The Rudolf Steiner Archive

29. The Secret of Human Temperaments

[ 1 ] Ladies and gentlemen! It has been repeated time and again from all areas of human intellectual life that the greatest mystery of humanity is humanity itself. Scientific and other research has repeatedly confirmed the gravity of this statement. When it comes to life, one can say that this statement can be taken even further: not only does humanity in general—what we call human nature—present us with the great mystery of existence, but, fundamentally speaking, every single person we encounter—if we look at them with a free and unbiased eye—presents us with a unique mystery through their particular nature and essence.

[ 2 ] When we look at human life as a whole, we must pay particular attention to this specific mystery “human being,” for our entire social life—our behavior toward one another—must depend more on how, in each individual case, we are able to approach the unique enigma of “humanity”—which we encounter so often every day and with which we are frequently confronted—not merely with our intellect, but with our feelings and sensibilities.

[ 3 ] The science of the spirit—or, as it has come to be called in recent times, theosophy—will have a special task, particularly in relation to this individual enigma known as “humanity.” Not only must it provide us with insight into what a human being is in general, but—as has often been emphasized here—it is meant to be a form of knowledge that flows into our immediate, everyday life, into all our sensations and feelings. Since our feelings and sensations unfold most beautifully in our behavior toward our fellow human beings, the fruit of spiritual science—the insight gained through spiritual science—will be most beautifully revealed in the perspective we gain on our fellow human beings through this insight.

[ 4 ] When we encounter a person in life, we must always bear in mind—in accordance with this spiritual science or theosophy—that what we can perceive externally about human beings is only a part, only one aspect of the human being. An external, material view of the human being, of course, regards what this external perception—and the intellect linked to it—can provide us with as the whole human being.

[ 5 ] Spiritual science, however, shows us that the human being is something very, very complex. And only when we delve more deeply into the complexity of human nature can we see the individual human being in the right light. Spiritual science is meant to point us toward the innermost core of the human being, of which what we see with our eyes and can grasp with our hands is merely the outer expression, the outer shell. And we may hope that we will also learn to understand the outer aspects when we are able to delve into the spiritual inner being.

[ 6 ] According to spiritual science, human beings are situated within two life currents. One current is the one that leads us from the individual human being back to parents, grandparents, and further ancestors. What flows down from a person’s ancestors to the individual human being is what we refer to in life and in science as inherited traits and characteristics. This is the line of heredity, and much, much can be explained about a person if we, so to speak, know their ancestry. How profoundly true are the words spoken by Goethe, that deep connoisseur of the soul, regarding his own personality:

From my father I got my build,
A serious approach to life,
From my dear mother, her cheerful nature
And a love of storytelling.

[ 7 ] Everything we find that is passed down from ancestors to descendants explains the individual in a certain sense, but only in a certain sense.

[ 8 ] However, today’s materialistic view seeks to attribute everything possible in human beings to heredity; it even seeks to derive the human spirit and spiritual qualities from heredity, and never tires of explaining that even a person’s genius can be explained if we find traces or signs of such qualities in one ancestor or another. One seeks to piece together the human personality, so to speak, from what is scattered among the ancestors.

[ 9 ] However, anyone who delves deeper into human nature will notice that, alongside these inherited traits, there is something within every human being that we can only describe by saying: ‘This is what is most essential to the human being’—something about which, upon thorough examination, we cannot say that it derives from this or that ancestor. This is where spiritual science comes in and tells us what it has to say on the matter. Today we can only sketch out what these things are about, only hint at the findings of spiritual science.

[ 10 ] Spiritual science tells us: It is certainly true that human beings are placed within the current we might call the current of heredity, of inherited characteristics; but there is something else in human beings as well—the innermost spiritual core of their being. This does not originate from a person’s immediate ancestors, nor even from their parents; it comes from entirely different realms. What we see in a person when we penetrate the depths of their soul can be explained if we are familiar with a great, all-encompassing spiritual law—one that is, in fact, merely the consequence of many natural laws. This is the law of so-called reincarnation—the law of repeated earthly lives—which is so widely frowned upon today.

