Donate books to help fund our work. Learn more→

The Rudolf Steiner Archive

a project of Steiner Online Library, a public charity

Meditatively Acquired Knowledge of Man
GA 302a

15 September 1920, Stuttgart

I. The Pedagogy of the West and of Central Europe: The Inner Attitude of the Teacher

I had intended during the time I am able to spend here to give a kind of supplement to many of the things which I brought before you last year in our introductory educational courses. However, the days are so few, and according to what I have just learned there are so many things to be done during this time, that I am hardly able to say whether we shall get further than these scanty words of introduction today. It is hardly possible to speak of any kind of program.

What I would like to speak of in this introduction is this: to what I gave you last year I should like to add something about the teacher himself, about the educator. Of course what I shall have to say about the nature of the teacher should be taken quite aphoristically. It would indeed be best if it were to take shape in you gradually, if it were to develop further through your own thinking and feeling.

It is especially teachers whose attention should be drawn to the fact—and in doing so we are taking our stand on an anthroposophically oriented spiritual science, and it is our intention to shape out of this the education necessary for the present time—it is this crucial fact above all, to which attention should be drawn: the teacher must really have a deep feeling for the nature of the esoteric.

In our time—an age of democracy and journalism—it is of course true that we hardly have a real sense, a valid sense for what is meant by the esoteric. We believe today that what is true is true, what is right is right, and that it should be possible to proclaim what is true and right before the world, once it has been formulated in a way one deems to be correct. Now in real life this is not so: here matters are quite different. The essential point is that you can unfold a certain kind of effectiveness in your actions only if the impulses that produce them are guarded in the soul as a most sacred, hidden wealth. And it would be necessary for the teacher especially to guard much as sacred, hidden wealth, regarding it as something that plays a role only in the proceedings and debates taking place within the body of teachers. The meaning of such a statement is not particularly clear to begin with; nonetheless it will become clear to you. I should have to say a great deal to make it fully understandable, but it will become clearer if to begin with I say the following.

The principle I have just stated has a universal significance, embracing the entire civilization of our time. If we think of the education of young people today, we must always bear in mind that we are working on the feelings, the ideas, the will impulses of the next generation. We must be clear that our present work is to prepare this next generation for definite tasks that will have to be accomplished sometime in the future of mankind. When something of this sort has been said, the question at once arises: what is the real cause for mankind having fallen into the widespread misery in which it is today? Mankind has come into such misery because it has for the most part made itself dependent, dependent through and through, on the manner of thinking and feeling peculiar to western man. We can say that if someone in Central Europe today speaks of Fichte, Herder, or even of Goethe, then—if he is active in public life (say as a journalist, as a writer of best-selling books, or the like)—he is much farther removed from the true spiritual impulse living in Fichte, Herder or Goethe when he is active or thinking in Berlin or Vienna, than he is from what is being felt and thought today in London, Paris, New York or Chicago. Fundamentally speaking, matters have gradually worked out in such a way that our whole civilization has been flooded by impulses arising from the world view of the western peoples; our entire public life lives according to the philosophy of these nations.

We have to admit that this is particularly true where the art of education is concerned, for from the last third of the 19th century onwards the peoples of Central Europe have taken their lead in such matters from the people of the West. It is taken for granted today among men who debate educational matters among other topics that they should utilize the habits of thought that come from the West. If you were to trace back all the educational ideas considered reasonable in Central Europe today, you would find their source in the views of Herbert Spencer or men of his sort. We do not pay attention to the numerous pathways by which the views of such men enter the heads of people who set the tone in spiritual matters in Central Europe. Nonetheless these paths exist and are to be found. And if you take the spirit of an educational philosophy such as appeared through a man like Fichte (I will not lay any special importance on its details), you will find it not merely totally different from what is generally considered sensible pedagogy today; it is fact that the men of our time are hardly capable of bringing their souls into the way of thinking and feeling that would permit them to conceive how the intentions of a Fichte or Herder might be developed farther. Thus what we experience today in the field of pedagogy, in the art of education, what has become the rule there, is precisely the opposite of what it ought to be. Let me draw your attention to something Spencer has written.

Spencer was of the opinion that object lessons should be so handled that they would lead over into the experiments of the naturalist, into the research of the man of science. What, according to this, should be done in school? We should teach children in such a way that when they are grown up and the opportunity presents itself, they can pursue further what they have learned from us in school about minerals, plants, animals, etc. and become then proper scientific researchers or thinkers. It is true, this sort of idea is frequently contested; nonetheless it is done in practice, and for the reason that our textbooks are written with this in mind (and it would occur to nobody to alter, re-think or do away with textbooks.) It is a fact, for example, that textbooks about botany are written more for a future botanist than for human beings in general. Similarly, textbooks for zoology are so conceived that they serve the future zoologist but not human beings in general.

Now the peculiar thing is, that we should be striving today for precisely the opposite of what Spencer laid down as a true educational principle. It would be hard to imagine a graver error in elementary school teaching, than to train children to deal with objects, say plants or animals, in such a way that, if pursued further, the child could become a botanist or zoologist. If, on the contrary, we could plan our lessons, when presenting facts about plants or animals, so that it is made difficult for children to become botanists or zoologists, we would then be closer to the mark than if we were to follow the Spencerian axiom. For nobody should become a botanist or zoologist because of what he learns in elementary school. A man should become a botanist or zoologist solely because of his special gifts, and these reveal themselves quite simply in the choice that must result when life unfolds within a true art of education. Because of his talent! Which means, if his gifts predispose him to be a botanist, he can become one; if he has the natural ability to become a zoologist, he can become one. This must come about through the individual™s ability, i.e. through his predetermined karma, the laws of destiny. This must follow from our insight: in this child a botanist is hidden, in that one a zoologist. It must never be the result of an elementary school curriculum designed to prepare him for this scientific speciality. But just reflect on what has happened of late. It has come about, sad to say, that it is the scientists who have designed our education. People accustomed to thinking scientifically have the largest voice in education. That is to say, it has been deemed that the teacher as such has something in common with the scientist. This has gone so far that a scientific training is taken to be a teacher training, whereas the two must be different, through and through. If the teacher becomes a scientist, if he gives himself up in the narrow sense to thinking scientifically—this he may do as a private person but not as a teacher—then he deserves what frequently happens, that the teacher cuts a ridiculous figure in his class, among his students, among his colleagues, and he is poked fun at. Goethe's 'Baccalaureus' is not such a rarity at the higher levels as is ordinarily supposed.

And truthfully, if we were to ask ourselves whether we should be more on the side of the teacher when the students poke fun at him, or more on the side of the students, then, in the present state of affairs in education, we would sooner take the students' part. For the direction things have taken can be observed best in our universities. What are our universities in fact—institutions for teaching mature young men and women, or research institutes? They try to be both, and precisely for this reason they have become the caricatures they are today. People usually go so far as to point to this as a particular advantage of our universities, that they are at one and the same time teaching and research institutions. But this is the very thing that introduces into the higher centres of learning all the harm that is done to education when it has been planned by scientists. And then the mischief is passed on down the line to the secondary schools and ultimately to the elementary schools as well. This is what we cannot sufficiently bear in mind: an art of education must proceed from life and cannot issue from abstract scientific thinking.

Now this is the peculiar state of affairs: to begin with, out of the Western culture comes a pedagogy with a scientific, even a natural-scientific basis, and on the other hand we have a forgotten pedagogy based on life, a pedagogy drawn directly from life, when we recall what lived in Herder, Fichte, Jean Paul, Schiller and similar minds.

It is, however, the world-historical mission of the Central European peoples to cultivate this particular pedagogy, to have so to speak, an esoteric task of developing this pedagogy. There is much that will become possible for mankind to do as a community, and this must be so, if there is to be improvement in social matters in the future. But what is emerging as an art of education from the whole of the spiritual culture that is specifically Central European this the peoples of the West will not be able to comprehend. On the contrary it will infuriate them. We can first speak to than of this when they decide to take their stand on the esoteric foundations of spiritual science. With regard to all those things which have been looked upon with such pride over the last 40 years in Germany, on which the claim to major advances in Germany has been based, Germany is lost. All that points to the dominance hegemony of the Western peoples. There is nothing to be done about it, and we can only hope that we arouse sufficient understanding for the Threefold Social Order, so that on the basis of this understanding, the peoples of the West will take it up.

With regard to what has to be given for the art of education, we have something to give the world from Central Europe which nobody else can give—neither an Oriental, nor a man from the West. Yet we must have the discretion to keep this in those circles capable of understanding it. We must know how to guard it, with a certain confidence, knowing that it is this guarding which gives effectiveness to our affairs. We have to know what things to be silent about in the presence of certain people, if we want to be effective. Above all we must be clear that we cannot hope to influence the mode of thought, proceeding from the West, which is indeed indispensable for some branches of modern civilization. We must know that we have nothing whatsoever to hope for from that quarter for what we have to foster as an art of education.

