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Human Values in Education
GA 310

23 July 1924, Arnheim

VII. Diet for Children, Four Temperaments

From the lectures which have been given here, dealing with an art of education built upon the foundation of a knowledge of man, you formed a clear idea of what should be the relation between teacher and taught. What lives in the soul, in the whole personality of the teacher, works in hundreds of unseen ways from the educator over to the children his pupils. But it only works if the educator bears within his soul a true and penetrating knowledge of man, a knowledge which is approaching the transition leading over into spiritual experience. And today I must precede my lecture with a few remarks which may serve to clarify what is to be understood in the anthroposophical sense by spiritual experience, for just in regard to this the most erroneous ideas abound.

It is so easy to think that in the first place spiritual perception must rise above everything of a material nature. Certainly one can attain to a deeply satisfying soul experience, even though this may be coloured by egotistical feeling, when, rising above the material, one ascends into the spiritual world. We must do this also. For we can only learn to know the spiritual when we acquire this knowledge in the realm of the spirit; and anthroposophy must deal in many ways with spiritual realms and spiritual beings which have nothing to do with the physical world of the senses. And when it is a question of learning to know what is so necessary for modern man, to know about the life between death and a new birth, the actual super-sensible life of man before birth or conception and the life after death, then we must certainly rise up to body-free, super-sensible, super-physical perception. But we must of course act and work within the physical world; we must stand firmly in this world. If we are teachers, for instance, we are not called upon to teach disembodied souls. We cannot ask ourselves, if we wish to be teachers; What is our relationship to souls who have passed through death and are living in the spiritual world?—But if we wish to work as teachers between birth and death, we must ask ourselves: In what way does a soul dwell within the physical body? And indeed we must consider this, at any rate for the years after birth. It is actually a question of being able to gaze with the spirit into the material. And Anthroposophy, Spiritual Science, is in this respect largely a matter of looking into the material with the spirit.

But the opposite procedure is also right: one must penetrate with spiritual vision into the spiritual world, penetrate so far that the spiritual seems to be every bit as full of “living sap” as anything in the sense world; one must be able to speak about the spiritual as if it radiated colours, as if its tones were audible, as if it were standing before one as much “embodied” as the beings of the sense world. In anthroposophy it is first this which causes abstract philosophers such intense annoyance. They find it exceedingly annoying that the spiritual investigator describes the spiritual world and spiritual beings in such a way that it seems as if he might meet these beings at any moment, just as he might meet human beings; that he might hold out his hand to them and speak with them. He describes these spiritual beings just as though they were earthly beings; indeed his description makes them appear almost as if they were earthly beings. In other words, he portrays the spiritual in pictures comprehensible to the senses. He does this in full consciousness, because for him the spiritual is an absolute reality. There is some truth in it, too, because a real knowledge of the whole world leads to the point at which one can “give one's hand” to spiritual beings, one can meet them and converse with them. That strikes the philosopher, who is only willing to conceive the spiritual world by means of abstract concepts, as being paradoxical, to say the least of it; nevertheless such a description is necessary. On the other hand it is also necessary to look right through a human being, so that the material part of him vanishes completely, and he stands there purely as a spirit. When however a non-anthroposophist wishes to look upon a man as spirit, then this man is not only a ghost, but something much less than a ghost. He is a sort of coat-hanger on which are hung all kinds of concepts which serve to activate mental pictures and so on. In comparison a ghost is quite respectably solid, but a human being as described by such a philosopher is really indecently naked in regard to the spirit. In anthroposophy physical man is contemplated by means of purely spiritual perception, but nevertheless he still has brains, liver, lungs and so on; he is a concrete human being; he has everything that is found in him when the corpse is dissected. Everything that is spiritual in its nature works right down into the physical. The physical is observed spiritually, but nevertheless man possesses a physical body. He can even “blow his nose” in a spiritual sense; spiritual reality goes as far as this. Only by becoming aware that in contemplating the physical it can become completely spiritual, and in contemplating the spiritual it can be brought down again so that it becomes almost physical, only by this awareness can the two be brought together. The physical human being can be contemplated in a condition of health and illness; but the ponderable material vanishes, it becomes spiritual. And the spiritual can be contemplated as it is between death and a new birth and, pictorially speaking, it becomes physical. Thus the two are brought together.

Man learns to penetrate into the real human being through the fact that there are these two possibilities, the possibility of beholding the spiritual by means of sense-perceptible pictures and the possibility of beholding spiritual entities in the world of the senses. If therefore the question arises: How may spiritual vision be understood in its real and true sense?—the answer must be: One must learn to see all that appertains to the senses in a spiritual way, and one must look at the spiritual in a way that is akin to the senses. This seems paradoxical, but it is so. And only after entering into what I have just said and realising its truth, can one reach the point of looking at the child in the right way.

I will give you an example. A child in my class becomes paler and paler. I see this increasing pallor. It shows itself in the physical life of the child, but we gain nothing by going to the doctor and getting him to prescribe something that will bring back the child's colour; for, should we do so, the following may well be the result: The child grows pale and this is observed, so the school doctor comes and prescribes something which is intended to restore the lost colour. Now even if the doctor has acted perfectly correctly and has prescribed a quite good remedy, which he must do in such cases, nevertheless something rather strange will be observed in the child who is now “cured.” Indeed in a sense he is cured, and anyone in a position of seniority to the doctor, who might be called upon to write a testimonial for the authorities, could well say that the doctor had cured the child—later, however, it is noticeable at school that the child who has been cured in this way is no longer able to take things in properly; he has become fidgety and restless and has lost all power of attention. Whereas previously he used to sit in his place, pale and somewhat indolent, he now begins to pommel his neighbour; and whereas previously he had clipped his pen gently into the inkwell, he now sticks it in with so much force that the ink spurts up and bespatters his exercise book. The doctor did his duty but the result was the reverse of beneficial, for it sometimes happens that people who have been “cured” suffer later on from extraordinary after-effects.

Again, in such a case it is important to recognise what actually lies at the root of the trouble. If the teacher is able to penetrate into the soul-spiritual cause of what finds its outer physical expression in a growing pallor, he will become aware of the following. The power of memory which works in the soul-spiritual is nothing else than the transformed, metamorphosed force of growth; and to develop the forces of growth and nourishment is just the same, albeit on a different level, as it is, on a higher level, to cultivate the memory, the power of recollection. It is the same force, but in a different stage of metamorphosis. Pictured systematically we can say: During the first years of a child's life both these forces are merged into one another, they have not yet separated; later on memory separates from this state of fusion and becomes a power in itself, and the same holds good for the power of growth and nourishment. The small child still needs the forces which later develop memory in order that he may digest milk and the stomach be able to carry out its functions; this is why he cannot remember anything. Later, when the power of memory is no longer the servant of the stomach, when the stomach makes fewer demands on it and only retains a minimum of these forces, then part of the forces of growth are transformed into a quality of soul, into memory, the power of recollection. Possibly the other children in the class are more robust, the division between the power of memory and of growth may be better balanced, and so, perhaps, the teacher pays less heed to a child who in this respect has little to fall back on. If this is the case it may easily happen that his power of memory is overburdened, too much being demanded of this emancipated faculty. The child grows pale and the teacher must needs say to himself: “I have put too much strain on your memory; that is why you have grown so pale.” It is very noticeable that when such a child is relieved of this burden he gets his colour back again. But the teacher must understand that the growing pale is connected with what he has done himself in the first place, by overburdening the child with what has to be remembered. It is very important to be able to look right into physical symptoms and to realise that if a child grows too pale it is because his memory has been overburdened.

But I may have another child in the class who from time to time becomes strikingly red in the face and this also may be a cause for concern. If this occurs, if a hectic red flush makes its appearance, it is very easy to recognise certain accompanying conditions in the child's soul-life; for in the strangest way, at times when one would least expect it, such children fall into a passion of anger, they become over-emotional. Naturally there can be the same procedure as before: A rush of blood to the head—something must be prescribed for it. Of course, in such cases too, the doctor does his duty. But it is important to know something else, namely, that this child, in contrast to the other, has been neglected in respect of his faculty of memory. Too many of these forces have gone down into the forces of his growth and nourishment. In this case one must try to make greater demands on the child's power of memory. If this is done such symptoms will disappear.

Only when we take into our ken the physical and the spiritual as united do we learn to recognise many things in the school which are in need of readjustment. We train ourselves to recognise this interconnection of physical and spiritual when we look at what lies between them as part of the whole human organisation, namely, the temperaments. The children come to school and they have the four temperaments, varied of course with all kinds of transitions and mixtures: the melancholic, the phlegmatic, the sanguine and the choleric. In our Waldorf education great value is laid on being able to enter into and understand the child according to his temperament. The actual seating of the children in the classroom is arranged on this basis. We try for instance to discover which are the choleric children; these we place together, so that it is possible for the teacher to know: There in that corner I have the children who tend to be choleric. In another, the phlegmatic children are seated, somewhere in the middle are the sanguines and again somewhere else, grouped together are the melancholies. This method of grouping has great advantages. Experience shows that after a while the phlegmatics become so bored with sitting together that, as a means of getting rid of this boredom, they begin to rub it off on one another. On the other hand the cholerics pommel one another so much that quite soon this too becomes very much better. It is the same with the fidgety ways of the sanguines, and the melancholies also see what it is like when others are absorbed in melancholy. Thus to handle the children in such a way that one sees how “like reacts favourably on like” is very good even from an external point of view, quite apart from the fact that by doing so the teacher has the possibility of surveying the whole class, for this is much easier when children of similar temperament are seated together.

Now however we come to the essential point. The teacher must enter so deeply into the nature of the human being that he is able to deal in a truly practical way with the choleric, the sanguine, the melancholic temperament. There will naturally be cases where it is necessary to build the bridge of which I have already spoken, the bridge between school and home, and this must be done in a friendly and tactful way. Let us suppose that I have a melancholic child in the class, with whom I can do scarcely anything. I am unable to enter into his difficulties in the right way. He broods and is withdrawn, is occupied with himself and pays no heed to what is going on in the class. If one applies an education that is not founded on a knowledge of man one may think that everything possible should be done to attract his attention and draw him out of himself. As a rule however such a procedure will make things still worse; the child broods more than ever. All these means of effecting a cure, thought out in such an amateurish way, help but little. What helps most in such a case is the spontaneous love which the teacher feels for the child, for then he is aware of sympathy, and this stirs and moves what is more subconscious in him. We may be sure that anything in the way of exhortation is not only wasted effort, but is actually harmful, for the child becomes more melancholic than before. But in class it helps greatly if one tries to enter into the melancholy, tries to discover the direction to which it tends, and then shows interest in the child's attitude of mind, becoming in a certain way, by what one does oneself, melancholic with the melancholic child. As a teacher one must bear within oneself all four temperaments in harmonious, balanced activity. And this balance, which is in direct contradiction to the child's melancholy, if it is continued and is always present in one's relationship to the child, is perceived by him. He sees what kind of man his teacher is by what underlies his words. And in this way, creeping in behind the mask of melancholy, which the teacher accepts, there is implanted in the child his teacher's loving sympathy. This can be of great help in the class.