[ 11 ] With this law, things will take a peculiar turn in the world; it will fare just as another law has. Well into the seventeenth century, both scholars and laypeople had no doubt whatsoever that not only lower animals could develop from ordinary inanimate matter, but that even earthworms—and indeed, even fish—could arise from ordinary, lifeless river mud. The first person to vigorously advocate that living things can arise only from living things was the great Italian naturalist Francesco Redi, who narrowly escaped the fate of Giordano Bruno. He demonstrated that living things can be traced back only to living things. This is a law that serves merely as a precursor to another law: that the spiritual-soul-related can be traced back to the spiritual-soul-related.

[ 12 ] We must now consider the innermost spiritual and soul-core of the human being as that which descends from the spiritual world and unites with what the father and mother are able to give to the human being.

[ 13 ] And so what we see in the physical human being—in terms of form, shape, and so on—that is, the outer forms—can be traced back to our ancestors, to our father and mother; but perhaps far, far back, beyond all hereditary influences, we must seek the spiritual core of the human being, who, over millennia and centuries, has entered into existence again and again, has lived life after life, and has now, in this present existence, reunited with what the father and mother are able to give.

[ 14 ] Thus, we must go back to the human spirit and its earlier incarnations if we are to explain what now presents itself to us as the soul-spiritual aspect within the human being. We must go back to his earlier incarnations, to what he acquired at that time, and to how he lived then; what he has brought with him from those times, we must regard as the causes of what the human being possesses today in new lives as predispositions, dispositions, and abilities for this or that.

[ 15 ] Of course, this is regarded today as a rather flimsy line of reasoning, and one will always hear materialists object: Just look back at your ancestors, and you will find that this or that trait, this or that peculiarity, is present in this or that ancestor; that we can explain all individual traits and characteristics by tracing them back to our ancestors. Indeed, it is even stated as a law that genius stands at the end of a line of inheritance, and this is supposed to be proof that genius is inherited. The reasoning proceeds from this standpoint: A certain person possesses a specific quality—he is a genius—so one looks back at his ancestors and forefathers, finds signs of the same quality in some ancestor, and concludes from this that genius is inherited. For anyone who thinks in a straightforward, logical manner, this could at most prove the opposite. Does the fact that we find the qualities of genius in his ancestors prove anything? It proves no more than that when a person falls into water, he comes out wet. For the fact that what has flowed down through the hereditary line—when it was finally passed on by the father and mother to the actual human being who descended from the spiritual world—bears the qualities of the ancestors is quite self-evident. Human beings simply clothe themselves in the forms given to them by their ancestors. If one wanted to show that genius is hereditary, one would have to demonstrate that it stands at the beginning—and not at the end—of a lineage, that it has sons and grandsons to whom these genius-like qualities are passed down; but that is precisely not the case. It is short-sighted logic that seeks to trace a person’s mental qualities back to the ancestral line. We must trace these mental qualities back to that which is the other current within the human being—to that which the human being has brought with them from their previous incarnations.

[ 16 ] If we now look at one current in human life—that which lives on in the line of inheritance—we find that the human being is drawn into a stream of existence through which he acquires certain characteristics: We see the human being standing before us with characteristics of the family, the people, and the race. The various children of a pair of parents bear such qualities within themselves. When we think of the true individual essence of a human being, we must say to ourselves: Born into the family, the people, and the race, the spiritual-soul core envelops itself with what is given by the ancestors, yet it brings with it purely individual qualities. So we must now ask ourselves: How is harmony established between a human core—which may have acquired this or that characteristic centuries ago—and which is now to be enveloped in an outer shell bearing the characteristics of family, people, and so on? Can harmony exist here? Is not what is brought with us something individual in the most eminent sense, and does this not contradict what is inherited? Between these two—between what we bring with us from our past lives and what is imprinted on us by family, ancestry, and race—there is a mediating factor, something that simultaneously bears more general characteristics yet is capable of being individualized. That which stands in the middle between the line of heredity and the line of life that represents our individuality is expressed by the word: temperament!