Herbert Spencer has written something of unusual interest about education. He compiles a list of axioms, or 'principles' as he calls them, concerning intellectual education. Among these principles is one on which he lays great emphasis: in teaching, one should never proceed from the abstract, but always from the concrete—one should always elaborate a subject from an individual case. So he writes his book on education, and there we find, before he enters into anything concrete, the worst thickets of abstractions, really nothing but abstract chaff, and the man fails to notice that he is carrying out the opposite of the principles which he has argued are indispensable. We have here the example of an eminent and leading philosopher of the present time, in complete contradiction with what he has just advocated.

Now you saw last year that our pedagogy is not to be built upon abstract educational principles, upon this or that which might be affirmed, such as that we shouldn't introduce things to the child which are foreign to his nature but rather develop his individuality, etc. You know that our art of education should have its foundation in genuine empathy with the child's nature, that it should be built up in the widest sense on a knowledge of the evolving human being. And we have compiled sufficient material in our first course, and then later in the teachers' conferences, concerning the nature of the growing child. If we as teachers were able to engage ourselves with this unfolding being of the child, then out of this perception itself would spring awareness of how we should proceed. In this regard we must as teachers become artists. Just as it is quite impossible for the artist to take a book on aesthetics in hand, and then to paint or carve according to the principles laid down there, so should it be quite impossible for the teacher to use one of those instructors' manuals in order to teach. What the teacher needs is true insight into what the human being is in reality, what he becomes as he develops through the stages of his childhood. Here it is above all necessary that this be clear: We are teaching to begin with, let us say, the six or seven year old children in a first class. Now our teaching will be bad every time, will never have fulfilled its purpose, if after working for a year with this first class we do not say to ourselves—who is it now that has really learned the most? It is I, the teacher! If on the contrary we are able to say to ourselves something like this—At the start of the school year I was equipped with noble educational principles, I have followed the best authorities on teaching, I have done my best to carry out these principles.—If we really had done this, we would most certainly have taught badly. But we would most certainly have taught the best of all if we had entered the classroom each morning in great trepidation, without very much assurance in our own capacity, and then at the end of the year could say, it is really I myself who have learned the most. For our ability to say this depends on how we have acted, on what we have done, on always having the feeling: 1 am growing by helping the children grow. I am experimenting, in the purest sense of the word. I can't really do very much, but a certain capacity grows in me by working with the children. From time to time we will have the feeling, with, one or another kind of child there is not much to be done, but we will have taken pains with them. Through the special gifts of other children we will have learned certain things. In short we leave the campaign quite a different person from when we entered it; we have learned to do what we were incapable of doing when we began teaching a year before. We say to ourselves at the end of the year—yes, now I can really do what I ought to have been doing. This is a very real feeling in which a secret lies hidden. If we had really been capable, at the beginning of the year, of everything we were able to do at the year's end, then our teaching would have been bad. We have given good lessons because we have had to work at them as we went along. I must put this in the form of a paradox. Your teaching has been good if you did not know to start with what you have learned by the end of the year; your teaching would have been harmful, had you known at the beginning what you have learned at the end. A remarkable paradox!

For many people it is important to know this, but it is most important of all for teachers to know it. For this is a special instance of a general truth and insight: knowledge as such, no matter what its content, knowledge that we can grasp in the form of abstract principles, that we can bring to mind as ideas—such knowledge can have no practical value. Only what leads to this knowledge, what is on its way to this knowledge, is of practical value. For the kind of knowledge we gain after a year's teaching, achieves its value only after a man has died. This knowledge only rises after the man dies, into the kind of reality where it can then shape him further, can develop his individuality further. Thus it is not ready-made knowledge that has value in life, but the work that leads to this finished knowledge. And in the art of teaching this work has especial value. In reality it is no different here than in the arts. I cannot consider anyone a right-minded artist who doesn't say to himself on finishing a work: only now are you able to do this. I don't consider a man properly disposed as an artist, if he is satisfied with any work he has done. He can have a certain egotistical respect for what he has made, but he can't really be satisfied with it. In fact, a work of art when finished loses a large share of its interest for the man who made it. This loss of interest comes from the intrinsic nature of knowledge that is being gained when we make something. On the contrary what is living, what is life-spending in it, lies precisely in that it has not yet become knowledge.

Ultimately, it is the same with the whole of the human organism. Our head is as finished as anything could be, for it is formed out of the forces of our previous earth-life and is 'over-ripe'. (Men's heads are all over-ripe, even the unripe ones.) But the rest of our organism is only at the stage of furnishing a seed for the head of our next incarnation. It is full of life and growth, but it is incomplete. Indeed, it will not be until our death that the rest of our organism shows its true form, which is the form taken by the forces active in it. The constitution of the rest of our organism shows there is life flowing in it; ossification is at a minimum in these parts of the body, while in the head it reaches a maximum.

This proper sort of inward modesty, this sense that we ourselves are still in becoming—this is what must sustain the teacher, for more will come from this feeling than from any abstract principles. If we stand in our classroom, conscious of the fact that it is a good tiling we do everything imperfectly—for in that way there is life in it—then we will teach well. If on the other hand we are always patting ourselves on the back over the perfection of our teaching, then it is quite certain we shall teach badly.

But now consider that the following has come to pass. You have been responsible for the teaching of a first class, a second and third class, etc., so that you have actually been through everything that is to be experienced—excitements, disappointments, successes too, if you will. Consider that you have gone once through all the classes of an elementary school and at the end of each year have spoken to yourself in the spirit I have just described, and now you take your way back down again, say from the eighth to the first class. Yes, now it might be supposed that you should say to yourself- now I am beginning with what I have learned, now I shall be able to do it right, now I shall be an excellent teacher! But it won't be that way. Experience will bring you something quite different. You will say to yourself at the end of the second, the third and each of the following years just about the same (and out of an attitude proper to it): I have now learned by working with seven, eight and nine-year-old children what I could learn only in this way. At the end of each school year I know what I should have done. And then when you have come the second time to the fourth or fifth school year, again you will not know what you should really do. For now you will correct what you came to believe after teaching for a year. And thus, after you are finished with the eighth school year and have corrected everything once more, and if you have the good fortune to begin again with the first class, you will find yourself in the same position. But to be sure you will teach in a different spirit. If you go through your teaching duties with inwardly true and noble and not foolish doubts, such as I have described, you will draw out of this diffidence a new and imponderable power, which will make you particularly fitted to accomplish more with the children entrusted to you. This is without doubt true. But the effect in life will actually only be a different one, not that much better, just different. I would say the quality of what you are able to make out of the children will not be much better than it was the first time; the effect will simply be a different one. You will achieve something qualitatively different, not achieve much more in quantity. You will achieve something different in quality, and that is really enough. For everything that we acquire in the way described, with the necessary noble diffidence and heartfelt humility, has the effect that we are able to make individualities out of those we teach, individualities in the widest sense. We cannot have the same class twice over and send out into the world the same copies of a cut and dried educational pattern. We can however turn human beings over to the world that are individually different. We bring about diversity in life, but this does not derive from the elaboration of abstract principles. In fact this diversity of life is founded on a deeper grasp of life, as we have just described.

So you see what matters more than anything else in a teacher is the way he regards his holy calling. That is not without significance, for the most important things in teaching and in education are the imponderables. A teacher who enters his classroom with this conviction in his heart achieves something different from another. Just as in everyday life it is not always what is physically large that counts, but sometimes it is precisely what is small, so it is not always what we do with big words that carries weight. Sometimes it is that perception, that feeling which we have built up in our hearts before we enter the classroom.

One thing in particular is of great importance, however, and that is that we must quickly cast off our narrower, personal selves like a snake's skin, when we go into the class. The teacher may (since he is 'only human', as is often said with such self-complacency) on occasion have experienced all sorts of things in the time between the end of class on one day and the beginning of the next. It may be that he has been warned by his creditors, or he may have had a quarrel with his wife, as does happen in life. These are things that put us out of sorts. Such disharmonies then provide an undertone to our state of soul. Of course happy moods can arise also. The father of one of your pupils who likes you particularly may have sent you a hare, after he has been out hunting, or a bunch of flowers, if you are a lady teacher. It is quite a natural thing to carry moods of this kind around with us. As teachers we must train ourselves to lay aside these moods and to let what we say be determined solely by the content of what we are to present. Thus we should really be in a position as we picture one thing to speak tragically (but out of the nature of the thing itself) and then to shift over to a humorous vein as we proceed with our description, surrendering ourselves completely to the subject. The important thing however is that we should now be able to perceive the whole reaction of the class to tragedy or sentimentality or humour. If we are able to do this, then we shall be aware that tragedy, sentimentality and humour are of extraordinary importance for the souls of the children. And if we can let our teaching be buoyed up by an alternation between humour, sentimentality and tragedy, if we lead over from one mood to the other and back again, if we are really able, after presenting something for which we need a certain heaviness, to pass over again into a certain lightness (not forced, but arising as we surrender ourselves to the content), then bring about in the soul's mood something akin to in and out- breathing in the bodily organism.