But now we will go further, for we must know that every manifestation of melancholy in a human being is connected with some irregularity in the function of the liver. This may seem unlikely to the physicist, but it is nevertheless a fact that every kind of melancholy, especially if it goes so far in a child as to become pathological, is due to some irregularity of this kind. In such a case I shall turn to the parents of the child and say: “It would be good to put more sugar in his food than you usually do.” He needs sweet things, for sugar helps to normalise the function of the liver. And by giving the mother this advice: “Give the child more sugar”—I shall get school and home working together, in order to lift this melancholy out of the pathological condition into which it has sunk and so create the possibility of finding the right constitutional treatment.

Or I may have a sanguine child, a child who goes from one impression to another; who always wants what comes next, almost before he has got hold of what precedes it; who makes a strong start, showing great interest in everything, but whose interest soon fades out. He is not dark as a rule, but fair. I am now faced with the problem of how to deal with him at school. In everything I do I shall try to be more sanguine than the child. I shall change the impressions I make on him extremely quickly, so that he is not left hurrying from one impression to another at his own sweet will, but must come with me at my pace. This is quite another story. He soon has enough of it and finally gives up. But between what I myself do in bringing impressions to the child in this very sanguine way, and what he does himself in hurrying from one thing to another in accordance with his temperament, there is gradually established in him, as a kind of natural reaction, a more harmonious condition. So I can treat the child in this way. I can present him with rapidly changing impressions, always thinking out something new, so that he sees, as it were, first black, then white, and must continually hurry from one thing to another. I now get in touch with the mother and I will certainly hear from her that the child has an inordinate love of sugar. Perhaps he is given a great many sweets or somehow manages to get hold of them, or maybe the family as such is very fond of sweet dishes.

If this is not so, then his mother's milk was too sweet, it contained too much sugar. So I explain this to the mother and advise her to put the child on a diet for a time and reduce the amount of sugar she gives him. In this way, by arranging with the parents for a diet with little sugar, co-operation is brought about between home and school. The reduction of sugar will gradually help to overcome the abnormality which, in the case of this child also, is caused by irregularity in the activity of the liver in respect of the secretion of gall. There is a very slight, barely noticeable irregularity in the secretion of gall. Here too I shall recognise the help given me by the parents.

So we must know as a matter of actual fact where, so to speak, the physical stands within the spiritual, where it is one with the Spiritual.

It is possible to go into more detail and say: A child shows a rapid power of comprehension, he understands everything very easily; but when after a few days I come back to what he grasped so quickly and about which I was so pleased, it has vanished; it is no longer there. Here again I can do a good deal at school to improve matters. I shall try to put forward and explain something which demands a more concentrated attention than the child is accustomed to give. He understands things too quickly, it is not necessary for him to make enough inner effort, so that what he learns may really impress itself on him. I shall therefore give him hard nuts to crack, I shall give him something which is more difficult to grasp and demands more attention. This I can do at school. But now once more I get in touch with the child's parents and from them I may hear various things. What I am now saying will not hold good in every case, but I want to give some indication of the path to be pursued. I shall have a tactful discussion with the mother, avoiding any suspicion of riding the high horse by talking down to her and giving her instructions. From our conversation I shall find out how she caters for the family and I shall most likely discover that this particular child eats too many potatoes. The situation is a little difficult because now the mother may say, “Well, you tell me that my child eats too many potatoes; but my neighbour's little daughter eats more still and she has not the same failing, so the trouble cannot be caused by potato-eating.” Something of this kind is what the mother may say. And nevertheless it does come from eating potatoes, because the organisation of children differs, one child being able to assimilate more potato and another less. And the curious thing is this. The condition of a particular child shows that he has been getting too many potatoes; it is shown by the fact that his memory does not function as it should. Now in this case the remedy is not to be found by giving him fewer potatoes. It may even happen that this is done and there is some improvement; but after a time things are no better than before. Here the immediate reduction of the amount of potato does not bring about the required effect, but it is a question of gradually breaking a habit, of exercising the activity needed in order to break a habit. So one must say to the mother, “For the first week give the child a tiny bit less potato; for the second week a very little less still; and continue in this way, so that the child is actively engaged in accustoming himself to eating only a small amount of potato.” In this case it is a question of breaking a habit, and here one will see what a healing effect can be induced just by this means.

Now idealists, so-called, very likely reproach anthroposophy and maintain that it is materialistic. They actually do so. When for example an anthroposophist says that a child who comprehends easily but does not retain what he has learnt, should have his potato ration gradually decreased, then people say: You are an absolute materialist. Nevertheless there exists such an intimate interplay between matter and spirit that one can only work effectively when one can penetrate matter with spiritual perception and master it through spiritual knowledge. It is hardly necessary to say how greatly these things are sinned against in our present-day social life. But if a teacher is open to a world conception which reveals wide vistas he will arrive at an understanding of these things. He must only extend his outlook. For instance it will impress a teacher favourably and help him to gain an understanding of children if he learns how little sugar is consumed in Russia and how much in England. And if he proceeds to compare the Russian with the English temperament he will readily understand what an effect sugar has on temperament. It is advantageous to learn to know the world, so that this knowledge can come to our assistance in the tasks of every day. But now I will add something else. In Baden, in Germany, there is a remarkable monument erected as a memorial to Drake. I once wanted to know what was specially significant about this Drake, so I looked it up in an encyclopaedia and read: In Offenburg a monument was erected in memory of Drake because he was thought, albeit erroneously, to be the man who introduced the potato into Europe. There it stands in black and white. So a memorial was erected in honour of this man because he was considered to be the one who introduced the potato into Europe. He didn't do so, but nevertheless he has got a memorial in Offenburg.

The potato was, however, introduced into Europe in comparatively recent times. And now I am going to tell you something about which you can laugh as much as you like. Nevertheless it is the truth. It is possible to study how the faculties of intelligence in human beings are related in their development from the time when there were no potatoes to the time when they were introduced. And, as you know, the potato is made use of in alcohol-distilleries. So potatoes suddenly began to play an important part in the development of European humanity. If you compare the increasing use of the potato with the curve of the development of intelligence, you will find that in comparison with the present day people living in the pre-potato age grasped things with less detail, but what they grasped they held fast. Their nature tended to be conservative, it was deeply inward. After the introduction of the potato people became quicker in regard to intelligent mobility of comprehension, but what they took in was not retained, it did not sink in deeply. The history of the development of the intelligence runs parallel with that of potato-eating. So here again we have an example of how anthroposophy explains this materialistically. But so it is. And much might be learned about cultural history if people everywhere could only know how in man's subconsciousness the external physical seizes hold of the spiritual. This becomes apparent in the nature of his desires.

Let us now choose as an example someone who has to write a great deal. Every day he has to write articles for the newspapers, so that he is obliged “to chew his pen” in order to produce what is necessary. If one has been through this oneself one can talk about it, but one has no right just to criticise others unless one speaks out of personal experience. While cogitating and biting one's pen one feels the need of coffee, for drinking coffee helps cohesion of thought. Thoughts become more logical when one drinks coffee than if one refrains from doing so. A journalist must needs enjoy coffee, for if he does not drink it his work takes more out of him. Now, as a contrast, let us take a diplomat. Call to mind what a diplomat had to acquire before the world war. He had to learn to use his legs in a special, approved manner; in the social circles in which he moved he had to learn to glide rather than set his foot down firmly as plainer folk do. He had also to be able to have thoughts which are somewhat fleeting and fluid. If a diplomat has a logical mind he will quite certainly fail in his profession and be unsuccessful in his efforts to help the nations solve their dilemmas. When diplomats are together—well, then one does not say they are having their coffee but they are having tea—for at such times there is the need to drink one cup of tea after another, so that the interchange of thought does not proceed in logical sequence, but springs as far as possible from one idea to the next. This is why diplomats love to drink tea; tea releases one thought from the next, it makes thinking fluid and fleeting, it destroys logic. So we may say: Writers are lovers of coffee, diplomats lovers of tea, in both cases out of a perfectly right instinct.

If we know this, we shall not look upon it as an infringement of human freedom. For obviously logic is not a product of coffee, it is only an unconscious, subconscious help towards it. The soul therefore remains free.

It is just when we are bearing the child especially in mind that it is necessary to look into relationships such as these, about which we get some idea when we can say: Tea is the drink for diplomats, coffee the drink for writers, and so on. Then we are also able gradually to gain an insight into the effects produced by the potato. The potato makes great demands on the digestion; moreover very small, almost homeopathic doses come from the digestive organs and rise up into the brain. This homeopathic dose is nevertheless very potent, it stimulates the forces of abstract intelligence. At this point I may perhaps be allowed to divulge something further. If we examine the substance of the potato through the microscope we obtain the well-known form of carbohydrates, and if we observe the astral body of someone who has eaten a large portion of potatoes we notice that in the region of the brain, about 3 centimetres behind the forehead, the potato substance begins to be active here also and to form the same eccentric circles. The movements of the astral body take on a similarity with the substance of the potato and the potato-eater becomes exceptionally intelligent. He bubbles over with intelligence, but this does not last, it is quite transient. Must one then not admit, provided one concedes that man possesses spirit and soul, that it is not altogether foolish and fantastic to speak of the spirit and to speak of it in images taken from the world of sense? Those who want always to speak of the spirit in abstract terms present us with nothing of a truly spiritual nature. It is otherwise with those who are able to bring the spirit down to earth in sense-perceptible pictures. Such a man can say that in the case of someone bubbling over with intelligence potato-substance takes on form in the brain, but does so in the spiritual sense. In this way we learn to recognise subtle and delicate differentiations and transitions. We discover that tea as regards its effects on logic makes a cleavage between thoughts, but it does not stimulate thinking. In saying that diplomats have a predilection for tea one does not imply that they can produce thoughts. On the other hand potatoes do stimulate thoughts. Swift as lightning they shoot thoughts upwards, only to let them vanish away again. But, accompanying this swift up-surging of thoughts, which can also take place in children, there goes a parallel process, an undermining of the digestive system. We shall be able to see in children whose digestive system is upset in this way, so that they complain of constipation, that all kinds of useless yet clever thoughts shoot up into their heads, thoughts which they certainly lose again but which nevertheless have been there.

I mention these things in detail so that you may see how the soul-spiritual and the physical must be looked upon as a whole, as a unity, and how in the course of human development a state of things must again be brought about which is able to hold together the most varied streams of culture. At the present time we are living in an epoch in which they are completely sundered from one another. This becomes clear to us however when we are able to look somewhat more deeply into the history of the evolution of mankind.