[ 17 ] In what we encounter in a person’s temperament, we find, in a certain sense, something akin to a physiognomy of their innermost individuality. We thus understand how individuality colors the temperamental traits that are inherited across generations. Temperament stands right in the middle between what is inherited and what we bring with us individually. But we can now understand how this works in detail when we consider human nature as a whole from the perspective of spiritual science. For spiritual science, what the external senses can perceive in a human being—which materialistic thinking is willing to acknowledge as the sole reality—is merely a single aspect of the human being: the physical body. Physical laws—that which human beings have in common with the entire surrounding external nature, the sum of chemical and physical laws—are what we in spiritual science designate as the physical body. Above this, however, we recognize higher, supersensible aspects of human nature that are just as real and essential as the external physical body.

[ 18 ] Even the next level of human nature—the etheric or life body, as it is called in spiritual science—which we might also call the glandular body—is no longer visible to our physical eyes, just as colors are invisible to someone born blind. But it exists—truly perceptible to what Goethe calls the “eyes of the spirit”—and it is even more real than the outer physical body, for it is the builder, the shaper of the outer physical body. This etheric or life body is, throughout the entire period between birth and death, a constant fighter against the decay of the physical body. A mineral product of nature, a crystal for example, is such that it continually sustains itself through the forces of its own substance. This is not the case with the physical body of a living being; there, the physical forces act in such a way that they destroy the form of life—as we can indeed observe after death, when these physical forces destroy the form of life. That this does not occur during life—that the physical body does not follow chemical and physical forces and laws—in contrast, the etheric or life body is a constant fighter.

[ 19 ] As the third component of the human being, we recognize the bearer of all that constitutes pleasure and suffering, joy and pain, as well as instinct, desire, and passion—and indeed, all conceptions of what we call moral ideals and so on. We call this the astral body. Do not be put off by this term. One could also call this body the nervous body. — Spiritual science recognizes something real in it. Precisely this body of drives and desires is, for spiritual science, not an effect of the physical body, but the cause of that body; it knows that this spiritual-soul aspect has built up the physical body.

[ 20 ] Thus we already have three aspects of human nature, and as the fourth aspect we recognize that which makes human beings the crown of creation on our Earth. Human beings share the physical body with the entire visible world, the etheric body with plants and animals, and the astral body with animals. But the fourth member is unique to human beings; it is through this that they rise above the other visible creatures. We refer to this fourth member as the “I-bearer,” that aspect of human nature through which a human being is able to say “I” to themselves and attain self-hood. — Today we can only touch briefly upon these four members; it is not possible to go into them in greater detail at this time. What we now see physically and what the intellect—bound to the physical senses—can perceive is merely an expression of these four members of the human being. Thus, the expression for the “I,” for the actual I-bearer, is the blood in its circulation. This “very special fluid” is the expression of the “I.” The physical-sensory expression of the astral body is, for example, the nervous system in human beings. The expression of the etheric body—or part of that expression—is the glandular system, and the physical body expresses itself through the sense organs. And all four aspects of human nature—the “I,” the astral body, the etheric body, and the physical body—interact in the most manifold ways. One aspect always influences the other. Depending on whether one or the other of these aspects is particularly prominent, a person presents themselves to us with one temperament or another. Whether the forces—the various powers—of one or the other predominate and outweigh the others determines the distinctive character of human nature, which we call the actual character of the temperament.

[ 21 ] The eternal essence of the human being—that which passes from one incarnation to the next—manifests itself in each new incarnation in such a way that it gives rise to a certain interaction among the four aspects of human nature: the ego, the astral body, the etheric body, and the physical body; and from the way these four components interact arises the nuance of the human being that we call the temperament. You know that four main temperaments are distinguished; these are blended in the most varied ways in individual human beings, so that we can only say that this or that temperament predominates in this or that trait of a person. A distinction is made between the so-called choleric, sanguine, phlegmatic, and melancholic temperaments. These four temperaments arise from the interplay of the four constituents of human nature in a wide variety of ways. When the “I” is predominant—when the “I” acts particularly strongly through its forces and dominates the other constituents of human nature—the choleric temperament arises. When the forces of the astral body act particularly predominantly, the sanguine temperament arises. When the etheric or life body particularly imposes its nature upon the human being, the phlegmatic temperament arises; and when the physical body, with its laws, is particularly dominant in human nature, the melancholic temperament arises. If we recognize that the blood, in its circulation, is the expression of the true “I,” we will conclude that the choleric temperament—because the “I” predominates here—is expressed through the predominant influence of the blood and manifests itself particularly through fiery, vehement blood. In the sanguine temperament, the astral body predominates; we therefore find here that, accordingly, the activity of the nervous system—this instrument for ebbing and flowing sensations—is particularly strong and dominates the other systems.