As we teach, our object is not simply to teach with and for the intellect, but rather to be able to really take these various moods into account. For what is tragedy, what is sentimentality, what is a heavy mood of soul? It is exactly the same as an inbreath for the organism, the same as filling the organism with air. Tragedy means that we are trying to contract our physical body further and further so that in this contraction of the physical body we become aware how the astral body comes out of it, more and more as we do so. A humorous mood signifies that we enervate the physical body, but in contrast we expand the astral body as much as we can, spreading it out over its surroundings, so that we are aware, say when we do not merely behold redness but when we grow into it, how we spread our astrality over the redness, pass over into it. Laughing simply means that we drive the astral out of our facial features; it is nothing else but an astral out- breathing. Only we must have a certain sense for dynamics, if we want to apply these things. It is not always appropriate on the heels of something heavy and sustained to go straight over into the humorous. But we can always find the ways and means in our teaching to prevent the childish soul being imprisoned by the serious, the breathing between the two soul moods.

These are some instances, by way of introduction, of the sort of nuances of soul mood that should be taken into consideration by the teacher as he teaches, and which are just as important as any other aspect of teaching.

Erster Vortrag

Mein lieben Freunde, es bestand ja die Absicht, in diesen Tagen, die ich hier zu verbringen in der Lage bin, Ihnen eine Art Ergänzung zu manchem zu geben, was in den einführenden pädagogischen Kursen im vorigen Jahr von mir ausgeführt worden ist. Allein der Tage sind so wenige, und nach dem, was ich eben jetzt vernommen habe, liegen so viele Verpflichtungen für diese nächsten Tage vor, daß über irgendein Programm kaum gesprochen werden kann, daß ich eigentlich kaum sagen kann, ob es über diese heutigen spärlichen Einleitungsworte hinauskommen wird.

Worüber ich heute in dieser Einleitung sprechen möchte, ist dieses, daß ich Ihnen zu den Ausführungen des vorigen Jahres einiges hinzufügen möchte über den Lehrer und den Erzieher selbst. Natürlich ist das, was ich gerade mit Bezug auf die Wesenheit des Lehrers sagen werde, durchaus aphoristisch gemeint, und eigentlich so, daß es wohl am besten seine Gestalt in Ihnen selber nach und nach erst annehmen soll, daß es gewissermaßen weiter verarbeitet werden soll durch Ihr eigenes Denken und Empfinden. Es ist ja gerade der Lehrerschaft gegenüber darauf aufmerksam zu machen — und wir stehen, indem ich darauf aufmerksam mache, auf dem Boden der anthroposophisch orientierten Geisteswissenschaft und wollen von dieser aus gerade die für die heutige Zeit notwendige Pädagogik formen -, es ist vor allen Dingen darauf aufmerksam zu machen, daß der Lehrer eigentlich so recht ein Gefühl, eine Empfindung dafür haben müßte, was das Wesen des Esoterischen als solches ist. In unserer heutigen Zeit, in der Zeit der Demokratie, in der Zeit der Publizistik liegen ja die Dinge so, daß man für das, was eigentlich mit Esoterik gemeint ist, kaum ein wirkliches, ein wahres Gefühl hat; denn man denkt heute, was wahr ist, ist wahr, und was richtig ist, ist richtig, und das Wahre und das Richtige, wenn es in irgendeiner Weise formuliert ist, das müßte sich dann vor aller Welt in der Form, in der man es als richtig formuliert denkt, aussprechen lassen. Nun ist es im wirklichen Leben nicht so; im wirklichen Leben verhalten sich die Dinge durchaus anders. Im wirklichen Leben liegt von allem das vor, daß man gewisse Wirksamkeiten nur entfalten kann, wenn man die Impulse für diese Wirksamkeiten gewissermaßen als ein heiligstes Geheimgut in der Seele hütet. Und besonders der Lehrer hätte nötig, vieles als ein heiliges Geheimgut zu hüten und es so zu betrachten, daß es eigentlich nur bei denjenigen Verhandlungen, bei den Auseinandersetzungen eine Rolle spielt, die innerhalb der Lehrerschaft selber gepflogen werden. Von vornherein erscheint ein solcher Satz eigentlich gar nicht besonders verständlich und dennoch — er wird Ihnen verständlich werden. Ich müßte vieles sagen, wenn ich ihn verständlich machen wollte, zunächst aber wird er Ihnen verständlich werden, wenn ich Ihnen das Folgende sage.

Dieser Satz, den ich eben angeführt habe, er hat heute zugleich eine umfassende weltzivilisatorische Bedeutung. Wenn wir heute an Jugenderziehung denken, müssen wir ja immer im Auge haben, daß wir arbeiten an den Empfindungen, an den Vorstellungen, an den Willensimpulsen der nächsten Generation; wir müssen uns darüber klar sein, daß wir diese nächste Generation für bestimmte Aufgaben, die nun schon einmal in der Menschenzukunft verrichtet werden sollen, von der Gegenwart aus heranzuziehen haben. Nun kommt, wenn man so etwas hinstellt, sogleich die Frage: Woran liegt es denn eigentlich, daß die Menschheit gegenwärtig in jene weitverbreitete Misere hineingekommen ist, in der sie heute drinnensteht? — Die Menschheit ist in diese Misere dadurch hineingekommen, daß sie sich im wesentlichen eigentlich abhängig gemacht hat, durch und durch abhängig gemacht hat von der besonderen Art und Weise des Vorstellens und Empfindens der Westmenschen. Und man kann sagen: Wenn heute jemand zum Beispiel über Fichte, Herder oder selbst über Goethe in Mitteleuropa spricht, so ist er im Grunde genommen zumeist, wenn er dem äußeren öffentlichen Leben angehört, sei es als Publizist oder als populärer Bücherschreiber oder dergleichen, viel weiter entfernt von dem, was als ein wirklicher geistiger Impuls bei Fichte, Herder oder Goethe lebt, als er — wenn er in Berlin oder Wien denkt und tätig ist — etwa entfernt ist von dem, was heute in London, Paris, New York oder Chicago empfunden und gedacht wird. Allmählich haben sich die Dinge ja so herausgestellt, daß durch die Weltanschauungsimpulse der westlichen Völker im Grunde genommen unsere gesamte Zivilisation überflutet worden ist, daß unser ganzes öffentliches Leben in den Weltanschauungsimpulsen dieser westlichen Völker darinnen lebt. Und man muß sagen, das ist in ganz besonderem Maße der Fall bei der Erziehungskunst; denn im Grunde genommen sind die mitteleuropäischen Völker vom letzten Drittel des 19. Jahrhunderts ab in allen solchen Angelegenheiten bei den Westvölkern in die Schule gegangen. Es erscheint heute den Menschen, die unter anderem auch über Erziehungsfragen diskutieren, als etwas ganz Selbstverständliches, sich in den Denk weisen, die von dort her kommen, zu bewegen. Wenn Sie alles, was heute in bezug auf Pädagogik in Mitteleuropa als vernünftig angesehen wird, seinem Ursprung nach verfolgen wollen, so können Sie es etwa finden zum Beispiel bei den Anschauungen von Herbert Spencer oder ähnlichen Leuten. Man verfolgt nicht die Wege, die zahlreich sind, auf denen Anschauungen wie die von Spencer oder ähnliche in die Köpfe der in Mitteleuropa für geistige Fragen maßgebenden Welt hineingekommen sind. Aber diese Wege gibt es, diese Wege sind da. Und wenn man den Geist — ich will nicht auf die Einzelheiten besonderen Wert legen -, den Geist einer solchen pädagogischen Richtung nimmt, wie sie zum Beispiel bei Fichte auftritt, wenn man diesen Geist nimmt, so ist er heute nicht nur durchaus verschieden von dem, was als vernünftige Pädagogik heute allgemein angesehen wird, sondern es liegt die Sache so, daß die Menschen der Gegenwart kaum imstande sind, ihre Seelen in solche Richtungen des Denkens und Empfindens hineinzubringen, damit dasjenige, was bei Fichte oder Herder gemeint war, wirklich so verstanden werden könnte, daß es eine Fortsetzung finden könnte. So erleben wir es denn heute auf dem Gebiete der Pädagogik, der pädagogischen Kunst namentlich, daß geradezu das Gegenteil von dem, was sein sollte, Grundsatz geworden ist. Ich möchte Sie da auf eine Ausführung hinweisen, die Spencer getan hat.

Spencer meint, der Anschauungsunterricht sollte so betrieben werden, daß er in die Untersuchungen des Naturforschers und in die Nachforschungen des Mannes der Wissenschaft übergehe. Was sollte also da getan werden in der Schule? Wir sollten darnach in der Schule die Kinder so unterrichten, daß sie, wenn sie heranwachsen und Gelegenheit dazu haben, das fortzusetzen, was sie von uns in der Schule bekommen über die Mineralien, die Pflanzen, die Tiere und so weiter, dann regelrechte Naturforscher oder Philosophen werden könnten. Gewiß, man ficht heute so etwas vielfach an, aber man verhält sich in der Praxis doch durchaus so, wie es eben dargestellt worden ist. Man verhält sich schon aus dem Grunde so, weil unsere Lehrbücher dementsprechend abgefaßt sind, und weil niemand daran denkt, die Lehrbücher zu ändern, anders abzufassen oder abzuschaffen. Denn es liegen die Sachen heute so, daß zum Beispiel die Lehrbücher über Pflanzenlehre eher für einen künftigen Botaniker abgefaßt sind, aber nicht für einen Menschen im allgemeinen; und ebenso sind die Lehrbücher über Zoologie so gehalten, daß sie für einen künftigen Zoologen geschrieben sind, nicht aber für einen Menschen im allgemeinen.