Today we separate religion, art and science from one another. And the guardians of religion, do all in their power to preserve religion from being encroached upon in any way by science. They maintain that religion is a matter of faith, and science belongs elsewhere. Science has its base where nothing is based on faith, where everything is founded on knowledge. But if one is to succeed in separating them in this way, the spiritual is cut off from science and the world is cut off from religion, with the result that religion becomes abstract and science devoid of spirit. Art is completely emancipated. In our time there are people, who, when one would like to tell them something about the super-sensible, assume an air of clever superiority and regard one as superstitious: “Poor fellow! We know all that is sheer nonsense!”—But then a Björnson or someone else writes something or other in which such things play a part; something of the kind is introduced into art and thereupon everybody runs after it and enjoys in art what was rejected in the form of knowledge. Superstition sometimes appears in strange guise. I once had an acquaintance—such actual examples should most certainly be brought into the art of education, an art which can only be learned from life—I once had an acquaintance who was a dramatist. On one occasion I met him in the street; he was running extraordinarily quickly, perspiring as he went. It was 3 minutes to 8 o'clock in the evening. I asked him where he was going at such a pace. He was, however, in a great hurry and only said that he must rush to catch the post, for the post office closed at 8 o'clock. I did not detain him, but psychologically I was interested to know the reason for his haste so I waited until he returned. He came back after a while in a great heat, and then he was more communicative. I wanted to know why he was in such a hurry to catch the post, and he said, “Oh, I have just sent off my play.” Previously he had always said that this play was not yet finished, and he said the same again now; “It is true that it is still unfinished, but I wanted particularly to get it off today, so that the director may receive it tomorrow. I have just written him a letter to this effect asking him to let me have it back. For you see, if a play is sent off before the end of the month it may be chosen for a performance; there is no chance otherwise!”—Now this dramatist was an extremely enlightened, intelligent man. Nevertheless he believed that if a play was despatched on a definite day it would be accepted, even if, owing to being unfinished, it had to be returned. From this incident you can see how things which people are apt to despise creep into some hole and corner, out of which they raise their heads at the very next opportunity.

This is especially the case with a child. We believe we have managed to rid him of something, but straightaway there it is again somewhere else. We must learn to look out for this. We must open our hearts when making a study of man, so that a true art of education may be based on an understanding and knowledge of the human being. Only by going into details shall we be able to fathom all these things.

Today then, as I was saying, religion, art and science are spoken about as though they were entirely unrelated. This was not so in long past ages of human evolution. Then they were a complete unity. At that time there existed Mystery Centres which were also centres for education and culture, centres dedicated at one and the same time to the cultivation of religion, art and science. For then what was imparted as knowledge consisted of pictures, representations and mental images of the spiritual world. These were received in such an intuitive and comprehensive way that they were transformed into external sense-perceptible symbols and thereby became the basis of cultic ceremonial. Science was embodied in such cults, as was art also; for what was taken from the sphere of knowledge and given external form must perforce be beautiful. Thus in those times a divine truth, a moral goodness and a sense-perceptible beauty existed in the Mystery Centres, as a unity comprised of religion, art and science. It was only later that this unity split up and became science, religion and art, each existing by and for itself. In our time this separation has reached its culminating point. Things which are essentially united have in the course of cultural development become divided. The nature of man is however such, that for him it is a necessity to experience the three in their “oneness” and not regard them as separate. He can only experience in unity religious science, scientific religion and artistic ideality, otherwise he is inwardly torn asunder. For this reason wherever this division, this differentiation, has reached its highest pitch it has become imperative to find once more the connection between these three spheres. And we shall see how in our teaching we can bring art, religion and science to the child in a unified form. We shall see how the child responds in a living way to this bringing together of religion, art and science, for it is in harmony with his own inner nature. I have therefore had again and again to point out in no uncertain terms that we must strive to educate the child out of a knowledge that he is in truth a being with aesthetic potentialities; and we should neglect no opportunity of demonstrating how in the very first years of life the child experiences religion naturally and instinctively.

All these things, the harmonious coming together of religion, art and science must be grasped in the right way and their value recognised in those teaching methods about which we have still to speak.

Siebenter Vortrag

Aus den Betrachtungen, die hier angestellt worden sind über eine pädagogische Kunst, die auf Menschenerkenntnis gebaut ist, wird ja ersichtlich geworden sein, wieviel darauf ankommt, wie eigentlich der Lehrer, der Erzieher denjenigen gegenübersteht, die er zu erziehen, zu unterrichten hat. Was in der Seele, was in der ganzen Persönlichkeit des Lehrers sitzt, das wirkt auf, man möchte sagen, hunderterlei unsichtbaren Wegen von dem Erzieher, von dem Pädagogen hinüber zu den Kindern, zu den Zöglingen. Aber es wirkt nur, wenn der Erzieher tatsächlich eine eindringliche, echte Menschenerkenntnis in seiner Seele trägt, eine Menschenerkenntnis, welche auf dem Übergange ist zu einem Erleben im Geistigen. Und ich muß da schon einiges von dem heute voraus bemerken, was eigentlich im anthroposophischen Sinne unter Erleben im Geistigen verstanden wird; denn vielfach besteht gerade darüber die irrtümlichste Anschauung.

Man meint so leicht, geistiges Anschauen müsse sich vor allen Dingen über alles Materielle erheben. Nun gewiß, der Mensch kann zu einer tiefen, aber doch immer etwas egoistisch gefärbten seelischen Befriedigung kommen, wenn er, über das Materielle sich erhebend, in das Geistige hinaufschweift. Man muß das auch. Denn man lernt das Geistige nur kennen, wenn man es auf seinem eigenen Felde als Geistiges kennenlernt, und Anthroposophie muß vielfach von geistigen Reichen, geistigen Wesenheiten handeln, die nichts zu tun haben mit dem Physisch-Sinnlichen. Und wenn es sich darum handelt, was ja dem heutigen Menschen so notwendig ist, kennenzulernen das Leben des Menschen zwischen dem Tode und der neuen Geburt, das eigentliche übersinnliche Leben des Menschen vor der Geburt oder Empfängnis und das Leben nach dem Tode, dann muß man sich schon erheben zu der leibfreien, übersinnlichen, überphysischen Anschauung. Aber wir müssen ja auch innerhalb der physischen Welt wirken und arbeiten; wir müssen fest in ihr stehen. Wir sind ja zunächst, wenn wir Pädagogen sind, dies nicht für entkörperte Seelen. Wir können uns nicht fragen, wenn wir Pädagogen werden wollen: Wie verhalten wir uns zu Seelen, die durch den Tod gegangen sind und in der geistigen Welt leben? — sondern wir müssen, wenn wir zwischen Geburt und Tod als Pädagogen wirken wollen, uns fragen: Wie wohnt eine Seele im physischen Leibe? Und das müssen wir ja; wenigstens müssen wir es für die Jahre nach der Geburt. Da handelt es sich wirklich darum, daß man mit dem Geiste ins Materielle hineinschauen kann. Und Anthroposophie, Geisteswissenschaft, ist in dieser Beziehung vielfach Hineinschauen in das Materielle mit dem Geiste.

Aber das Gegenteil ist auch richtig: man muß in das Geistige selber so weit hineinschauen, daß es einem vollsaftig erscheint wie irgendein Sinnliches; man muß über das Geistige reden können, wie wenn es durch Farben erglänzte, durch Töne sich hörbar machte, wie wenn es leibhaft vor einem stände als Sinneswesen. Das ist gerade das, was abstrakte Philosophen an der Anthroposophie so furchtbar ärgert. Es ärgert sie entsetzlich, daß der Geistesforscher die geistige Welt und die geistigen Wesenheiten so beschreibt, wie wenn er ihnen jede Stunde begegnen könnte wie einem andern Menschen, wie wenn er ihnen die Hand reichen und mit ihnen sprechen könnte. Er beschreibt diese geistigen Wesenheiten ganz wie Erdenwesen; sie schauen in seiner Beschreibung auch fast so aus wie Erdenwesen. Das heißt, er stelle mit sinnlichen Bildern das Geistige dar. Das tut er mit vollem Bewußtsein, weil es für ihn absolut eine Realität ist. Es ist etwas Wahres daran, daß wirkliche Erkenntnis der ganzen Welt eben dazu führt, daß man den Geistern auch «die Hand reicht», daß man ihnen gegenübersteht, mit ihnen redet. Es erscheint das den Philosophen, die nur in abstrakten Begriffen die geistige Welt begreifen wollen, gewissermaßen zunächst paradox, aber eine solche Beschreibung ist notwendig. - Auf der andern Seite ist es notwendig, daß man einen Menschen so durchschaut, daß der Stoff an ihm ganz verschwindet, daß der Mensch ganz als Geist dasteht. Aber wenn der Nichtanthroposoph den Menschen als Geist anschauen will, ja dann ist dieser Mensch nicht nur ein Gespenst, sondern viel weniger als ein Gespenst; da ist er so ein Begriffskleiderständer, an dem die verschiedensten Begriffe hängen, auf den das Vorstellungsvermögen wirkt und so weiter. Ein Gespenst ist noch anständig dicht dagegen, aber so ein von Philosophen geschilderter Mensch ist wirklich unanständig nackt in bezug auf das Geistige. In der Anthroposophie wird zwar der physische Mensch ganz geistig angeschaut, aber er hat noch Gehirn, Leber, Lungen und so weiter; er ist konkret, er hat alles, was in ihm gefunden wird, wenn man den Leichnam seziert. Es geht alles, was geistig ist, wirksam bis ins Physische hinein. Man schaut das Physische geistig an, aber man hat alles. Der Mensch «schneuzt» sich auch als Geist; bis dahin geht die geistige Wirksamkeit. Nur dadurch, daß man ein Bewußtsein davon hat, daß, wenn man das Physische anschaut, es ganz geistig werden kann, und daß, wenn man das Geistige anschaut, man es wieder herunterbringen kann, so daß es fast physisch wird, nur dadurch stößt beides zusammen. Man schaut auf den physischen Menschen, schaut ihn in seinen gesunden und kranken Verhältnissen; aber das Schwerstoffliche verliert sich, es wird geistig. Und man schaut auf das Geistige hin, wie es ist zwischen dem Tode und der neuen Geburt, und es wird physisch in Bildern. So kommt beides zusammen.

Dadurch, daß man diese zweifache Möglichkeit hat, das Geistige in Sinnesbildern, das Sinnliche in Geistesentitäten anzuschauen, dadurch lernt man hineinschauen in die menschliche Wesenheit. Wenn man also fragt: Was heißt im echten, wahren Sinne geistige Anschauung? — so muß man antworten: Es heißt, das Sinnliche auf geistige Art sehen und das Geistige auf sinnliche Art. — Das erscheint paradox, aber es ist so. Und erst dann, wenn man durchdrungen ist von der Richtigkeit dessen, was ich gesagt habe, kommt man dazu, das Kind in der richtigen Weise anzuschauen.