[ 22 ] However, this activity is, in a certain sense, limited by the circulatory system. If one is able to examine more closely the connection that exists between the nervous system and the circulatory system, one can literally grasp with one’s own hands what this connection is like. If the nervous system were to act alone—if it were to be particularly dominant as the expression of the astral body—then human beings would have a fluctuating life of images and ideas; they would be at the mercy of all manner of images and ideas, of all sorts of ebbing and flowing feelings and sensations. The blood that flows within a human being, however, is, so to speak, what restrains that which finds its expression in the nervous system; it is the restraining force of the ebbing and flowing life of feelings and sensations. And even if you do not delve into finer physiological details, you can still conclude from the simple fact that when someone is anemic—that is, lacks red blood cells—they are easily given over to all sorts of fantastical images, even to all kinds of hallucinations; from this simple fact alone, you can already conclude how the blood acts as the restrainer of the nervous system.

[ 23 ] There must be a balance between the ego and the astral body—or, in physical terms, between the circulatory and nervous systems—so that a person does not become a slave to their nervous system, that is, to their fluctuating life of sensations and emotions. If, however, the astral body—or its expression, the nervous system—dominates, and if one can restrain the blood but cannot fully bring it into a state of absolute equilibrium, then that peculiar phenomenon arises in which a person takes an interest in one object but soon abandons it and quickly moves on to another. In this tendency to become quickly inflamed and to shift rapidly to another object, one sees the expression of the dominant astral body: the sanguine temperament.

[ 24 ] Let us assume that the driving force—the “I”—which finds its expression in the circulatory system, exercises a special dominion and exerts a special power over the life of sensation and imagination, as well as over the nervous system; let us assume that everything in a person springs from their “I”; everything they feel, they feel intensely because their “I” is strong. We call this the choleric temperament. Suppose the etheric or life body is the one that is particularly strong; in that case, this dominance expresses itself differently. The etheric body is the body that leads a kind of inner life, while the astral body expresses itself through interest in the outside world, and the ego is the bearer of our outward actions and will. So if the etheric body—which manifests itself as a life force and keeps the individual functions in balance, as expressed in a general sense of well-being— if this self-contained inner life—this life that primarily fosters inner well-being—prevails, then it may happen that the person lives primarily in this inner well-being, that he feels quite at ease when everything in his organism is in order and feels little urge to direct his inner interest outward, and is little inclined to develop a strong will: This is the phlegmatic temperament.

[ 25 ] And when the physical principle—the principle of the physical body—becomes dominant, it becomes a kind of obstacle to a person’s development. The physical body is the densest aspect of the human being. A person must be master of his physical body, just as he must be master of a machine if he wishes to use it. If this principle becomes particularly dominant and asserts itself with its demands, then a melancholic temperament may result. In such cases, a person is unable to make full use of their instrument, so that the other principles are inhibited as a result, leading to disharmony between the physical body and the other aspects of the being. When this is the case, we are very easily affected by life in painful and sorrowful ways. Grief takes hold very easily. Thus, the melancholic temperament arises from the predominance of the physical.

[ 26 ] Thus, through the fourfold nature of the human being, we come to understand precisely this mystery of the soul that is the temperaments. And indeed, the knowledge of the four temperaments has been handed down to us from ancient times out of a deep understanding of human nature. When we understand human nature in this way and know that the outer form is merely an expression of the spiritual, then—beyond mere outward appearances—we learn to understand the human being in his or her context, to understand the human being in the entirety of his or her development, and we learn to recognize what we must do for ourselves and for the child with regard to temperament. A truly vibrant understanding of the nature of the temperaments is indispensable for both wisdom in life and for pedagogy, and both would benefit immensely from it.

