923. He died prematurely
in 1934 before the worst of Stalin's purges.
His apartment in Berlin was like a command post.
All the inmates of the house, above and below Steiner's apartment, rushed in
constant haste from one floor to another with papers and copies, clattered on
typewriters and made telephone calls. My impression: Steiner's home is always
open; its effect is like that of a cell in a commune where no one places any
value on comfort; every minute is already scheduled, and there are tasks,
tasks, tasks. Here somebody is editing; there, admission tickets for a lecture
are being distributed; here, books are being handed out... Past these involved,
restless rooms, and keeping the breathless ladies from their work, there stream
- stream and stream all those who have announced themselves for a consultation
with Steiner; all of them people who are foreign to this bubbling life. But
each comes with a question that is more important to him than anything else in
the world. Some of them come for the first time; they arrive as one comes to
confession in the greatest state of excitement. And most of them are surprised.
Instead of the dignified atmosphere they expected, they are received by loud
seething life that may offend their sense of propriety. They ring the doorbell
with hearts a-flutter - but the door is open; they are not received by the
housemaid; in fact, there are no domestics at all. Instead they are received by
someone who just happens to be there... They are ushered into a small waiting
room where every upholstered piece is occupied by waiting people... One door
leads into the hallway, the other into the corridor... directly in front of
one's nose a deep voice resounds behind it every so often.
What, the Doctor is here right behind this wall? One
pictures the personal meeting with the "Teacher" within a certain
ceremonial framework; but here simplicity rules and an atmosphere of intense
everyday work where there is no room for ceremonials, hardly a fitting place
for the teacher and the confessing pupil. In one of the back rooms there are
probably some open, unpacked suitcases standing about. He returned yesterday
from Switzerland and tomorrow he leaves for Hannover - and somebody is readying
his luggage for a new journey. Then, suddenly, right in front of your nose, the
door of this plain, mystery-filled room is opened, quick as lightening and with
a total lack of mystery, and the Doctor appears - a little worn, with a tired
pale face; and, the perfect gentleman, ushers a lady out charmingly like a man
of the world... with his hand raised in greeting from the threshold of the room
unless he accompanies her personally into the hallway, where he switches on the
light, helps her into her coat and closes the door behind him with his own
hands. And then he quickly crosses the corridor leading past the waiting room,
pushes his head through the drapes with a smiling 'One moment, please,' and
goes on into the dining room, perhaps in order to drink a cup of coffee. His
visiting hours last for hours and hours. He gets no opportunity either to eat
or drink... Sometimes he paces hurriedly through the waiting room even without
looking up, with serious, sad, stern eyes, only to return immediately. 'Who is
next?' and to withdraw with the next person, sometimes for a very long period,
sometimes for five minutes... He wears a tight short jacket, a jacket that is
no longer new. On occasion he wears slippers; his pince-nez dangle and dance on
a little ribbon and sometimes become entangled in the drapes when he rushes
through them. And then you find yourself in his reception room; a tiny room,
black furniture, books, table, an easy chair, everything very modest... When I
enter here I immediately lose the ability to perceive anything except him,
himself; how he sits down next to me, turning his ear in my direction (he hears
less well with one ear)... Simplicity remains simplicity, kindness remains
kindness, but in the simple interior of this room there occur such dramas of every
kind, dreadful and joyous ones... But it is of no avail to talk about it. He
was, after all, 'Rudolf Steiner' and he has the capacity to transform every
situation into an unforgettable moment...
He had a therapeutic smile; the
countenance blossomed... one felt that one had nothing of the kind to give in return. He had the
gift of the smile, the faculty of direct expression from the heart... His smile
could have had a smothering effect had he not tempered it down when necessary.
Many know his sunny smile; we spoke of it. One must speak about it, for not a
single photograph of his reflects it... Our last meeting went like this: a long
line of persons ahead of me [this was in 1923] and behind me; the car was
waiting - Steiner was scheduled to return to Dornach from Stuttgart. He greeted
me and led me into the room. We sat down by a small desk. Steiner was pale as
death; it isn't easy to listen to such large numbers of people one after the
other when each comes with his most urgent problem. His answers were always
concrete, but they only unfolded their full nature in the course of the years.
All this passed over in my mind during our last meeting. He turned his
over-tired face with the good-natured eagle nose in my direction with a smile
difficult to describe. 'We do not have much time, try to say briefly everything
you have on your mind.' This conversation of twenty minutes lives within me as
if it had lasted many hours, not because I would have been capable of saying everything but because he replied to
everything beyond any word. The answers grew out of the facts of the following
years of my life. Only he was capable of replying like this, to recognize the
leading thought of months and years behind the spoken words and to discern
behind this thought the sum of experiences, and to see my will that was not
even clear to myself at that time... In his subdued, somewhat deep voice he
explained to me in what respect and why I was wrong; and I felt how his
atmosphere of warmth and fervor enveloped me too. Everything that I expressed
was only three dimensional; but this atmosphere of glowing warmth that purified
me from my sins and my pain could not be grasped; this comprehension only
developed in the course of years as the best in me.
A friend also described to me this warmth that seemed
to emanate directly from the heart. She had arrived altogether unexpectedly, to
leave again soon, and for a long time. She had the absolutely urgent desire to
be received by Steiner, but the Doctor was overburdened; he couldn't suppress
the annoyed exclamation: 'Why do you come during the conference? I don't have a
free minute!' And my friend replied in the same vein, 'We cannot come whenever
we want to, only when we are able to!' She turned around and walked away. She
heard a voice calling her name and looked around. Doctor Steiner was running
after her with outstretched arms; he took both her hands, was full of warmth...
In his kindness, the demands he made upon himself were
unending. "Compassion has its limits," Marie Steiner said to him, but
he replied, "No, compassion has no limits." Of love he said: "It
is a giving faculty. The more one gives, the more one has to give." Every
true love, according to his words, has the quality of infinite extension.
He extended himself.
These extracts are taken from a section of Belyi's book which appeared
in Number 23 and 26 of the Journal for Anthroposophy, Spring and Autumn, 1977.
The German version was translated from the Russian original by Svetlana Geier
(Basel: Zbinden Verlag). Thanks to Uncle Taz: www.uncletaz.com
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