Ein Beispiel. Ein Kind, das ich in der Klasse habe, wird immer blasser und blasser. Ich sehe dieses Blasserwerden, es ist eine Erscheinung im physischen Leben des Kindes. Damit ist aber nun gar nichts getan, daß man jetzt zum Arzt geht und von ihm etwas verschreiben läßt, damit das Kind wieder Farbe bekommt. Denn es kann einfach der folgende Fall vorliegen: Das Kind wird einem blaß; man sieht es. Nun kommt der Schularzt, schreibt irgend etwas vor, wodurch das Kind wieder Farbe bekommen soll. Wenn nun der Arzt auch ganz richtig gehandelt hat und das absolut gute Mittel verschrieben hat, wie man in solchen Fällen behandeln muß, so wird man doch an dem Kinde, das man jetzt kuriert hat, etwas Merkwürdiges sehen. Man hat es ja auch kuriert, und jeder, der über dem Arzte steht und der Behörde ein Zeugnis ausstellen müßte, könnte auch sagen, daß der Arzt dies getan hat. Aber das auf diese Weise kurierte Kind zeigt einem später in der Schule: es kann nicht mehr recht auffassen, es wird zappelig und unruhig, es geht über die Dinge mit Unaufmerksamkeit hinweg. Und während es früher blaß dagesessen hat und ein leidlich bequemes Kind war, fängt es jetzt an, seine Nachbarn zu puffen; während es früher die Feder zart ins Tintenfaß getaucht hat, stößt es sie jetzt mit Gewalt hinein, so daß die Tintenspritzer nach aufwärts gehen und das Heft damit bedeckt ist. Der Arzt hat seine Pflicht getan; aber jetzt hat man die Bescherung, denn kurierte Leute nehmen sich manchmal im Leben recht sonderbar aus.

In einem solchen Falle handelt es sich wieder darum, daß man nun wirklich sieht, was liegt da eigentlich zugrunde? Kann man von dem äußeren Physischen, das sich im Blaßwerden ausdrückt, durchschauen auf das Geistig-Seelische, so merkt man folgendes. Gedächtniskraft, die im Geistig-Seelischen wirkt, ist nichts anderes als umgewandelte, metamorphosierte Wachstumskraft; und Wachsen, Ernährungskräfte entwickeln ist auf einem andern Niveau ganz dasselbe, wie Gedächtnis bilden, Erinnerungen bilden auf einem höheren Niveau. Es ist dieselbe Kraft, nur in verschiedener Metamorphose. Schematisch vorgestellt, kann man sagen: In den ersten Lebensjahren des Kindes sind beide Kräfte noch durcheinandergemischt, sind noch nicht geschieden; dann sondert sich später das Gedächtnis als eine besondere Fähigkeit aus dem Ungeschiedenen heraus und die Wachstums- und Ernährungsfähigkeit ebenfalls. Weil das Kind in den ersten Jahren seine Gedächtniskräfte noch dazu braucht, um seinen Magen zu versorgen und die Milch zu verdauen, kann es sich an nichts erinnern; wenn es dann später seine Gedächtniskraft nicht mehr dazu braucht, dem Magen zu dienen, wenn der Magen weniger Ansprüche macht und nur wenig Kräfte zurückbehält, dann wird ein Teil der Wachstumskräfte seelisches Gedächtnis, Erinnerungskraft. Hat man nun in der Schule vielleicht dadurch, daß die andern Kinder robuster sind, also eine richtigere Verteilung von Gedächtniskraft und Wachstumskraft in sich tragen, vielleicht weniger auf ein Kind gerechnet, das nicht so viel Fonds in dieser Beziehung hat, dann kann es sehr leicht sein, daß man die Erinnerungskraft bei ihm überlastet; dann ist die emanzipierte Erinnerungskraft bei diesem Kinde zu stark engagiert. Dann wird der Wachstumskraft, die gleichartig mit ihr ist, zu viel entzogen. Das Kind wird blaß und ich muß mir in meiner Seele sagen: Ich habe dich mit dem Gedächtnis zu stark angestrengt; dadurch bist du mir blaß geworden. Man kann dann sehr leicht bemerken, wenn man dieses Kind in bezug auf die Gedächtniskraft und das Erinnerungsvermögen entlasten wird, dann wird es von selbst wieder Farbe bekommen. Aber man muß verstehen, wie das Blaßwerden zusammenhängt mit dem, was man selbst erst getan hat, indem man das Kind mit Erinnerungen überlastet hat. Das ist sehr wichtig, daß man bis ins Physische hineinschauen und sehen kann, wenn das Kind zu blaß wird, habe ich es gedächtnismäßig überlastet.

Habe ich aber ein anderes Kind in der Klasse, welches manchmal eine eigentümliche Röte auf das Gesicht bekommt, und um welches man dann auch so besorgt werden kann, wenn so eine hektische Röte auftritt, so werde ich bei diesem Auftreten einer hektischen Röte seelische Begleiterscheinungen sehr leicht bemerken können. Denn in den merkwürdigsten Zeitpunkten, wo man es gar nicht erwartet, tritt bei diesen Kindern das auf, daß sie jähzornig, tobend werden; sie werden emortionell. Man kann natürlich jetzt wieder sagen: Blutandrang nach dem Kopfe - kann etwas dagegen verschreiben lassen. Der Arzt hat dann wiederum seine Pflicht getan, selbstverständlich. Aber man muß noch etwas anderes wissen, nämlich dies, daß man dieses Kind, im Gegensatz zu dem andern, in bezug auf die Erinnerungsfähigkeit vernachlässigt hat; es sind bei ihm zu viel Kräfte ins Wachstum, in die Ernährung hinuntergegangen. In diesem Falle muß man versuchen, gerade an die Erinnerungsfähigkeit des Kindes Ansprüche zu stellen, muß seinem Gedächtnisse etwas zu tun geben; dann werden diese Erscheinungen aufhören.

Manche Dinge, die man in der Schule anzuordnen hat, lernt man nur dadurch erkennen, daß man wirklich in Einheit das Physische und das Geistige überschaut. Man schult sich allmählich hinein in dieses Erkennen des Zusammenhanges des Physischen mit dem Geistigen, wenn man auf dasjenige blicken kann, was ja schon der ganzen Menschenorganisation nach zwischen dem Physischen und dem Geistigen drinnensteht: das Temperamentmäßige. Die Kinder kommen in die Schule und sie haben, immer selbstverständlich mit allen Übergängen und allen Mischungen, die vier Temperamente: das melancholische, das phlegmatische, das sanguinische und das cholerische. In unserer Waldorfschul-Pädagogik wird auf das Durchschauen des Kindes nach diesen Temperamenten ein großer Wert gelegt, schon bei der Sitzordnung, die wir in der Klasse haben. Wir versuchen herauszubekommen, welches zum Beispiel die cholerischen Kinder sind; die setzen wir zusammen, dann haben wir sie beisammen, und dem Lehrer ist es dann auch möglich zu wissen: dort in der Ecke hat er die cholerisch veranlagten Kinder, in einer andern Ecke sitzen zum Beispiel die Phlegmatiker, irgendwo in der Mitte sitzen die Sanguiniker, und wieder woanders sitzen die Melancholiker beisammen. Dieses Zusammensetzen hat schon seine großen Vorteile. Denn man erfährt dadurch: die Phlegmatiker werden sich durch dieses Beisammensitzen mit der Zeit so langweilig, daß sie sich diese Langeweile dadurch austreiben wollen, daß sie sich aneinander abreiben. Und die Choleriker wieder puffen sich gegenseitig so viel, daß es nach einiger Zeit damit sehr viel besser wird. Ebenso ist es bei den Sanguinikern mit ihrem zappeligen Wesen. Und die Melancholiker wiederum sehen, wie sich Melancholie bei dem andern gibt. Also die Kinder so zu behandeln, daß man sieht: Gleiches wirkt auf Gleiches günstig, das ist schon in bezug auf diese Äußerlichkeit etwas sehr Gutes, abgesehen davon, daß man nun auch die Möglichkeit hat, immer die Klasse dadurch auch zu überschauen; denn man überschaut sie ja viel leichter, wenn man die gleichartigen Kinder beieinander hat.

Nun kommt es aber darauf an, in die Menschennatur auch so hineinzuschauen, daß man nun wirklich praktisch das cholerische, das sanguinische, das melancholische Temperament zu behandeln vermag. Da tritt natürlich der Fall ein, wo man nötig hat, diese Brücke zwischen Schule und Haus, von der ich gesprochen habe, tatsächlich in einer intimen Weise herzustellen. Ich habe zum Beispiel ein melancholisches Kind in der Klasse, kann schwer mit ihm etwas anfangen; ich komme nicht recht in es hinein, es brütet, es ist abgezogen, mit sich selbst beschäftigt, ist nicht bei dem, was in der Klasse vorgebracht wird. Hat man eine Pädagogik, die nicht auf Menschenerkenntnis gebaut ist, so meint man, man müsse alles Mögliche mit dem Kinde machen, um seine Aufmerksamkeit zu erregen, um es aus sich herauszubringen. Das wird aber in der Regel das Kind noch bedenklicher machen, es wird noch brütender werden. Alle diese Heilmittel, die man so laienhaft ersinnt, helfen wenig; höchstens hilft da die selbstverständliche Liebe zu dem Kinde: denn es weiß, man hat Teilnahme mit ihm, so daß das mehr Unterbewußte in ihm angeregt wird. Alles Zureden freilich sind nicht nur verschwenderische Versuche, sondern es schädigt nur, und das Kind wird noch melancholischer als früher. Aber in der Klasse hilft außerordentlich viel, wenn man versucht, auf die Melancholie des Kindes einzugehen, von ihm herauszubekommen, worauf seine Vorstellungen gehen; dann für diese Vorstellungen Interesse zeigen, auf diese Vorstellungen eingehen und gewissermaßen mit dem, was man selbst tut, melancholisch werden mit dem melancholischen Kinde. Man muß als Lehrer sämtliche vier Temperamente in harmonischem Zusammenwirken in sich tragen. Und das, wie man sich dann zu dem Kinde verhält, das widerspricht der Melancholie des Kindes, und wenn man dies immer fortsetzt, dann schaut das Kind das, was man ist, in dasjenige hinein, was man spricht. Und es stiehlt sich auf diese Weise in das Kind dasjenige hinein, was hinter der Maske der Melancholie, die man annimmt, steckt an liebevollem Eingehen auf das Kind. Das wird in der Klasse helfen.