[ 27 ] Let us now consider how temperament is expressed in a person’s outward appearance. Look at the sanguine person. Notice what a remarkable gaze is already evident in the sanguine child—a gaze that quickly fixates on something but just as quickly turns away; it is a cheerful gaze, with an inner joy and cheerfulness shining through, expressing what comes from the depths of human nature, from the mobile astral body. Indeed, we could recognize the entire external physiognomy—the permanent form as well as the gesture—as the expression of the mobile, fleeting, and fluid astral body. The astral body has a tendency to shape and form. —- The inner nature manifests outwardly; hence, the sanguine person is slender and supple. In the bouncing, dancing gait of the sanguine child, you see the expression of the mobile astral body. Except for the color of the eyes, we could identify the expression of the sanguine person: he or she usually has blue eyes. These blue eyes are intimately connected to the inner light of the human being—which is an invisible light—and to the light of the astral body.

[ 28 ] In the case of the choleric temperament, you can recognize even more tangibly in external appearance—in everything that presents itself to us outwardly—the expression of what is at work internally: the true, deep inner nature of a person’s power, the closed “I.” Johann Gottlieb Fichte, for example, was a pronounced choleric. Fichte’s stature seemed restrained. This is particularly characteristic of the choleric type. It is not the astral body, with its capacity for formation, that predominates, but rather the “I”—the restrainer, the limiter of the formative forces—that prevails; physical growth is curbed and held back. That is why we generally see in these strong, eminent individuals of will how the “I” has reined in the free formative power of the astral body: a small, stocky figure. We also see this in another type of choleric individual, Napoleon, the “little general”—the stunted growth, the restraining “I.” And as a rule, we also see in the choleric individual how this intensely burning inner light—which turns all radiance inward—is expressed in eyes that are at times jet-black. And we also see the expression of strong ego-force in the gait: even in the choleric child we observe the firm stride, as it not only sets its foot down when stepping onto the ground, but steps so firmly as if it wanted to step a little further, right through the ground.

[ 29 ] And once again we see how the phlegmatic temperament also expresses itself in outward form. In this temperament, the activity of the etheric or life body predominates; it finds its physical expression in the glandular system and its psychological expression in inner contentment and inner balance. When, in such a person, not only is everything internally in normal order, but when these inner formative forces of well-being are particularly active beyond the normal, then their products take shape in the human body; the person becomes well-proportioned, their form expands. Here we have before us the physical expression of the predominance of the inner formative forces of the etheric or life body. And who would not also recognize in this lack of interaction between the inner and the outer the cause of the phlegmatic person’s often shuffling, shambling gait, whose step often seems out of sync with the ground? Even in the peculiar, dull, colorless gaze—whereas the choleric’s gaze is fiery and sparkling—one recognizes the expression of the etheric body’s comfort, directed solely inward: the phlegmatic. A melancholic is a person who cannot gain complete mastery over the physical instrument—an instrument that offers resistance—and who cannot cope with the use of this instrument. We see this in their peculiar gait: it is measured, yet in a certain way sluggish. In the melancholic, the bowed head shows us that the inner forces that lift the head upward cannot unfold freely. We also see from the peculiar, inward-turned gaze how the physical instrument causes him difficulty. Now that we know all this, we can learn how to deal with it. In particular, it should be of interest to us how we can pedagogically address the temperaments even in childhood. The sanguine child is the one who grasps things quickly but also forgets them quickly; it is difficult for us to hold their interest in anything, as they quickly lose interest in one subject and move on to another. With such a child, someone who thinks materialistically will immediately come up with a formula and say: “If you have to raise a sanguine child, you must bring it into interaction with other children so that it rubs shoulders with them, so to speak.” But a person who thinks realistically in the true sense of the word will say: “If you set out to influence those qualities in the sanguine child that it does not possess at all, then you will achieve nothing with this child.” No matter how hard you try to develop the other aspects of human nature, they simply aren’t dominant in this child. So we don’t build on what the child lacks, but on what it does have. We build precisely on its sanguine nature, on the mobility of the astral body, and do not try to instill in it what belongs to another aspect of human nature.