Nun liegt das Eigentümliche vor, daß das genaue Gegenteil von dem heute angestrebt werden sollte, was Spencer als einen wirklichen pädagogischen Grundsatz hinstellt. Wir können uns im Volksschulunterricht kaum einen größeren Fehler denken, als die Kinder so zu erziehen, wie es eine Behandlungsweise des Gegenstandes, zum Beispiel mit Bezug auf die Pflanzen und die Tiere, erfordert, die so fortgesetzt werden könnte, daß aus dem Kinde später ein Botaniker oder ein Zoologe werden könnte. Im Gegenteil, wenn man den Unterricht daraufhin anlegen könnte, über Pflanzen und Tiere die Dinge so vorzubringen, daß man verhinderte, daß die Kinder Botaniker oder Zoologen würden, so hätte man mehr Richtiges getroffen als durch den Spencerschen Grundsatz. Denn niemand sollte Botaniker oder Zoologe werden durch das, was er in der Volksschule lernt; Botaniker oder Zoologe sollte der Mensch lediglich werden durch seine besondere Anlage, die sich einfach zeigt in der Selektion, die sich innerhalb des Lebens in einer richtigen pädagogischen Kunst ergeben müßte. Durch seine Anlage! Das heißt, wenn er Anlage zum Botaniker hat, kann er Botaniker werden; und wenn er Anlage zum Zoologen hat, kann er Zoologe werden. Das muß auch aus der Anlage des Betreffenden, das heißt aus dem vorbestimmten Karma, aus dem Schicksalsgesetz, erfolgen. Das muß so erfolgen, daß wir erkennen: in diesem sitzt ein Botaniker, in jenem sitzt ein Zoologe. Das darf niemals so erfolgen, daß zu diesem speziellen wissenschaftlichen Betrieb der Volksschulunterricht irgendwie eine Vorbereitung ist. Aber bedenken Sie, was in der letzten Zeit geschehen ist: Es ist das geschehen, daß leider unsere Wissenschafter die Pädagogik gemacht haben. Leute, die sich durchaus gewöhnt haben wissenschaftlich zu denken, haben die Pädagogik gemacht, haben in der Pädagogik das Wichtigste mitgesprochen. Das heißt, es lag die Meinung vor, daß der Lehrer als solcher irgend etwas zu tun habe mit dem Wissenschafter; es wurde geradezu wissenschaftliche Bildung als Lehrerbildung genommen, während die beiden etwas durch und durch Verschiedenes sein müssen. Wird der Lehrer ein Wissenschafter, wendet er sich dazu, im engeren Sinne wissenschaftlich zu denken - er mag das als Privatmann sein, kann es aber nicht als Lehrer sein —, dann geschieht ihm mit Recht etwas, was sehr häufig auftritt: daß der Lehrer in seiner Klasse, unter seinen Schülern oder in seinem Kolleg eine Art komische Figur bildet, daß über ihn Witze gemacht werden. Der Goethesche «Baccalaureus» in der höheren Stufe ist doch keine so große Seltenheit, wie man gewöhnlich meint.

Und im Grunde genommen, wenn man sich heute fragt: Muß man sich mehr auf die Seite des Lehrers stellen, wenn die Schüler über ihn Witze reißen, oder mehr auf die Seite der Schüler? — dann möchte man sich unter den gegenwärtigen pädagogischen Verhältnissen mehr auf die Seite der Schüler stellen. Denn das, worauf alles hinausgelaufen ist, das zeigt sich ja am besten bei unseren Universitäten. Was sind unsere Universitäten eigentlich? Sind sie Lehranstalten für die reife Jugendmenschheit oder sind sie Forschungsanstalten? Sie wollen beides sein, und gerade dadurch sind sie jene Karikaturen geworden, die sie heute sind. Und man hebt gewöhnlich sogar als einen besonderen Vorzug unserer Universitäten das hervor, daß sie zugleich Lehranstalten und Forschungsinstitute sind. Aber gerade dadurch kommt zuerst in diese obersten Lehranstalten all der Unfug hinein, der eben über die Pädagogik kommt, wenn sie von Wissenschaftern gemacht wird. Und dann verpflanzt sich dieser Unfug hinunter bis in die mittleren Schulen und schließlich auch bis in die Volksschulen hinein. Das ist dasjenige, was nicht genug bedacht werden kann: daß pädagogische Kunst ausgehen muß vom Leben, und nicht ausgehen kann vom abgezogenen wissenschaftlichen Denken.

Das ist nun das Eigentümliche, daß zunächst aus der westlichen Bildung heraus gerade dasjenige kommt, was man nennen könnte eine wissenschaftlich, sogar naturwissenschaftlich orientierte Pädagogik, und daß, wenn wir uns desjenigen erinnern, was bei Herder, bei Fichte, was bei Jean Paul, bei Schiller und bei ähnlichen Geistern da war, daß dies alles eigentlich eine vergessene Lebenspädagogik ist, eine unmittelbar aus dem Leben heraus geschöpfte Pädagogik.

Nun liegt der welthistorische Beruf der mitteleuropäischen Völker vor, doch diese Pädagogik zu pflegen, diese Pädagogik gewissermaßen als ihre esoterische Angelegenheit zu pflegen. Denn vieles wird der Menschheit gemeinschaftlich werden können und muß es werden, wenn soziale Besserung in der Zukunft eintreten soll. Aber dasjenige, was gerade aus der ganzen konkreten mitteleuropäischen Geistesbildung mit Bezug auf die pädagogische Kunst herauskommt, das werden die westlichen Völker nicht verstehen können; im Gegenteil, es wird sie verärgern. Man kann es ihnen erst sagen, wenn sie sich entschließen, sich auf den esoterischen Boden der Geisteswissenschaft zu stellen. In bezug auf alle diejenigen Dinge, auf die in den letzten 40 Jahren innerhalb Deutschlands mit solchem Stolz hingesehen worden ist, mit Bezug auf alle diese Dinge, für die man einen so großen Aufschwung in Deutschland statuiert hat, ist Deutschland verloren. Das geht über auf die Herrschaft der Westvölker. Da ist nichts zu machen, und wir können nur hoffen, für die Dreigliederung des sozialen Organismus so viel Verständnis hervorzurufen, daß die Westvölker auf dieses Verständnis sich einlassen.

Mit Bezug aber auf dasjenige, was gerade für die pädagogische Kunst zu geben ist, haben wir der Welt etwas zu geben von Mitteleuropa aus, was niemand anderes ihr geben kann — nicht ein Orientale und nicht ein Westmensch. Aber wir müssen verstehen, dies auch innerhalb jener Kreise zu halten, die ein Verständnis dafür aufbringen könden; wir müssen verstehen, es da mit einem gewissen Vertrauen zu hüten und müssen wissen, daß dieses Hüten dasjenige ist, was gerade zur Wirkung der Sache führt. Man muß genau wissen, über welche Dinge man vor gewissen Menschen zu schweigen hat, wenn man eine Wirkung erzielen will. Aber wir müssen uns vor allen Dingen darüber klar sein, daß wir nichts erhoffen dürfen von irgendwelcher Einflußnahme derjenigen Denkweise, die, vom Westen ausgehend, für manche Zweige der modernen Zivilisation geradezu unerläßlich ist. Wir müssen wissen, daß wir gar nichts von dieser Seite zu erhoffen haben für das, was wir als pädagogische Kunst zu pflegen haben.

Es gibt eine Schrift von Herbert Spencer über die Erziehung. Diese Schrift ist außerordentlich interessant. Spencer stellt da eine ganze Anzahl von Grundsätzen zusammen, von «Prinzipien», wie er sie nennt, über die intellektuelle Erziehung des Menschen. Unter diesen Prinzipien vertritt er vor allen Dingen eines mit ganz besonderer Schärfe: man solle im Unterricht niemals ausgehen von dem Abstrakten, sondern immer von dem Konkreten, man solle immer herausarbeiten aus dem einzelnen Fall. Nun schreibt er sein Buch über Erziehung. Da steht zunächst, bevor auf irgend etwas Konkretes eingegangen wird, das schlimmste abstrakte Gestrüpp, wirklich lauter abstraktes Stroh, und der Mann bemerkt nicht, daß er einem Grundsätze auseinandersetzt, die er als unerläßlich findet, und daß er das Gegenteil dieser Grundsätze selbst befolgt. Wir haben so das Beispiel, daß ein großer, tonangebender Philosoph der Gegenwart mit dem, was er unmittelbar darbietet, selbst in einem vollkommenen Widerspruche steht.