Jetzt aber wird man weitergehen und wird wissen, daß alle Melancholie in einem Menschen, so unwahrscheinlich dies auch dem heutigen Physiologen erscheinen mag, zusammenhängt mit einer unregelmäßigen Leberfunktion. Man kann wissen, daß alle Melancholie, besonders wenn sie das Kind ins Pathologische hineintreibt, auf unregelmäßiger Leberfunktion beruht. Daher wende ich mich nun an die Eltern eines solchen Kindes und sage ihnen: Ihr müßt diesem Kinde einmal mehr Zucker als sonst in die Speisen hineintun; das Kind muß die Speisen gesüßter bekommen, als ihr es gewohnt seid; denn Zucker wirkt auf die Normalisierung der Leberfunktion. Und indem ich der Mutter diesen Rat gebe: Gib dem Kinde mehr Zucker -, werde ich Schule und Haus zusammenwirken lassen, um das, was in der Melancholie ins Pathologische hineingegangen ist, wieder herauszubringen und die Möglichkeit zu schaffen, durch die es dann die entsprechende Behandlung finden kann. — Oder ich habe ein sanguinisches Kind, ein Kind, das von Eindruck zu Eindruck geht, das immer gleich das Nächste haben will, wenn es das Vorhergehende gerade hat, das sich stark anfängt, für alles zu interessieren, aber mit seinem Interesse auch bald wieder aufhört. Ich habe also ein solches Kind, das mir diese verschiedenen Merkmale zeigt. Es wird in der Regel nicht schwarz, sondern blond sein. Da handelt es sich wieder darum, daß ich zunächst die Möglichkeit finde, es in der Schule zu behandeln. Ich werde in dem, was ich selber tue, versuchen, noch sanguinischer zu werden als das Kind; ich werde ihm recht schnell wechselnde Eindrücke vormachen, so daß es sich jetzt nicht sich selber überlassen kann in bezug auf das Eilen von Eindruck zu Eindruck, sondern daß es mit muß mit mir. Dann wird ihm die Geschichte zuwider, dann will es schließlich nicht mit. Aber zwischen dem, was ich so immer wieder und wieder tue, daß ich mich selbst sanguinisch benehme bei dem, was ich dem Kinde beibringen will, und zwischen dem, wie das Kind seinem Temperamente nach von Eindruck zu Eindruck eilen will, da bildet sich nun in ihm selber als Gegenwirkung eine Harmonie aus. So kann ich das Kind behandeln, indem ich seine Eindrücke recht wechselnd mache, immerfort Neues ausdenke, so daß das Kind bald schwarz, bald weiß sehen muß, immerfort von Ding zu Ding eilen muß. Nun setze ich mich aber jetzt mit der Mutter dieses Kindes in Verbindung. Da erfahre ich von ihr ganz sicher, daß das Kind ein Zuckerschlecker ist oder so etwas ähnliches, daß es viele Bonbons bekommt oder sie stibitzt, oder in einem Elternhause ist, wo man sehr gern die Speisen stark süßt, oder — wenn selbst das nicht der Fall war — es war die Muttermilch zu süß, hat zu viel Zuckerstoff enthalten. Und dann setze ich der Mutter auseinander, für einige Zeit dem Kinde eine Diät zu geben, die zuckerärmer ist als bisher, und so wirke ich jetzt durch die zuckerarme Nahrung vom Elternhause aus mit der Schule zusammen. Und die Zuckerverminderung wird allmählich die Abnormität, die dadurch herauskommt, daß auch bei diesem Kinde die Lebertätigkeit in der Gallenabsonderung nicht ganz richtig ist, paralysiert, jene abnorme Gallenabsonderung, die sehr fein und wenig bemerkbar ist. Und ich werde bemerken, daß mir so das Elternhaus zu Hilfe kommt.

So muß man tatsächlich überall wissen, wo sozusagen das Physische unmittelbar im Geistigen drinnensteht, wo es eins mit dem Geistigen ist.

Wir können noch mehr ins Detail gehen und können sagen: Ein Kind zeigt mir rasches Auffassungsvermögen, es begreift alles recht leicht; aber wenn ich nach ein paar Tagen wieder auf das zurückkomme, was es aufgefaßt hat und worüber ich so froh war, daß es so schnell begriffen hat, dann ist es verflogen; es ist nicht mehr da. Da werde ich auch wiederum in der Schule manches tun können. Ich werde versuchen, vor dem Kinde dasjenige zu entwickeln, was nötig macht, daß es eine stärkere Aufmerksamkeit aufwendet, als es gewohnt ist. Es begreift etwas zu schnell, es hat nicht nötig, sich innerlich genügend anzustrengen, um die Dinge in sich hineinzuprägen. Ich werde es also Nüsse knacken lassen, werde ihm etwas geben, was schwerer zu begreifen ist und mehr Aufmerksamkeit verlangt. Das kann ich in der Schule tun. Aber nun setze ich mich wieder mit den Eltern zusammen und kann da von ihnen Verschiedenes herausbekommen. — Was ich jetzt sage, das muß nicht immer in dieser Weise den Tatsachen entsprechen; aber ich will damit den Weg nur andeuten. — Ich werde taktvoll mit der Mutter mich auseinandersetzen, werde ihr nicht vom hohen Roß herunter Vorschriften machen, sondern werde herausbekommen, wie eigentlich die Hauskost beschaffen ist, und ich werde finden, daß dieses Kind gerade zu viel Kartoffeln ißt. Die Sache ist deshalb schwierig, weil jetzt die Mutter sagen kann: Ja, du sagst mir, daß mein Kind zu viel Kartoffeln ißt; aber des Nachbars Töchterlein bekommt noch mehr Kartoffeln, und das hat gar nicht denselben Fehler; also kann der doch nicht vom Kartoffelessen kommen. — Das wird die Mutter sagen. Und dennoch, es kommt vom Kartoffelessen, weil die Organisation eines Kindes so ist, daß das eine mehr, das andere weniger Kartoffeln vertragen kann. Und kurioserweise: bei diesem einen Kinde zeigt es sich, daß es zu viel Kartoffeln für seine Organisation bekommen hat; es zeigt sich dies dadurch, daß es gedächtnismäßig nicht ordentlich funktioniert. Nun liegt die Heilung in diesem Falle nicht darin, daß man dem Kinde weniger Kartoffeln gibt. Es kann sogar sein: man gibt ihm weniger Kartoffeln, und es kann eine Besserung eintreten; aber nach einiger Zeit ist alles wieder beim alten. Da wirkt nicht die absolute Verminderung der Kartoffelmenge, sondern das langsame Abgewöhnen, die Tätigkeit des Abgewöhnens. Und man muß der Mutter sagen: Um ganz Winziges weniger Kartoffeln gib dem Kinde in der ersten Woche, um ein weiteres Winziges weniger in der zweiten Woche und so weiter, so daß das Kind etwas damit zu tun hat, ganz nach und nach auf eine geringere Menge Kartoffelsubstanz herunterzukommen. Um das Abgewöhnen also handelt es sich in diesem Falle und man wird sehen, daß man damit wieder geradezu heilend wirken kann.

Nun werden sehr leicht sogenannte Idealisten der Anthroposophie Materialismus vorwerfen. Sie tun es auch. Wenn die Anthroposophie zum Beispiel sagt: Wenn man ein Kind hat, das leicht begreift, das aber die Dinge nicht behält, dann muß man die Kartoffelration nach und nach vermindern, — dann sagen die Leute: Du bist ja ganz Materialist. — Aber es besteht ein so inniges Zusammenwirken zwischen Materie und Geist, daß man nur wirken kann, wenn man die Materie durchschaut, und wenn man sie auch durch Maßnahmen, die man durch den Geist erkennt, beherrschen kann. — Nun brauche ich Ihnen wohl nicht zu sagen, wieviel in unserem heutigen sozialen Leben gegen diese Dinge gesündigt wird. Aber, wenn nun dem Lehrer Weltanschauungsperspektiven sich eröffnen, dann kommt er ja wirklich auf diese Dinge. Er muß nur den Blick etwas erweitern. So wirkt zum Beispiel auf den Lehrer ungeheuer günstig in bezug auf das Begreifen der Kinder, wenn er erfährt, wie wenig Zucker in Rußland verbraucht wird und wie viel in England. Und wenn er dann das russische Temperament vergleicht mit dem englischen Temperament, dann wird er schon sehen, was der Zucker auf das Temperament für einen Einfluß hat. Man muß die Welt erkennen lernen, so daß einem dieses Erkennenlernen etwas hilft für das, was man zu tun hat. — Aber ich will noch etwas anderes sagen: Es gibt in Deutschland, in Baden, einen Ort, wo man ein merkwürdiges Denkmal findet, das Drake-Denkmal. Ich wollte einmal wissen, was es mit diesem Drake für eine Bedeutung hat. Da schlug ich das Konversationslexikon nach und las: Dem Drake ist in Offenburg ein Denkmal errichtet worden, weil man ihn irrtümlich für den Einführer der Kartoffel in Europa gehalten hat. — Das steht dort. Der Mann hat also ein Denkmal bekommen, weil er für denjenigen Menschen gehalten wurde, der in Europa die Kartoffel einführte. Er hat sie nicht eingeführt, obwohl er in Offenburg ein Denkmal erhalten hat.

Die Kartoffel ist aber doch verhältnismäßig spät in Europa eingeführt worden. Und nun werde ich Ihnen etwas sagen, worüber Sie so viel lachen mögen, als Sie wollen, aber es ist doch eine Wahrheit. Man kann studieren, wie sich die intelligenten Fähigkeiten der Menschen verhalten in ihrer Entwickelung von der kartoffellosen Zeit zu der Zeit nach der Einführung der Kartoffel. Und die Kartoffel wird ja auch für Branntweinbrennerei verwendet. Sie fing einmal an, eine ganz bestimmte Rolle in der Entwickelung der europäischen Menschheit zu spielen. Wenn Sie die zunehmende Verwendung der Kartoffel vergleichen mit der Entwickelungskurve der Intelligenz, so finden Sie, daß gegenüber der heutigen Zeit die Leute in der Vorkartoffelzeit weniger intensiv die Dinge erfaßt haben, aber das Erfaßte mit Zähigkeit festgehalten haben; sie waren mehr konservative Naturen, tief innerlich. Als die Kartoffel eingeführt wurde, da wurden die Leute schneller im intelligenten Bewegen der Begriffe, aber das Aufgenommene haftet nicht, es geht nicht ins Innere hinein. Die Geschichte der Entwickelung der Intelligenz geht parallel der Geschichte des Kartoffelessens. Wiederum ein Beispiel dafür, wie die Anthroposophie materialistisch die Dinge erklärt, aber es ist so. Und man würde viel lernen für die Kulturgeschichte, wenn man überall wissen würde, wie der Mensch im Unterbewußten gerade im Geistigen von dem äußerlichen Materiellen ergriffen wird. In seinen Begierden zeigt er das.

Nehmen wir zum Beispiel jemanden, der viel zu schreiben hat, für Zeitungen jeden Tag einen Artikel und dergleichen, so daß er genötigt ist, an der Feder zu kauen, um das herauszubringen, was er zu schreiben hat. Wenn man das selber durchgemacht hat, kann man es ja erzählen; man muß es nur nicht an andern kritisieren, man mußes aus der eigenen Erfahrung heraus besprechen. Da hat man dann das Bedürfnis, während des Kauens an der Feder Kaffee zu trinken; denn das Kaffeetrinken ist etwas, was die Gedanken mehr bindet. Man bekommt also die Gedanken logischer heraus, wenn man Kaffee trinkt, als ohne diesen. Als Journalist also muß man eigentlich den Kaffee lieben; man hat es schwerer, wenn man nicht Kaffee trinkt. Nehmen Sie aber dagegen einen Diplomaten. Denken Sie daran, was mit dem Diplomaten alles vor dem Weltkriege verbunden gewesen ist: er mußte lernen, mit den Beinen auf eine besondere Weise aufzutreten; auf den sozialen Böden, wo der Diplomat sich bewegen muß, muß man lernen, mehr gleitend die Fußsohlen aufzusetzen als sonst im bürgerlichen Leben. Aber man muß auch mit den Gedanken etwas flüchtig-flüssig sein können. Wenn man logisch als Diplomat ist, wird man ganz sicher keine guten Geschäfte machen, noch die Völker vorwärtsbringen. Wenn man zusammen ist als Diplomaten — da sagt man auch nicht von ihnen, die sind beim Kaffee zusammen, sondern, die sind beim Tee zusammen -, da hat man das Bedürfnis, eine Tasse Tee nach der andern zu trinken, damit die Gedanken nicht nur logisch auseinander hervorgehen, sondern möglichst springen. Daher die Begierde der Diplomaten, Tee zu trinken: der löst den einen Gedanken von dem andern los, macht ihn flüssig und flüchtig, zerstört die Logik. So kann man also sagen: Schriftsteller = Kaffeeliebhaber, Diplomaten = Teeliebhaber, aus einem ganz richtigen Instinkt heraus.