[ 30 ] First of all, the true practitioner will see that there is an interest—a genuine interest—in every sanguine child. It will generally be easy to spark the child’s interest in this or that subject, but that interest will quickly fade. Yet there is an interest that can be lasting, even for the sanguine child. One simply has to find it—as practice shows. When it comes to things, objects, or events, the child will not easily show anything other than a fleeting, shifting interest; but for a personality particularly suited to the sanguine child—as experience will show—there will be a lasting, sustained interest. One simply has to look for it in the right way. Therefore, it is essential that special care be taken in the upbringing of this child to ensure that he or she can form and develop an attachment to a particular person. All education of the sanguine child must proceed through the medium of attachment to a person. Therefore, parents and educators must bear in mind that a lasting interest in things and so on cannot be instilled in the sanguine child through rote learning, but rather that this interest is gained through the medium of attachment to a person.

[ 31 ] One can even base the child’s upbringing on the child’s own sanguine nature. After all, the sanguine nature manifests itself in the child’s inability to sustain a lasting interest; therefore, one should engage the child with such subjects at specific, measured intervals—subjects in which a temporary interest is justified, in which the child may, so to speak, be sanguine, and which are not worth maintaining a lasting interest in. It is therefore important to select for a sanguine child those subjects in which it is permitted to be sanguine—that is, to lose interest. If one appeals in this way to what is present, rather than to what is absent, then one will see—life experience will show—that, in fact, when the sanguine force becomes one-sided, it can indeed be channeled toward the important subjects. This is achieved, as it were, by a roundabout route. It is good if the temperament is developed in the right way already in childhood, but often the adult must also take their own education into their own hands later in life.

[ 32 ] As long as temperaments remain within normal limits, they represent what makes life beautiful, diverse, and grand. How dreary life would be if all people were the same in terms of temperament; but to compensate for an imbalance in temperament, a person must often take matters into their own hands and engage in self-education even in later life. One must not, however, try to force oneself to develop a lasting interest in certain things; rather, one must say to oneself: “I am, after all, a sanguine person; now I will seek out things in life that I may quickly move on from, where it is right that I not become attached to them, and I will occupy myself with whatever it is where I may, with good reason, lose interest the very next moment.”

[ 33 ] When raising a choleric child, one must ensure, above all else, that this child is able to develop and express his or her strong inner powers. It is necessary to familiarize the child with the things in external life that can cause difficulties. One must not beat the choleric temperament out of the child—that is, try to “correct” it—but rather present the child with precisely those situations in which it must exert its strength, situations in which the expression of the choleric temperament is justified. The choleric child must learn, out of an inner necessity, to grapple with the objective world. One should therefore strive to arrange the environment in such a way that this choleric temperament can find outlet in having to overcome obstacles, and it will be particularly beneficial if the child can overcome these obstacles in small matters, in trifles—if the child is allowed to do something that requires immense effort, where the choleric temperament is particularly on display, but in reality the facts prevail, and the expended energy shatters into nothingness. As a result, the child develops a respect for the power of the facts that stand in opposition to what the choleric temperament seeks to express.

[ 34 ] Here, too, there is another approach through which the choleric temperament can be nurtured. Above all, it is necessary that we awaken a sense of reverence and admiration by interacting with the child in a way that truly inspires such respect, showing the child: We can overcome the difficulties that the child cannot yet overcome on their own. A sense of awe and respect—particularly for what the educator can accomplish, for what they are able to overcome in the face of the difficulties posed by the subject matter—this is the right approach; respect for the educator’s abilities—this is the path by which one can best reach the choleric child in the educational process.