Nun haben Sie ja im vorigen Jahr gesehen, daß sich unsere Pädagogik nicht auf abstrakte Erziehungsgrundsätze aufzubauen hat, auf dieses oder jenes, was da gesagt werden kann, zum Beispiel: man solle nicht von außen an das Kind etwas heranbringen, sondern man solle die Individualität des Kindes entwickeln und so weiter. Sie wissen, daß unsere pädagogische Kunst sich aufbauen soll auf ein wirkliches Zusammenfühlen mit dem kindlichen Wesen, daß sie sich aufbauen soll in weitestem Sinne auf eine Erkenntnis des werdenden Menschen. Und wir haben ja bei dem ersten Kurs und dann später bei den Lehrerkonferenzen genugsam über das Wesen des werdenden Menschen zusammengetragen. Wenn wir uns einlassen können als Lehrer auf dieses Wesen des werdenden Menschen, so sproßt uns aus der Erkenntnis dieses Wesens des werdenden Menschen schon auf, wie wir verfahren sollen. Wir müssen in dieser Beziehung als Lehrer zu Künstlern werden. So wie der Künstler ganz unmöglich ein Ästhetikbuch in die Hand nehmen kann, um nach den Grundsätzen des Ästhetikers zu malen oder zu bildhauern, so sollte der Lehrer ganz unmöglich eine von jenen pädagogischen Anleitungen gebrauchen, um zu unterrichten. Was der Lehrer aber braucht, ist ein wirkliches Einsehen desjenigen, was der Mensch denn eigentlich ist; was er wird, indem er sich durch die Kindheit hindurch entwickelt. Da ist es vor allem notwendig, daß wir uns klar sind: Wir unterrichten, sagen wir zunächst in der 1. Klasse die sechsbis siebenjährigen Kinder. Nun, unser Unterricht wird jedesmal schlecht sein, wird jedesmal seine Aufgabe nicht erfüllt haben, wenn wir, nachdem wir ein Jahr lang uns etwa mit dieser 1. Klasse befaßt haben, uns nicht am Ende dieses ersten Jahres sagen: Wer hat denn da eigentlich am meisten gelernt? Das bin ich, der Lehrer! - Wenn wir uns etwa sagen können: Ich habe zu Beginn des Schuljahres großartige pädagogische Prinzipien gehabt, den besten Meistern der Pädagogik bin ich gefolgt, ich habe alles getan, um diese pädagogischen Prinzipien zu verwirklichen - und wenn man das nun wirklich getan hätte, so würde man ganz gewiß schlecht unterrichtet haben. Man würde aber ganz gewiß am allerbesten unterrichtet haben, wenn man an jedem Morgen mit Beben und Zagen in die Klasse gegangen ist und sich gar nicht sehr auf sich selber verlassen hat, dann sich aber am Ende des Jahres sagt: Du hast eigentlich selbst am meisten während dieser Zeit gelernt. Denn, daß man sich sagen kann: Du hast selbst am meisten gelernt -, das hängt davon ab, wie man verfahren ist. Das hängt davon ab, was man eigentlich getan hat, hängt davon ab, daß man fortwährend das Gefühl gehabt hat: Du wächst, indem du die Kinder wachsen machst. Du probierst im edelsten Sinne des Wortes, du kannst eigentlich nicht sonderlich viel; aber es erwächst dir eine gewisse Kraft, indem du mit den Kindern zusammen arbeitest. - Man wird dann manchmal das Gefühl haben: mit der oder jener Art von Kindern ist nicht viel anzufangen; man wird sich aber mit ihnen Mühe gegeben haben. Man wird von anderen Kindern durch ihre besondere Begabung dieses oder jenes erfahren haben. Kurz, man geht als ein ganz anderer aus der Kampagne hervor, als man vorher hineingegangen ist. Und man hat das gelernt, was man vor einem Jahre, als man zu lehren angefangen hatte, nicht gekonnt hat. Man sagt sich am Ende des Schuljahres: Ja, jetzt kannst du eigentlich erst das, was du hättest ausführen sollen! Das ist ein ganz reales Gefühl. Und da liegt ein gewisses Geheimnis begraben. Wenn Sie am Anfange des Schuljahres wirklich das alles gekonnt hätten, was Sie nun am Ende des Jahres können, so hätten Sie schlecht unterrichtet. Gut haben Sie dadurch unterrichtet, daß Sie es sich erst erarbeitet haben! Also denken Sie, ich muß das Paradoxon vor Sie hinstellen, daß Sie dann gut unterrichtet haben, wenn Sie das nicht gewußt haben, was Sie am Ende des Jahres gelernt haben, und daß es schädlich gewesen wäre, wenn Sie zu Beginn des Jahres das schon gewußt hätten, was Sie am Ende des Jahres gelernt haben. Ein merkwürdiges Paradoxon!

Es ist für viele Menschen wichtig, dies zu wissen; am allerwichtigsten aber ist dies für die Lehrer zu wissen. Denn es ist dies ein spezieller Fall einer allgemeinen Wahrheit und Erkenntnis: das Wissen als solches, ganz gleichgültig worauf es sich bezieht, das Wissen, das man in abstrakte Grundsätze fassen kann, das man sich in Ideen innerlich vergegenwärtigen kann, dieses Wissen kann keinen praktischen Wert haben. Einen praktischen Wert hat nur dasjenige, was erst zu diesem Wissen hinführt, was erst auf dem Wege zu diesem Wissen ist. Denn dieses Wissen, das wir uns so erwerben, wie wir das Wissen haben, nachdem wir ein Jahr lang unterrichtet haben, dieses Wissen hat nämlich erst seinen Wert nach dem Tode des Menschen. Dieses Wissen, das geht erst nach dem Tode des Menschen in eine solche Realität hinein, daß es den Menschen dann wieder weiterbilden kann, daß es den eigenen individuellen Menschen weiterbilden kann. Im Leben hat nicht das fertige Wissen einen Wert, sondern die Arbeit, die zu dem fertigen Wissen hinführt; und insbesondere bei der pädagogischen Kunst hat diese Arbeit ihren ganz besonderen Wert. Es ist da eigentlich so wie in den Künsten. Ich glaube nicht, daß einer ein ganz richtig gesinnter Künstler ist, der nach Abschluß eines Werkes sich nicht sagte: Jetzt könntest du es eigentlich erst. Ich glaube nicht, daß einer ein richtig gesinnter Künstler ist, der mit irgendeinem Werke, das er gemacht hat, zufrieden ist. Er kann eine gewisse selbstverständliche egoistische Pietät für das haben, was er gemacht hat, aber er kann eigentlich nicht mit ihm zufrieden sein. Ein Kunstwerk, vollendet, verliert ja eigentlich auch für den, der es gemacht hat, einen großen Teil des Interesses. Dieses Interesseverlieren rührt von der eigentümlichen Art des Wissens her, das wir erwerben bei der Gelegenheit, da wir etwas machen; und auf der anderen Seite liegt gerade das Lebendige, das Lebensprossende darinnen, daß es noch nicht in Wissen übergegangen ist.

So ist es ja schließlich auch mit der ganzen menschlichen Organisation. Unser Haupt ist so fertig, wie nur irgend etwas fertig sein kann, denn es ist geformt aus den Kräften unseres früheren Erdenlebens heraus, es ist überreif. Die menschlichen Köpfe sind ja alle überreif - auch die unreifen. Aber unsere übrige Organisation, die ist so, daß sie erst den Keim abgibt zu dem Haupt unseres nächsten Erdenlebens; sie ist sprossend und sprießend, aber sie ist etwas Unfertiges. Unsere übrige Organisation ist etwas, was bis zu unserem Tode nicht eigentlich seine wahre Gestalt zeigt, nämlich die Gestalt der Kräfte, die in ihr wirksam sind. Und daß da in unserem übrigen Organismus eben das flutende Leben ist, das zeigt seine Konstitution: das Verknöchern ist in diesem übrigen Organismus auf ein Minimum beschränkt, in bezug auf das Haupt ist es auf ein Maximum hinaufgeschraubt.

Diese eigentümliche Art von innerster Bescheidenheit, dieses Gefühl des eigenen Werdens — das ist etwas, was den Lehrer tragen muß; denn aus diesem Gefühl geht mehr hervor als aus irgendwelchen abstrakten Grundsätzen. Stehen wir in unserer Schulklasse so drinnen, daß wir uns bewußt sind: Es ist gut, daß wir alles unvollkommen machen, denn dadurch lebt es-, dann werden wir gut unterrichten. Stehen wir dagegen so in der Klasse, daß wir uns fortwährend voll Zufriedenheit die Finger ablecken vor unserer eigenen pädagogischen Vollkommenheit, dann werden wir ganz gewiß schlecht unterrichten.