Weiß man das, so betrachtet man das nicht als eine Beeinträchtigung der menschlichen Freiheit. Denn selbstverständlich ist die Logik nicht eine Blüte des Kaffees, sondern das ist nur eine unbewußte, unterbewußte Unterstützung nachher. Die Seele bleibt schon deshalb doch frei.

Aber gerade wenn man das Kind vor sich hat, muß man in solche Zusammenhänge hineinblicken, für die man einen Sinn bekommt, wenn man sagen kann: Tee — Diplomatengetränk, Kaffee - Schriftstellergetränk und so weiter. Dann bekommt man allmählich auch eine Einsicht darin, wie es mit so etwas überhaupt ist wie mit der Kartoffel. Die Kartoffel bietet der Verdauung außerordentlich starke Schwierigkeiten. Und sehr wenig, fast homöopathisch Dosiertes, kommt von ihr ins Gehirn. Aber dieses homöopathisch Dosierte ist gerade sehr wirksam, das spornt die abstrakten Intelligenzkräfte an. - Da darf ich vielleicht etwas verraten. Wenn man Kartoffelsubstanz durch das Mikroskop betrachtet, so hat man ja diese bekannten Gebilde der Kohlehydrate darinnen. Wenn man den astralischen Leib eines Menschen ansieht, der etwas viel Kartoffeln gegessen hat, dann bemerkt man, wie im Gehirn, 3 Zentimeter hinter der Stirn, die Kartoffelsubstanz auch anfängt, in solchen exzentrischen Kreisen tätig zu sein. Die Bewegungen des astralischen Leibes werden kartoffelsubstanzartig, und der Mensch wird außerordentlich intelligent. Er wird von übersprudelnder Intelligenz. Aber das sitzt nicht, es geht gleich wieder vorüber. Muß man denn nicht zugeben, wenn man überhaupt zugibt, daß der Mensch Geist und Seele hat, daß es nicht ganz närrisch und phantastisch ist, wenn man auch von dem Geiste redet und man redet von ihm in sinnlichen Bildern? Wer immer nur in abstrakten Bildern über ihn sprechen will, der führt uns nichts von dem Geiste vor; wohl aber der, der den Geist bis zum sinnlichen Bilde hinunterbringen kann. Er kann sagen, bei einem so sprudelnd-intelligenten Menschen geht es so, daß im Gehirn förmlich Kartoffelsubstanz, aber geistig, sich bildet. Und man lernt dann auch wieder die feinen Unterschiede und Übergänge erkennen. Man lernt erkennen, daß Tee in bezug auf die Logik die Gedanken auseinanderklüftet, aber er regt nicht an, Gedanken zu bekommen. Damit, daß die Diplomaten den Tee lieben, ist noch nicht gesagt, daß sie die Fähigkeit haben, Gedanken zu produzieren. Aber die Kartoffel regt an, Gedanken blitzartig aufschießen und auch wieder verschwinden zu lassen. Aber diesem blitzartigen Aufschießen der Gedanken, das auch bei Kindern eintreten kann, geht immer parallel ein Untergraben des Verdauungssystems. Und man wird gerade sehen können, wenn die Kinder in ihrem Verdauungssystem untergraben werden, so daß sie nämlich über Obstipationen klagen, es zugleich dadurch sich zeigt, daß ihnen allerlei nichtsnutzige und gescheite Gedanken durch den Kopf schießen, die sie ja wieder verlieren, aber sie sind doch da.

Ich führe diese Dinge im Detail an, damit Sie sehen, wie GeistigSeelisches und Physisches einheitlich angeschaut werden muß, und wie wiederum wirklich in der Menschheitsentwickelung ein Zustand herbeigeführt werden muß, der die verschiedensten Strömungen der Kultur zusammenhält, während wir in einem Zeitalter leben, in welchem sie ganz auseinandergegangen sind. Das aber sieht man wieder nur ein, wenn man ein wenig in die Entwickelungsgeschichte der Menschheit hineinsehen kann.

Wir unterscheiden heute Religion, Kunst, Wissenschaft. Und die Wächter der Religion sorgen zuweilen mit aller Intensität dafür, daß nur ja nichts Wissenschaftliches in die Religion hineinkomme. Der Religion hat man zu glauben, und die Wissenschaft sitzt woanders. Die hat sich auf einem Gebiete, wo man wissen kann, zu verwenden; die darf nichts glauben, sie muß alles wissen. Aber damit man mit dieser Einteilung zurecht kommt, schaltet man von der Wissenschaft das Geistige und von der Religion die Welt aus; dann wird die Religion abstrakt, ist nur für das Übersinnliche da, und dann wird die Wissenschaft geistlos. Und die Kunst emanzipiert sich vollständig. In unserer Zeit gibt es ja Menschen, die, wenn man ihnen übersinnliche Sachen erzählen will, dann die Miene des Gescheiten aufsetzen und einen als abergläubisch ansehen: Minderwertig! Wir wissen, daß das alles Unsinn ist. - Dann aber schreibt jemand, ein Björnson oder ein anderer, irgend etwas, wo solche Dinge drinnen spielen; es geht in die Kunst hinüber, da laufen alle Leute hin und genießen in der Kunst dasjenige, was sie in der Erkenntnis ablehnen. Mit dem Aberglauben ist es ja so sonderbar. Ich hatte einmal einen Bekannten — solche Dinge aus dem Leben muß man überall durchaus in die Erziehungskunst hineintragen, denn wirkliche Erziehungskunst kann man nur vom Leben lernen -, einen Bekannten, der dramatischer Schriftsteller war. Ich begegnete ihm einmal auf der Straße, er lief außerordentlich schnell, schwitzend. Es war 3 Minuten vor 8 Uhr abends. Ich fragte ihn, wohin er denn so schnell wolle. Er aber hatte es sehr eilig und sagte nur, er müsse schnell noch zur Post, denn die würde um 8 Uhr geschlossen. Ich ließ ihn laufen, aber ich war doch psychologisch interessiert, um den Grund seiner Eile zu erfahren. So wartete ich also, bis er zurückkam. Endlich kam er auch, ganz echauffiert, und er war jetzt auch mitteilsam. Ich wollte wissen, warum er so schnell zur Post gelaufen war. Und da erzählte er mir: Ja, ich habe eben mein Stück abgeschickt. - Von diesem Stück aber hatte er bisher immer erzählt, daß er damit noch nicht fertig wäre. Und er sagte auch jetzt: Ich bin zwar damit noch nicht fertig, aber ich wollte es nur heute noch abschicken, damit der Direktor es morgen bekommt; ich habe ihm jedoch auch gleich dazu geschrieben, er möge es mir nur wieder noch einmal zurückschicken. Denn wenn man nämlich ein Stück vor dem Letzten des Monats noch abschickt, dann wird es zur Aufführung noch angenommen, sonst nicht! — Nun, dieser Mann war der aufgeklärteste, den es gab. Er glaubte daran, daß, wenn man an einem bestimmten Tage ein Stück abschickt, es angenommen wird, selbst wenn er es sich noch einmal zurückschicken lassen muß, um es dann erst in Wirklichkeit fertigzumachen. Daran können Sie sehen, wie die Dinge, welche die Menschen manchmal verachten, sich in irgendeinen Winkel hineinverkriechen, aus dem sie dann bei nächster Gelegenheit wieder hervorkommen.

So ist es insbesondere beim Kinde. Man glaubt, irgend etwas bei ihm ausgemerzt zu haben, aber gleich tritt es irgendwo anders wieder auf. Dafür muß man einen Blick haben. Und so muß man schon Weitherzigkeit im Anschauen von Menschen haben, damit man auf Menschenerkenntnis eine wirkliche pädagogische Kunst aufbaut. Nur wenn man auf Details eingeht, wird man dies alles durchschauen können.

Heute, sage ich also, redet man abgesondert von Religion, Kunst und Wissenschaft. Das gab es in den Urzeiten der Menschheit nicht. Da war alles eine Einheit. Damals gab es Mysterienstätten, die zugleich Hochschulen waren, die Religionsstätten, Kunststätten und zugleich Wissenschaftsstätten waren. Denn man empfing eben als Erkenntnis die vorstellungsgemäßen Bilder, die ideengemäßen Bilder der geistigen Welt. Aber man empfing sie so anschaulich, daß man sie auch in äußerlichen Bildern verwirklichen und den Kultus daran entwickeln konnte. Wissenschaft wurde zum Kultus, aber sie wurde auch zur Kunst. Denn das, was man aus der Erkenntnis äußerlich gestaltete, wollte man schön haben. So hatte man in jenen Zeiten ein Göttlich-Wahres, ein SittlichGutes und ein Sinnlich-Schönes in den Mysterienstätten als Einheit aus der Religion, der Kunst und der Wissenschaft. Und erst später spaltete sich dieses Einheitliche, und da gab es dann die Wissenschaft für sich, die Religion für sich und die Kunst für sich. Und in unserer Zeit ist es damit bis zum Kulminationspunkt gekommen. Die Dinge, die eigentlich nur eins sein können, sind in der Kulturentwickelung getrennt. Der Mensch aber ist dazu veranlagt, sie in sich in einer Einheit zu erleben, und nicht getrennt. Er kann in sich nur in Einheit religiöse Wissenschaft, wissenschaftliche Religion, künstlerische Idealität erleben; sonst wird er innerlich auseinandergezerrt. Daher ist es dort, wo diese Trennung, diese Differenzierung aufs höchste gestiegen ist,auch wieder das Notwendigste geworden, die Verbindung zwischen diesen drei Gebieten wiederzufinden. Und wir werden sehen, wie wir im Unterricht wieder Kunst, Religion und Wissenschaft für das Kind als eine Einheit gestalten können. Wir werden sehen, wie das Kind lebendig veranlagt ist auf ein solches Zusammenbringen von Religion, Kunst und Wissenschaft hin, wie es seiner inneren Natur entspricht. Daher diese strenge Forderung, die ich immer wieder und wieder geltend gemacht habe: Man erziehe das Kind, indem man weiß, es ist eigentlich ein ästhetisch veranlagtes Wesen; und man versuche darauf hinzuweisen, wie es in den allerersten Lebensjahren naturhaft-religiös sich darlebt.

Alle diese Dinge, die zuammenharmonisierte Religion, Kunst und Wissenschaft, müssen wir nun in der entsprechenden Weise richtig erfassen und verwerten in denjenigen Unterrichtsveranstaltungen, die wir noch zu besprechen haben werden.

Seventh Lecture

From the considerations made here about an educational art based on knowledge of human nature, it will have become clear how important it is how the teacher, the educator, actually faces those he has to educate and teach. What resides in the soul, in the whole personality of the teacher, has an effect, one might say, in a hundred invisible ways, from the educator, from the pedagogue, to the children, to the pupils. But it only has an effect if the educator actually carries a profound, genuine knowledge of human nature in his soul, a knowledge of human nature that is on the transition to a spiritual experience. And I must already mention something today about what is actually meant by spiritual experience in the anthroposophical sense, for in many cases there is a most erroneous view of this.

It is so easy to think that spiritual contemplation must above all rise above everything material. Certainly, human beings can attain a deep, but always somewhat egoistic, spiritual satisfaction when they rise above the material and soar into the spiritual. One must do so, for one can only learn about the spiritual by encountering it in its own realm as spiritual, and anthroposophy must often deal with spiritual realms and spiritual beings that have nothing to do with the physical and sensory. And when it comes to what is so necessary for people today, namely to get to know the life of the human being between death and new birth, the actual supersensible life of the human being before birth or conception and life after death, then one must rise to a body-free, supersensible, superphysical view. But we must also work and act within the physical world; we must stand firmly within it. After all, as educators, we are not primarily concerned with disembodied souls. If we want to become educators, we cannot ask ourselves: How do we relate to souls that have passed through death and live in the spiritual world? Instead, if we want to work as educators between birth and death, we must ask ourselves: How does a soul dwell in the physical body? And we must do this; at least we must do it for the years after birth. It is really a matter of being able to look into the material world with the spirit. And anthroposophy, spiritual science, is in many ways looking into the material world with the spirit.

But the opposite is also true: one must look into the spiritual itself to such an extent that it appears as full and rich as anything sensory; one must be able to talk about the spiritual as if it shone through colors, made itself audible through sounds, as if it stood before one in bodily form as a sensory being. This is precisely what abstract philosophers find so terribly annoying about anthroposophy. It annoys them terribly that the spiritual researcher describes the spiritual world and spiritual beings as if he could encounter them every hour like other human beings, as if he could shake their hands and talk to them. He describes these spiritual beings just like earthly beings; in his description they also look almost like earthly beings. That is to say, he represents the spiritual with sensory images. He does this with full consciousness, because for him it is an absolute reality. There is some truth in the fact that real knowledge of the whole world leads to one “shaking hands” with the spirits, facing them, talking to them. This may seem paradoxical at first to philosophers who want to understand the spiritual world only in abstract terms, but such a description is necessary. On the other hand, it is necessary to see through a human being in such a way that the material aspect of them disappears completely, so that the human being stands there entirely as spirit. But if the non-anthroposophist wants to see the human being as spirit, then this human being is not only a ghost, but much less than a ghost; he is a conceptual clothes rack on which the most diverse concepts hang, on which the power of imagination acts, and so on. A ghost is still quite dense in comparison, but a human being as described by philosophers is truly indecently naked in relation to the spiritual. In anthroposophy, the physical human being is viewed entirely spiritually, but he still has a brain, liver, lungs, and so on; he is concrete, he has everything that is found in him when the corpse is dissected. Everything that is spiritual has an effect on the physical. One views the physical spiritually, but one has everything. The human being also “blows his nose” as a spirit; that is how far spiritual activity extends. It is only because one is aware that when one looks at the physical, it can become entirely spiritual, and that when one looks at the spiritual, one can bring it down again so that it becomes almost physical, only then do the two come together. One looks at the physical human being, looks at him in his healthy and sick states; but the heavy material is lost, it becomes spiritual. And one looks at the spiritual as it is between death and new birth, and it becomes physical in images. In this way, the two come together.

By having this twofold possibility of looking at the spiritual in sensory images and the sensory in spiritual entities, one learns to look into the human being. So when one asks: What does spiritual perception mean in the true, genuine sense? — one must answer: It means seeing the sensory in a spiritual way and the spiritual in a sensory way. — This seems paradoxical, but it is so. And only when one is thoroughly convinced of the truth of what I have said does one come to see the child in the right way.

An example. A child in my class is becoming paler and paler. I see this paleness; it is a phenomenon in the child's physical life. But it is not enough to go to the doctor and have him prescribe something to restore color to the child's cheeks. For the following case may simply be the case: the child is becoming pale; you can see it. Now the school doctor comes and prescribes something to restore the child's color. Even if the doctor has acted quite correctly and prescribed the absolutely right remedy for such cases, something strange will be noticed in the child who has now been cured. It has been cured, and anyone who is above the doctor and has to issue a certificate to the authorities could also say that the doctor has done this. But the child cured in this way later shows at school that it can no longer concentrate properly, it becomes fidgety and restless, it overlooks things due to inattention. And whereas it used to sit there pale and was a reasonably well-behaved child, it now starts poking its neighbors; whereas it used to dip its pen delicately into the inkwell, it now thrusts it in with force, so that ink splatters upward and covers the notebook. The doctor has done his duty; but now we are left with the mess, because cured people sometimes behave quite strangely in life.

In such a case, it is again a matter of really seeing what is actually underlying the problem. If one can see through the external physical, which is expressed in paleness, to the spiritual-soul, one notices the following. The power of memory, which works in the spiritual-soul realm, is nothing other than transformed, metamorphosed growth power; and developing growth and nourishment powers is, on a different level, exactly the same as forming memory and forming memories on a higher level. It is the same power, only in different metamorphoses. Schematically speaking, one can say: in the first years of a child's life, both powers are still mixed together, not yet separated; later, memory emerges as a special ability from the undifferentiated, and so do the powers of growth and nutrition. Because the child still needs its memory powers in the first years to feed its stomach and digest milk, it cannot remember anything; when it later no longer needs its memory power to serve its stomach, when the stomach makes fewer demands and retains only a little power, then part of the growth powers becomes mental memory, the power of remembrance. If, at school, perhaps because the other children are more robust, i.e., have a more correct distribution of memory and growth forces within themselves, less has been expected of a child who does not have as much reserve in this respect, then it can very easily happen that the child's memory is overloaded; then the emancipated memory is too strongly engaged in this child. Then too much is taken away from the power of growth, which is similar to it. The child becomes pale, and I must say to myself in my soul: I have strained your memory too much; that is why you have become pale. It is then very easy to notice that if you relieve this child in terms of memory and the power of recollection, it will regain its color on its own. But one must understand how the paleness is connected with what one has done oneself by overloading the child with memories. It is very important to be able to look into the physical and see that if the child becomes too pale, I have overloaded it with memory.

But if I have another child in the class who sometimes gets a peculiar redness on their face, and who can then also be a cause for concern when such a hectic redness occurs, I will be able to notice the accompanying psychological effects very easily when this hectic redness occurs. For at the strangest moments, when one least expects it, these children become irascible and raging; they become emotional. Of course, one can say again: blood rushing to the head – something can be prescribed to counteract this. The doctor has then done his duty, of course. But there is something else we need to know, namely that, in contrast to the other child, this child has been neglected in terms of memory; too much of its energy has gone into growth and nutrition. In this case, we must try to make demands on the child's memory, give its memory something to do; then these symptoms will cease.

Some things that need to be arranged in school can only be recognized by truly seeing the physical and the spiritual as a unity. One gradually trains oneself in this recognition of the connection between the physical and the spiritual when one can look at what already stands between the physical and the spiritual in the whole human organization: the temperament. Children come to school and, of course, with all the transitions and mixtures, they have the four temperaments: melancholic, phlegmatic, sanguine, and choleric. In our Waldorf school pedagogy, great importance is attached to understanding the child according to these temperaments, even in the seating arrangement we have in the classroom. We try to find out which children are choleric, for example; we seat them together, so we have them all together, and then the teacher can also see: over there in the corner are the children with a choleric disposition, in another corner are the phlegmatic children, somewhere in the middle are the sanguine children, and somewhere else are the melancholic children. This grouping has its great advantages. Because you learn that the phlegmatic children become so bored sitting together that they want to drive away this boredom by rubbing each other up the wrong way. And the choleric children push each other around so much that after a while things get much better. The same is true of the sanguine children with their fidgety nature. And the melancholic children, in turn, see how melancholy affects the others. So treating the children in such a way that you can see that like affects like favorably is already something very good in terms of this outward appearance, apart from the fact that you now also have the opportunity to keep an eye on the whole class, because it is much easier to keep an eye on them when you have children of the same type together.

Now, however, it is important to look into human nature in such a way that one is really able to deal with the choleric, sanguine, and melancholic temperaments in a practical way. Of course, there are cases where it is necessary to actually establish this bridge between school and home, which I have spoken of, in an intimate way. For example, I have a melancholic child in my class whom I find difficult to work with; I cannot really get through to him, he broods, he is withdrawn, preoccupied with himself, not engaged with what is going on in class. If you have a pedagogy that is not based on knowledge of human nature, you think you have to do everything possible with the child to attract its attention, to bring it out of itself. But this will usually make the child even more apprehensive, it will become even more brooding. All these remedies, which are devised in such an amateurish way, are of little help; at most, the natural love for the child helps: because it knows that someone is interested in it, so that the more subconscious part of it is stimulated. All persuasion is not only a wasteful attempt, but it is also harmful, and the child becomes even more melancholic than before. But in the classroom, it helps enormously if one tries to respond to the child's melancholy, to find out what his ideas are; then show interest in these ideas, respond to them and, in a sense, become melancholic with the melancholic child through what one does oneself. As a teacher, one must carry all four temperaments within oneself in harmonious interaction. And the way you then behave towards the child contradicts the child's melancholy, and if you continue to do this, the child will see what you are, what you say. And in this way, what lies behind the mask of melancholy that you assume, in your loving response to the child, will steal its way into the child. This will help in the classroom.

But now we will go further and know that all melancholy in a person, however unlikely this may seem to today's physiologists, is related to irregular liver function. We can know that all melancholy, especially when it drives the child into pathology, is based on irregular liver function. Therefore, I now turn to the parents of such a child and say to them: You must put more sugar than usual in this child's food; the child must have sweeter food than you are used to, because sugar has a normalizing effect on liver function. And by giving the mother this advice: Give the child more sugar — I will bring the school and the home together to bring out what has become pathological in the melancholy and create the possibility for it to find the appropriate treatment. — Or I have a sanguine child, a child who goes from one impression to the next, who always wants the next thing as soon as they have the previous one, who starts to take a keen interest in everything but soon loses interest again. So I have a child who shows me these different characteristics. As a rule, it will not be black, but blond. Again, it is a matter of first finding the opportunity to treat it at school. In what I do myself, I will try to become even more sanguine than the child; I will present it with rapidly changing impressions so that it cannot now be left to its own devices in rushing from impression to impression, but must go along with me. Then it will dislike the story and ultimately not want to go along with it. But between what I do over and over again, behaving sanguinically myself in what I want to teach the child, and between how the child, according to its temperament, wants to rush from impression to impression, a harmony develops within the child itself as a counteraction. So I can treat the child by making its impressions quite varied, constantly thinking up new things, so that the child must see things as black one moment and white the next, constantly rushing from one thing to another. But now I get in touch with the mother of this child. I learn from her with certainty that the child is a sugar lover or something similar, that it gets a lot of candy or steals it, or lives in a home where people like to sweeten their food a lot, or—if even that was not the case—its mother's milk was too sweet, contained too much sugar. And then I explain to the mother that she should put the child on a diet that is lower in sugar than before for a while, and so I now work with the school through the low-sugar diet at home. And the reduction in sugar will gradually paralyze the abnormality that results from the fact that this child's liver activity in bile secretion is not quite right, that abnormal bile secretion that is very subtle and hardly noticeable. And I will notice that the parents' home is helping me in this way.