Nun denken Sie aber, es geschieht so, daß Sie den Unterricht zuerst in der 1. Klasse besorgen, dann in der 2. Klasse, in der 3. Klasse und so fort, so daß Sie tatsächlich alles das durchgemacht haben, was da durchzumachen ist an Aufregungen, Enttäuschungen, meinetwillen auch an Erfolgen. Denken Sie sich, Sie sind einmal durch alle Klassen der Volksschule aufsteigend durchgegangen, Sie haben am Ende jedes Jahres aus einer solchen Stimmung heraus zu sich selbst gesprochen, wie ich es jetzt dargestellt habe, und nun wandern Sie wieder hinunter, meinetwillen von der 8. in die 1. Klasse. Ja, jetzt, so könnte man meinen, muß man sich doch sagen: Ja, aber nun beginne ich etwas mit dem, was ich gelernt habe, nun werde ich es recht machen können, nun werde ich ein ausgezeichneter Lehrer sein! Aber so wird es nicht sein. Die Erfahrung wird Ihnen etwas ganz anderes vor die Seele bringen. Sie werden sich am Ende des 2., des 3. und eines jeden nächsten Schuljahres aus der richtigen Gesinnung heraus ungefähr dasselbe sagen: Ich habe jetzt über sieben-, acht-, neunjährige Kinder erfahren, was ich nur erfahren konnte, indem ich mit ihnen arbeitete; ich weiß am Ende eines jeden Schuljahres, wie ich es hätte machen sollen. - Aber wenn Sie beim 4. oder 5. Schuljahre wieder angekommen sein werden, so werden Sie es wieder nicht wissen, wie Sie es eigentlich hätten machen sollen. Denn jetzt werden Sie korrigieren, was Sie gemeint haben, nachdem Sie ein Jahr unterrichtet haben. Und so werden Sie, nachdem Sie mit dem 8. Schuljahr fertig sind und alles wieder korrigiert haben, und wirklich das Glück haben, beim 1. Schuljahr wieder anzufangen, so werden Sie in derselben Lage sein. Allerdings, Sie werden aus einem anderen Geiste unterrichten. Aber wenn Sie mit einer inneren, wahren, edlen, nicht mit der geckenhaften Skepsis, von der ich gesprochen habe, durch Ihre Lehrerschaft durchgehen, dann werden Sie aus dieser Skepsis heraus eine neue imponderable Kraft bringen, die Sie ganz besonders veranlagen wird, mit den Kindern, welche Ihnen dann anvertraut sind, mehr zu erreichen. Das ist zweifellos richtig. Aber der Effekt im Leben wird eigentlich dann nur ein anderer sein, nicht ein um so viel besserer, sondern ein anderer. Ich möchte sagen, die Qualität desjenigen, was Sie aus den Kindern machen, wird jetzt nicht viel besser sein, als es das erste Mal war; der Effekt wird nur ein anderer sein. Sie werden qualitativ etwas anderes erreichen, nicht so sehr quantitativ mehr erreichen. Sie werden qualitativ etwas anderes erreichen, und das genügt im Grunde genommen. Denn alles, was wir mit der nötigen edlen Skepsis und der inneren Bescheidenheit uns auf die geschilderte Weise aneignen, läuft darauf hinaus, daß wir aus den Menschen Individualitäten machen, Individualitäten im großen. Wir können nicht zweimal dieselbe Klasse haben und zweimal dieselben Abbilder der pädagogischen Schablone in die Welt hinausstellen! Wir können aber der Welt individuell verschiedene Gestaltungen der Menschen übergeben. Wir bewirken Mannigfaltigkeit im Leben; aber die beruht nicht auf dem Ausgestalten abstrakter Grundsätze, sondern diese Mannigfaltigkeit im Leben beruht tatsächlich auf einem gewissen tieferen Erfassen des Lebens, wie wir es jetzt dargestellt haben.

So sehen Sie, daß es vor allem beim Lehrer darauf ankommt, wie er sich zu seinem heiligen Berufe stellt. Das ist nicht ohne Bedeutung; denn das Wichtigste im Unterricht und in der Erziehung sind denn doch die Imponderabilien. Ein Lehrer, der mit solcher Gesinnung das Klassenzimmer betritt, erreicht anderes als ein anderer. Wie im alltäglichen Leben nicht immer das physisch Große das Maßgebende ist, sondern manchmal auch gerade das Kleine, so ist auch nicht immer das, was wir mit den großen Worten machen, das Maßgebende, sondern manchmal ist es jene Empfindung, jenes Gefühl, das wir in uns ausgebildet haben, bevor wir das Klassenzimmer betreten haben. Namentlich aber eines ist von einer großen Wichtigkeit, das ist, daß wir unseren engeren persönlichen Menschen wie eine Schlangenhaut rasch abstreifen, wenn wir in die Klasse hineingehen. Der Lehrer kann ja unter Umständen, da er, wie man manchmal so selbstgefällig sagt, «auch nur ein Mensch» ist, alles mögliche erleben in der Zeit zwischen dem Schluß der Klasse am vorhergehenden Tage und ihrer Eröffnung am nächsten Tage. Er kann erlebt haben, daß ihn inzwischen die Gläubiger gemahnt haben, oder er hat mit seiner Ehefrau einen Zank gehabt, wie es im Leben wohl vorkommt. Das sind Dinge, wo es Verstimmungen gibt. Solche Verstimmungen geben dann eine Grundnuance für die Seelenverfassung ab. Aber auch frohe, freudige Stimmungen können vorkommen. Es kann Ihnen der Vater irgendeines Schülers, weil er Sie besonders gern hat, einen Hasen nach der Jagd geschickt haben, oder, wenn es eine Lehrerin ist, ein Blumenbukett übersandt haben. Es ist ja ganz selbstverständlich im Leben, daß wir solche Stimmungen in uns tragen. Als Lehrer müssen wir uns dazu erziehen, solche Stimmungen abzulegen und nur aus dem Inhalt des Darzustellenden heraus zu reden, so daß wir wirklich in der Lage sind, indem wir den einen Gegenstand darstellen, aus dem Gegenstand heraus tragisch zu sprechen und übergehen können zu einer humorvollen Stimmung, indem wir in unserer Darstellung fortfahren, wobei wir uns ganz dem Gegenstande überlassen. Aber es handelt sich darum, daß wir imstande sind, nun, ich möchte sagen, den ganzen Reflex der Klasse auf Tragik oder Sentimentalität und Humor wahrzunehmen. Dann, wenn wir dies wahrzunehmen imstande sind, werden wir gewahr, daß für die Seelen der Kinder Tragik oder Sentimentalität oder Humor etwas Außerordentliches bedeuten. Und wenn wir den Unterricht getragen sein lassen von einer Abwechslung zwischen Humor und Sentimentalität und Tragik, wenn wir hinüberleiten von der einen Stimmung in die andere und wieder zurück; wenn wir wirklich in der Lage sind, nachdem wir etwas dargestellt haben, wozu wir eine gewisse tragende Schwere brauchten, dann wieder überzugehen in eine gewisse Leichtigkeit - aber ungezwungen, indem wir uns dem Inhalte hingeben -, dann bewirken wir für die Seelenstimmung etwas, was wie Einatmung und Ausatmung für den körperlichen Organismus ist. Beim Lehren handelt es sich darum, daß wir nicht bloß intellektuell oder intellektualistisch lehren, sondern daß wir in der Lage sind, auf die Stimmungen wirklich Rücksicht zu nehmen. Denn, was ist Tragik, was ist Sentimentalität, was ist eine schwere Seelenstimmung? Das ist ganz dasselbe wie ein Einatmen beim Organismus, wie ein Sich-Erfüllen des Organismus mit der Luft. Tragik bedeutet: wir versuchen unseren physischen Leib zusammenzuziehen und immer mehr zusammenzuziehen, so daß wir im Zusammenziehen des physischen Körpers gewahr werden, wie unser astralischer Leib immer mehr und mehr aus dem physischen Leibe herauskommt durch das Zusammendrücken des physischen Leibes. Humorvolle Stimmung bedeutet, daß wir den physischen Körper lähmen, aber umgekehrt jetzt den astralischen Leib möglichst ausdehnen, über die Umgebung ausdehnen, so daß wir gewahr werden, wenn wir zum Beispiel irgendeine Röte nicht bloß anschauen, sondern wenn wir in sie hineinwachsen, wie wir unser Astralisches über die Röte ausdehnen, in sie hineingehen. Das Lachen ist ja nichts anderes, als daß wir den astralischen Leib des Gesichtes aus unserer Phystognomie heraustreiben. Lachen ist nichts anderes als ein astralisches Ausatmen. Nur müssen wir, wenn wir diese Dinge anwenden wollen, ein gewisses Gefühl für Dynamik haben. Es ist ja nicht immer schicklich, daß wir, wenn wir just etwas Schweres, Getragenes haben, so unvermittelt ins Humorvolle hineinkommen; aber wir können immer beim Unterricht die Mittel und Wege finden, um die kindliche Seele sich nicht verfangen zu lassen bei der Schwere, der Tragik, sondern um sie dann frei herauszureißen, so daß sie wirklich dieses Atmen durchmachen kann zwischen den zwei Seelenstimmungen.

Damit habe ich Ihnen einleitend etwas angegeben von dem, was wie Stimmungsnuancen vom Lehrer beim Unterricht beabsichtigt sein sollte, was wirklich so notwendig ist, wie nur irgend etwas von spezieller Pädagogik.

First Lecture

My dear friends, the intention was to use the days I am able to spend here to provide you with a kind of supplement to some of the things I covered in the introductory educational courses last year. However, there are so few days, and from what I have just heard, there are so many commitments for the next few days that it is hardly possible to talk about any program, and I can hardly say whether it will go beyond these few introductory words today.

What I would like to talk about today in this introduction is that I would like to add a few things to last year's remarks about the teacher and the educator themselves. Of course, what I am about to say with regard to the nature of the teacher is meant to be aphoristic, and actually in such a way that it should gradually take shape in you yourselves, that it should, so to speak, be further processed by your own thinking and feeling. It is precisely in relation to the teaching profession that attention must be drawn to the fact — and in drawing attention to this, we are standing on the ground of anthroposophically oriented spiritual science and want to use it as a basis for shaping the pedagogy necessary for the present time — it is above all necessary to point out that teachers should really have a feeling, a sense of what the essence of esotericism as such is. In our present age, in the age of democracy, in the age of journalism, things are such that people hardly have a real, true feeling for what esotericism actually means; because today people think that what is true is true, and what is right is right, and that the true and the right, when formulated in any way, should then be expressed before the whole world in the form in which it is thought to be correctly formulated. Now, in real life this is not the case; in real life things behave quite differently. In real life, it is the case that certain effects can only be achieved if the impulses for these effects are guarded in the soul as a kind of sacred secret. And teachers in particular need to guard many things as sacred secrets and regard them as such that they only really play a role in discussions and debates that take place within the teaching profession itself. At first glance, such a statement does not seem particularly understandable, and yet — it will become understandable to you. I would have to say a lot to make it understandable, but first of all, it will become clear to you when I tell you the following.

This statement I have just quoted has a comprehensive significance for world civilization today. When we think about youth education today, we must always bear in mind that we are working on the feelings, ideas, and impulses of the next generation; we must be clear that we have to prepare this next generation from the present for certain tasks that will have to be performed in the future of humanity. Now, when you put it like that, the question immediately arises: Why is it that humanity has fallen into the widespread misery in which it finds itself today? Humanity has fallen into this misery because it has essentially made itself dependent, thoroughly dependent on the particular way of thinking and feeling of Western people. And one can say that when someone today talks about Fichte, Herder, or even Goethe in Central Europe, for example, if they are involved in public life, whether as a journalist or a popular author or the like, they are usually much further removed from what is a real spiritual impulse in Fichte, Herder, or Goethe, than they are — if they think and work in Berlin or Vienna — from what is felt and thought today in London, Paris, New York, or Chicago. Gradually, things have turned out in such a way that the worldview impulses of the Western peoples have basically flooded our entire civilization, that our entire public life lives in the worldview impulses of these Western peoples. And it must be said that this is particularly true in the art of education; for, basically, the Central European peoples have been learning from the Western peoples in all such matters since the last third of the 19th century. Today, it seems quite natural to people who discuss educational issues, among other things, to move in the direction of thinking that comes from there. If you want to trace the origins of everything that is considered reasonable in Central Europe today in terms of education, you can find it, for example, in the views of Herbert Spencer or similar people. One does not follow the numerous paths by which views such as those of Spencer or similar ones entered the minds of those who were influential in Central Europe in intellectual matters. But these paths exist, these paths are there. And if one takes the spirit — I do not want to place particular emphasis on the details — the spirit of such a pedagogical direction as it appears, for example, in Fichte, if one takes this spirit, it is not only completely different from what is generally regarded as reasonable pedagogy today, but the situation is such that people today are hardly capable of bringing their souls into such directions of thinking and feeling that what Fichte or Herder meant could really be understood in such a way that it could find a continuation. Thus, in the field of pedagogy, especially pedagogical art, we see today that the very opposite of what should be has become the principle. I would like to draw your attention to a statement made by Spencer. Spencer believes that visual teaching should be conducted in such a way that it merges with the investigations of the natural scientist and the research of the man of science. So what should be done in school? We should teach children in school in such a way that, when they grow up and have the opportunity to continue what they have learned from us in school about minerals, plants, animals, and so on, they can become proper naturalists or philosophers. Certainly, this is often contested today, but in practice, we behave exactly as has just been described. We behave this way simply because our textbooks are written accordingly and because no one thinks of changing the textbooks, rewriting them, or abolishing them. For example, the situation today is such that textbooks on botany are written more for future botanists than for people in general; and similarly, textbooks on zoology are written for future zoologists, but not for people in general.

Now, the peculiar thing is that the exact opposite of what Spencer presents as a real pedagogical principle should be strived for today. We can hardly imagine a greater mistake in elementary school education than to educate children in such a way that the subject matter, for example with regard to plants and animals, could be continued in such a way that the child could later become a botanist or zoologist. On the contrary, if lessons could be designed to present plants and animals in such a way as to prevent children from becoming botanists or zoologists, this would be more correct than Spencer's principle. For no one should become a botanist or zoologist through what they learn in elementary school; people should only become botanists or zoologists through their special aptitude, which simply manifests itself in the selection that should result from proper educational art within their lives. Through their aptitude! That is, if they have an aptitude for botany, they can become botanists; and if they have an aptitude for zoology, they can become zoologists. This must also result from the aptitude of the individual concerned, that is, from predetermined karma, from the law of destiny. This must be done in such a way that we recognize: in this person there is a botanist, in that person there is a zoologist. This must never be done in such a way that elementary school education is somehow a preparation for this particular scientific activity. But consider what has happened recently: unfortunately, our scientists have been involved in education. People who have become accustomed to thinking scientifically have shaped pedagogy and have had a say in the most important aspects of pedagogy. In other words, the opinion prevailed that the teacher as such had something to do with the scientist; scientific education was taken as teacher training, whereas the two must be thoroughly different. If the teacher becomes a scientist, he turns to thinking scientifically in the narrower sense — he may do so as a private individual, but he cannot do so as a teacher — then something happens to him that occurs very frequently: that the teacher becomes a kind of comic figure in his class, among his students or among his colleagues, that jokes are made about him. Goethe's “Baccalaureus” in higher education is not as rare as is commonly believed.

And basically, if one asks oneself today: Should one side more with the teacher when the students make jokes about him, or more with the students? — then, under the current educational conditions, one would tend to side more with the students. For the outcome of all this is best seen in our universities. What are our universities actually? Are they educational institutions for mature young people or are they research institutes? They want to be both, and it is precisely because of this that they have become the caricatures they are today. And people usually even emphasize as a special advantage of our universities that they are both educational institutions and research institutes. But it is precisely because of this that all the nonsense that comes from pedagogy when it is done by scientists finds its way into these highest educational institutions. And then this nonsense is transplanted down to the middle schools and finally to the elementary schools. This is something that cannot be emphasized enough: that the art of education must come from life, and cannot come from abstract scientific thinking.

It is peculiar that Western education initially produced what could be called a scientific, even natural science-oriented pedagogy, and that, if we remember what was present in Herder, Fichte, Jean Paul, Schiller, and similar minds, that all of this is actually a forgotten pedagogy of life, a pedagogy drawn directly from life.

Now it is the world-historical task of the Central European peoples to cultivate this pedagogy, to cultivate it, as it were, as their esoteric matter. For much will be able to become common to humanity, and must become so, if social improvement is to occur in the future. But what emerges from the whole concrete Central European intellectual tradition with regard to the art of education will be incomprehensible to Western peoples; on the contrary, it will annoy them. It can only be explained to them once they decide to stand on the esoteric ground of spiritual science. With regard to all those things that have been viewed with such pride in Germany over the last 40 years, with regard to all those things for which such a great upswing has been established in Germany, Germany is lost. This extends to the rule of the Western peoples. There is nothing we can do about it, and we can only hope to generate enough understanding for the threefold social order that the Western nations will embrace this understanding.

But with regard to what is to be given to the art of education, we have something to give the world from Central Europe that no one else can give it — not an Oriental and not a Westerner. But we must understand that we must keep this within those circles that are capable of understanding it; we must understand that we must guard it with a certain trust and know that this guarding is what leads to the effect of the matter. One must know exactly what things to keep silent about in front of certain people if one wants to achieve an effect. But above all, we must be clear that we cannot hope for any influence from the way of thinking that, originating in the West, is absolutely indispensable for some branches of modern civilization. We must know that we have nothing to hope for from this side for what we have to cultivate as the art of education.

There is a text by Herbert Spencer on education. This text is extremely interesting. Spencer compiles a whole series of principles, or “principles” as he calls them, on the intellectual education of human beings. Among these principles, he advocates one in particular with great vehemence: teaching should never start from the abstract, but always from the concrete; one should always work from individual cases. Now he writes his book on education. Before getting into anything concrete, he first presents the worst abstract thicket, really nothing but abstract straw, and the man does not notice that he is expounding principles that he considers indispensable, and that he himself is following the opposite of these principles. We thus have an example of a great, influential contemporary philosopher who is in complete contradiction with what he himself presents.