So one must actually know everywhere where, so to speak, the physical is directly within the spiritual, where it is one with the spiritual.

We can go into even more detail and say: A child shows me quick comprehension, it understands everything quite easily; but when I come back to what it has grasped after a few days, and what I was so happy about because it understood so quickly, then it has vanished; it is no longer there. Then I will be able to do something at school again. I will try to develop in the child what is necessary for it to pay more attention than it is used to. It understands things too quickly; it does not need to make enough of an inner effort to imprint things on its mind. So I will let it crack nuts, I will give it something that is more difficult to understand and requires more attention. I can do that at school. But now I sit down with the parents again and can find out various things from them. — What I am saying now may not always correspond to the facts in this way, but I only want to suggest the approach. — I will deal tactfully with the mother, I will not give her instructions from on high, but I will find out what the home diet is actually like, and I will find that this child eats too many potatoes. The matter is difficult because now the mother can say: Yes, you tell me that my child eats too many potatoes, but the neighbor's little daughter gets even more potatoes, and she doesn't have the same problem, so it can't be caused by eating potatoes. — That is what the mother will say. And yet it is caused by eating potatoes, because a child's constitution is such that one can tolerate more potatoes than another. And curiously enough, in this one child it is apparent that he has been given too many potatoes for his constitution; this is evident from the fact that his memory is not functioning properly. Now, in this case, the cure does not lie in giving the child fewer potatoes. It may even be that if you give him fewer potatoes, there may be an improvement, but after a while everything will be back to the way it was before. It is not the absolute reduction in the amount of potatoes that has an effect, but the slow weaning off, the act of weaning. And you have to tell the mother: give the child a tiny bit less potatoes in the first week, another tiny bit less in the second week, and so on, so that the child has something to do with gradually reducing the amount of potato substance. So in this case it is a matter of weaning, and you will see that this can have a healing effect.

Now, so-called idealists of anthroposophy will very easily accuse it of materialism. They do so. For example, when anthroposophy says: If you have a child who understands easily but does not retain things, then you must gradually reduce the potato ration, people say: You are quite materialistic. But there is such an intimate interaction between matter and spirit that one can only be effective if one understands matter and can also control it through measures that one recognizes through the spirit. — Now, I don't need to tell you how much our social life today sins against these things. But when a teacher's worldview broadens, he really does come to understand these things. He just needs to broaden his perspective a little. For example, it is extremely beneficial for the teacher in terms of understanding children if he learns how little sugar is consumed in Russia and how much in England. And when he then compares the Russian temperament with the English temperament, he will see what an influence sugar has on temperament. One must learn to understand the world in such a way that this understanding helps one in what one has to do. — But I want to say something else: there is a place in Germany, in Baden, where one finds a remarkable monument, the Drake Monument. I once wanted to know what significance this Drake had. So I looked it up in the encyclopedia and read: A monument was erected to Drake in Offenburg because he was mistakenly believed to be the person who introduced the potato to Europe. — That's what it says there. So the man got a monument because he was believed to be the person who introduced the potato to Europe. He did not introduce it, even though he got a monument in Offenburg.

However, the potato was introduced relatively late in Europe. And now I'm going to tell you something that you can laugh about as much as you like, but it's still true. You can study how people's intellectual abilities behaved in their development from the potato-free era to the era after the introduction of the potato. And the potato is also used for distilling brandy. It began to play a very specific role in the development of European humanity. If you compare the increasing use of the potato with the development curve of intelligence, you will find that, compared to today, people in the pre-potato era understood things less intensively, but held on to what they understood with tenacity; they were more conservative in nature, deep down inside. When the potato was introduced, people became quicker in the intelligent movement of concepts, but what they absorbed did not stick; it did not penetrate inwardly. The history of the development of intelligence runs parallel to the history of potato consumption. This is yet another example of how anthroposophy explains things in a materialistic way, but it is true. And we would learn a great deal about cultural history if we knew everywhere how people are influenced in their subconscious, especially in the spiritual realm, by external material things. This is evident in their desires.

Take, for example, someone who has a lot to write, an article for newspapers every day and the like, so that they are compelled to chew on their pen in order to bring out what they have to write. If you have gone through this yourself, you can talk about it; you just mustn't criticize others for it, you have to discuss it from your own experience. Then you feel the need to drink coffee while chewing on your pen, because drinking coffee is something that binds your thoughts more. So you can express your thoughts more logically when you drink coffee than without it. As a journalist, you actually have to love coffee; it's harder if you don't drink coffee. But take a diplomat, for example. Think of everything that was associated with diplomats before the World War: they had to learn to walk in a special way; in the social circles where diplomats have to move, you have to learn to place the soles of your feet more smoothly than in ordinary civilian life. But you also have to be able to think in a somewhat fleeting and fluid manner. If you are logical as a diplomat, you will certainly not do good business or advance the interests of the people. When diplomats get together—and we don't say they are having coffee together, but rather that they are having tea together—they feel the need to drink one cup of tea after another so that their thoughts not only emerge logically, but also jump around as much as possible. Hence the desire of diplomats to drink tea: it loosens one thought from another, makes it fluid and fleeting, destroys logic. So one can say: writers = coffee lovers, diplomats = tea lovers, out of a very correct instinct.

Knowing this, one does not regard it as an impairment of human freedom. For, of course, logic is not a flower of coffee, but only an unconscious, subconscious support afterwards. The soul remains free for that very reason.

But especially when you have a child in front of you, you have to look into such connections, which make sense when you can say: tea — the drink of diplomats, coffee — the drink of writers, and so on. Then you gradually gain an insight into how something like this works with the potato. The potato presents extraordinary difficulties for digestion. And very little, almost homeopathic doses, reach the brain from it. But these homeopathic doses are very effective, stimulating the abstract powers of intelligence. — Perhaps I may reveal something here. When you look at potato substance through a microscope, you see the familiar structures of carbohydrates inside it. If you look at the astral body of a person who has eaten a lot of potatoes, you will notice how, in the brain, 3 centimeters behind the forehead, the potato substance also begins to act in such eccentric circles. The movements of the astral body become potato-like, and the person becomes extraordinarily intelligent. They become effervescent with intelligence. But this does not last; it passes immediately. Must one not admit, if one admits at all that human beings have a spirit and a soul, that it is not entirely foolish and fantastical to speak of the spirit and to speak of it in sensory images? Those who only want to talk about it in abstract images do not show us anything of the spirit; but those who can bring the spirit down to a sensory image do. They can say that in such an effervescently intelligent person, potato substance, but spiritual, literally forms in the brain. And then one learns to recognize the subtle differences and transitions again. One learns to recognize that tea, in terms of logic, breaks down thoughts, but it does not stimulate the formation of thoughts. The fact that diplomats love tea does not mean that they have the ability to produce thoughts. But potatoes stimulate thoughts to spring up like lightning and then disappear again. However, this lightning-fast springing up of thoughts, which can also occur in children, is always accompanied by an undermining of the digestive system. And you will be able to see that when children's digestive systems are undermined, so that they complain of constipation, this is manifested at the same time by all kinds of useless and clever thoughts shooting through their heads, which they lose again, but they are still there.

I am giving these details so that you can see how the spiritual, soul, and physical aspects must be viewed as a whole, and how a state must be brought about in human development that holds together the most diverse currents of culture, whereas we are living in an age in which they have completely diverged. But this can only be understood if one can look a little into the history of human development.

Today we distinguish between religion, art, and science. And the guardians of religion sometimes take great pains to ensure that nothing scientific enters into religion. One must believe in religion, and science belongs elsewhere. Science has to be used in a field where knowledge is possible; it must not believe anything, it must know everything. But in order to cope with this division, the spiritual is excluded from science and the world is excluded from religion; then religion becomes abstract, exists only for the supernatural, and science becomes spiritless. And art emancipates itself completely. In our time, there are people who, when you try to tell them about supernatural things, put on a clever expression and regard you as superstitious: inferior! We know that this is all nonsense. But then someone, a Björnson or someone else, writes something in which such things play a part; it becomes art, and then everyone rushes to enjoy in art what they reject in knowledge. Superstition is such a strange thing. I once had an acquaintance—such things from life must be incorporated into the art of education everywhere, because real art of education can only be learned from life—an acquaintance who was a playwright. I met him once on the street, he was running extremely fast, sweating. It was three minutes before 8 o'clock in the evening. I asked him where he was going so fast. But he was in a great hurry and only said that he had to get to the post office quickly because it would close at 8 o'clock. I let him go, but I was psychologically interested in finding out the reason for his haste. So I waited until he came back. Finally, he returned, quite agitated, and now he was also talkative. I wanted to know why he had run to the post office so quickly. And then he told me: Yes, I just sent my play. But he had always said that he hadn't finished it yet. And now he said: “I haven't finished it yet, but I wanted to send it today so that the director would get it tomorrow; however, I also wrote to him right away asking him to send it back to me. Because if you send a play before the last day of the month, it will be accepted for performance, otherwise not!” Well, this man was the most enlightened there was. He believed that if you send a piece on a certain day, it will be accepted, even if he has to have it sent back to him so he can actually finish it. From this you can see how the things that people sometimes despise crawl into some corner, from which they then emerge again at the next opportunity.

This is especially true with children. You think you have eradicated something in them, but immediately it reappears somewhere else. You have to keep an eye out for this. And so you have to be open-minded when looking at people in order to build a real pedagogical art on human knowledge. Only by going into detail will you be able to see through all this.

Today, I say, people talk separately about religion, art, and science. This did not exist in the early days of humanity. Back then, everything was one. There were mystery centers that were also universities, places of religion, art, and science. People received knowledge in the form of images that corresponded to their ideas, images of the spiritual world that corresponded to their ideas. But they were received so vividly that they could also be realized in external images and a cult developed around them. Science became a cult, but it also became art. For what was created externally from knowledge was meant to be beautiful. Thus, in those times, the divine-true, the moral-good, and the sensual-beautiful were united in the mystery centers as a unity of religion, art, and science. Only later did this unity split, and then there was science on its own, religion on its own, and art on its own. And in our time, this has reached its culmination. Things that can really only be one have been separated in the development of culture. But human beings are predisposed to experience them as a unity within themselves, and not separately. They can only experience religious science, scientific religion, and artistic idealism as a unity within themselves; otherwise, they are torn apart internally. Therefore, where this separation, this differentiation, has reached its highest point, it has also become necessary to rediscover the connection between these three areas. And we will see how we can once again shape art, religion, and science as a unity for the child in the classroom. We will see how the child is naturally predisposed to such a bringing together of religion, art, and science, in accordance with its inner nature. Hence this strict demand, which I have made again and again: educate the child knowing that it is actually an aesthetically predisposed being; and try to point out how it lives naturally and religiously in the very first years of life.

We must now correctly grasp and utilize all these things—harmonized religion, art, and science—in the appropriate manner in the teaching events that we still have to discuss.