Now, last year you saw that our pedagogy should not be based on abstract educational principles, on this or that which can be said, for example: one should not impose anything on the child from outside, but rather develop the child's individuality, and so on. You know that our pedagogical art must be based on a genuine empathy with the child's nature, that it must be based in the broadest sense on an understanding of the developing human being. And we have gathered enough information about the nature of the developing human being in the first course and later in the teachers' conferences. If we as teachers can engage with this nature of the developing human being, then the knowledge of this nature will show us how we should proceed. In this respect, we as teachers must become artists. Just as it is impossible for an artist to pick up a book on aesthetics in order to paint or sculpt according to the principles of the aesthetician, so it is impossible for the teacher to use one of those pedagogical manuals for teaching. What the teacher needs, however, is a real understanding of what the human being actually is; what he becomes as he develops through childhood. Above all, it is necessary for us to be clear about one thing: we teach, let's say, six- to seven-year-old children in the first grade. Well, our teaching will always be poor, will always fail to fulfill its purpose, if, after spending a year with this first grade, we do not ask ourselves at the end of that first year: Who has actually learned the most? It is I, the teacher! If we can say to ourselves: I had great educational principles at the beginning of the school year, I followed the best masters of pedagogy, I did everything to realize these educational principles – and if we had really done that, we would certainly have taught poorly. But you would certainly have taught best if you had gone into the classroom every morning with trepidation and apprehension and had not relied very much on yourself, but then at the end of the year said to yourself: You yourself have actually learned the most during this time. Because being able to say to yourself: You yourself have learned the most – that depends on how you have proceeded. It depends on what you have actually done, it depends on whether you have constantly had the feeling: You are growing by helping the children to grow. You try in the noblest sense of the word, you cannot actually do very much; but you develop a certain strength by working with the children. - You will then sometimes have the feeling: there is not much you can do with this or that type of child; but you will have made an effort with them. You will have learned this or that from other children through their special talents. In short, you emerge from the campaign a completely different person than when you entered it. And you have learned what you could not do a year ago when you started teaching. At the end of the school year, you say to yourself: Yes, now you can actually do what you should have been able to do! That is a very real feeling. And there lies a certain mystery. If you had really been able to do everything at the beginning of the school year that you can do now at the end of the year, you would have taught poorly. You taught well because you first had to learn it yourself! So I must present you with the paradox that you taught well when you did not know what you learned at the end of the year, and that it would have been harmful if you had already known at the beginning of the year what you learned at the end of the year. A strange paradox!

It is important for many people to know this, but it is most important for teachers to know it. For this is a special case of a general truth and insight: knowledge as such, no matter what it refers to, knowledge that can be expressed in abstract principles, that can be internalized in ideas, this knowledge cannot have any practical value. Only that which leads to this knowledge, that which is on the way to this knowledge, has practical value. For this knowledge, which we acquire in the same way as we have knowledge after teaching for a year, only has value after the death of the human being. This knowledge only enters into such a reality after the death of the human being that it can then further educate the human being, that it can further educate the individual human being. In life, it is not the finished knowledge that has value, but the work that leads to the finished knowledge; and especially in the art of education, this work has its very special value. It is actually the same as in the arts. I do not believe that an artist is truly right-minded if, after completing a work, he does not say to himself: Now you could actually do it. I do not believe that an artist is truly right-minded if he is satisfied with any work he has done. He may have a certain natural egoistic reverence for what he has done, but he cannot really be satisfied with it. A work of art, once completed, actually loses much of its interest even for the person who created it. This loss of interest stems from the peculiar kind of knowledge we acquire when we create something; and on the other hand, it is precisely the liveliness, the vitality that lies within it, that has not yet been transformed into knowledge.

This is ultimately also the case with the entire human organization. Our head is as complete as anything can be, for it is formed from the forces of our previous earthly life; it is overripe. Human heads are all overripe—even the immature ones. But the rest of our organization is such that it only provides the seed for the head of our next earthly life; it is sprouting and budding, but it is something unfinished. The rest of our organism is something that does not actually reveal its true form until our death, namely the form of the forces that are active within it. And the fact that there is a flowing life in the rest of our organism is shown by its constitution: ossification is kept to a minimum in the rest of the organism, while in relation to the head it is pushed up to a maximum.

This peculiar kind of innermost modesty, this feeling of one's own becoming — that is something that must carry the teacher; for more comes out of this feeling than out of any abstract principles. If we stand in our school class in such a way that we are aware: It is good that we do everything imperfectly, because that is what makes it alive — then we will teach well. If, on the other hand, we stand in the classroom constantly licking our fingers with satisfaction at our own pedagogical perfection, then we will certainly teach poorly.

Now, imagine that you first teach in the 1st grade, then in the 2nd grade, then in the 3rd grade, and so on, so that you have actually gone through everything there is to go through in terms of excitement, disappointment, and, for that matter, success. Imagine that you have gone through all the grades of elementary school in ascending order, and at the end of each year you have spoken to yourself in the mood I have just described, and now you are going back down again, from the eighth grade to the first grade, for my sake. Yes, now, one might think, you have to say to yourself: Yes, but now I'm going to start using what I've learned, now I'll be able to do it right, now I'll be an excellent teacher! But that's not how it will be. Experience will bring something completely different to your soul. At the end of the 2nd, 3rd, and every subsequent school year, you will say roughly the same thing to yourself from the right attitude: I have now learned about seven-, eight-, and nine-year-old children what I could only learn by working with them; at the end of each school year, I know how I should have done it. But when you get to the fourth or fifth school year, you will once again not know how you should have actually done it. For now you will correct what you meant after you have taught for a year. And so, after you have finished the eighth school year and corrected everything again, and are really lucky enough to start again in the first school year, you will be in the same situation. However, you will teach from a different spirit. But if you go through your teaching career with an inner, true, noble skepticism, not the foppish skepticism I spoke of, then you will bring a new imponderable force out of this skepticism that will make you particularly predisposed to achieve more with the children who are then entrusted to you. That is undoubtedly true. But the effect in life will actually only be different, not so much better, but different. I would say that the quality of what you make of the children will not be much better now than it was the first time; the effect will only be different. You will achieve something different in terms of quality, not so much more in terms of quantity. You will achieve something qualitatively different, and that is basically enough. For everything we acquire in the manner described, with the necessary noble skepticism and inner modesty, boils down to turning people into individuals, individuals on a grand scale. We cannot have the same class twice and send the same copies of the educational template out into the world twice! But we can give the world individually different forms of human beings. We bring about diversity in life; but this is not based on the elaboration of abstract principles, but rather on a certain deeper understanding of life, as we have now described.

So you see that what matters most is how the teacher relates to his sacred profession. This is not without significance, for the most important things in teaching and education are, after all, the imponderables. A teacher who enters the classroom with such an attitude achieves something different from another teacher. Just as in everyday life it is not always the physically large that is decisive, but sometimes also the small, so too it is not always what we do with big words that is decisive, but sometimes it is that feeling, that emotion that we have developed within ourselves before we enter the classroom. One thing in particular is of great importance, namely that we quickly shed our narrow personal selves like a snake's skin when we enter the classroom. After all, since the teacher is, as people sometimes smugly say, “only human,” he or she may experience all sorts of things between the end of class the previous day and the start of class the next day. He may have received reminders from creditors, or he may have had a quarrel with his wife, as happens in life. These are things that cause upset. Such upsets then set a basic tone for the state of mind. But happy, joyful moods can also occur. The father of one of your students may have sent you a rabbit after a hunt because he is particularly fond of you, or, if you are a female teacher, he may have sent you a bouquet of flowers. It is quite natural in life that we carry such moods within us. As teachers, we must train ourselves to set aside such moods and speak only from the content of what is to be presented, so that we are truly able, when presenting one subject, to speak tragically from that subject and then move on to a humorous mood as we continue our presentation, surrendering ourselves completely to the subject. But the point is that we are able, I would say, to perceive the whole reaction of the class to tragedy or sentimentality and humor. Then, when we are able to perceive this, we become aware that tragedy or sentimentality or humor mean something extraordinary to the souls of children. And if we allow the lesson to be carried by an alternation between humor and sentimentality and tragedy, if we move from one mood to another and back again; if we are truly able, after presenting something that required a certain seriousness, to transition back to a certain lightness—but in a relaxed manner, by devoting ourselves to the content—then we achieve something for the soul's mood that is like inhalation and exhalation for the physical organism. When teaching, it is important that we do not teach merely intellectually or intellectualistically, but that we are able to really take moods into account. For what is tragedy, what is sentimentality, what is a heavy mood of the soul? It is exactly the same as inhalation in the organism, as the organism filling itself with air. Tragedy means that we try to contract our physical body and contract it more and more, so that in contracting the physical body we become aware of how our astral body comes out of the physical body more and more through the compression of the physical body. A humorous mood means that we paralyze the physical body, but conversely now expand the astral body as much as possible, expand it over the surroundings, so that we become aware, for example, when we not only look at some redness, but when we grow into it, how we expand our astral body over the redness, enter into it. Laughter is nothing other than driving the astral body of the face out of our physiognomy. Laughter is nothing other than an astral exhalation. However, if we want to apply these things, we must have a certain feeling for dynamics. It is not always appropriate for us to suddenly become humorous when we have something serious and solemn to deal with; but we can always find ways and means in our teaching to prevent the child's soul from becoming entangled in the seriousness and tragedy, and then to tear it free so that it can truly breathe between the two moods of the soul.

In this introduction, I have given you some indication of what should be intended by the teacher in terms of mood nuances during lessons, which is really as necessary as anything in special pedagogy.