[ 35 ] How, then, should we raise a melancholic child? It is of particular importance here not to rely on the idea that we can talk the child out of his sorrow and pain or otherwise take them away, for he has a predisposition toward this inward withdrawal precisely because his physical constitution presents obstacles to him. We must build upon what is already there; we must nurture what is already present. If, as educators, we are to approach this child, we must once again find the point where we can make a connection. Here, too, there is one key point: Above all, we must show the melancholic child how human beings are capable of suffering in the first place. One must not, however, think that one needs to amuse the child or try to cheer it up. If you lead the child to a place where it can find pleasure, it will only become more and more withdrawn. If, on the other hand, there is a person standing beside the melancholic child who—in contrast to the child’s grief-stricken tendencies, which are rooted solely within—knows how to speak authentically about the pain and suffering that the outside world has caused them, then the melancholic child will be uplifted by this shared experience, by this empathy for legitimate pain. A person who, through the emotion and feeling conveyed in their story, can make it clear that they have been tested by fate—such a person is a blessing to a melancholic child.

[ 36 ] Even in what we, so to speak, prepare for the child, we should not ignore the child’s natural inclinations, but rather regard them as real and genuine and allow the child to act on them. Therefore, it is helpful—as strange as it may sound—to create real obstacles and barriers for this child, so that it can experience justified suffering and pain in certain situations. The best upbringing for such a child is when the focus on inner feelings of suffering and grief is diverted so that the predisposition that is already present can be ignited by external circumstances. The child should learn to stand tall and to endure external obstacles and hindrances; then the child—the child’s soul—will gradually find a new direction.

[ 37 ] We can apply this principle again when it comes to self-education. We must always allow our innate aptitudes and the strengths within us to express themselves fully, rather than artificially suppressing them. If, for example, the choleric temperament manifests itself so strongly within us that it becomes an obstacle, we must allow this inner force to run its course by seeking out situations in life where, in a certain sense, we can expend our energy—where we can see how our forces lead to nothing—specifically in matters that are insignificant and unimportant. If, on the other hand, we are melancholic, we would do well to seek out the external, legitimate pains and sufferings of life so that we have the opportunity to give free rein to our melancholy in the outside world; then we will find our bearings.

[ 38 ] Let us now turn to the phlegmatic temperament. Here, too, it would be the worst possible approach—it would be completely wrong—to try to rouse a person who is content with themselves, or to think that we can simply instill or teach them certain interests. We must, once again, take into account what they already have. There is one thing to which the phlegmatic person will always be attached, namely the child. If, through wise upbringing, we can provide what the child needs in their environment, we will be able to achieve a great deal. It is essential for the phlegmatic child to have plenty of interaction with other children. They will not take an easy interest in objects or events at all. It is only through that peculiar suggestive effect—through the interests of others—that it is possible to kindle their interest. Awakening their own interest by witnessing the interest of others—this applies to the upbringing of the phlegmatic child, just as empathy and sharing in the human fate of others applies to the melancholic. Once again: being inspired by the interests of others—that is the proper educational method for the phlegmatic child. Through this, truly remarkable achievements can sometimes be made with the young child.

[ 39 ] But one can also take charge of one’s self-education in later life in this way—when one notices that the phlegmatic temperament is striving to express itself in a one-sided manner—by trying to observe people and their interests. One thing, however, is possible: As long as one is still able to use one’s intellect and reason, one can seek out objects and events that are utterly indifferent—toward which it is justified to be phlegmatic. Once again, we have seen how, in the educational method based on spiritual science, we build upon what one has, and not upon what one lacks.

[ 40 ] Thus we see that it is precisely when we turn to the intimate aspects of life—precisely in these intimate aspects of life—that spiritual science reveals its practical application, its eminently practical side. One could gain an infinite amount of wisdom about the art of living by acquiring this realistic knowledge from spiritual science. When it comes to coping with life, we must eavesdrop on life’s secrets, and these lie beyond the sensory realm. We also had to seek these secrets of human temperaments beyond the sensory realm. Only true spiritual science is capable of explaining and fathoming such things as the secrets of human temperaments in such a way that we can apply this spiritual science so that it serves as a healing and true blessing for life—for life when it is young, and for life when it is older.

[ 41 ] If human beings are humanity’s greatest mystery, and if we insist on having this mystery of humanity solved for us, then we must turn to spiritual science, which alone can solve it for us. It is not only human beings in general who are a mystery to us, but every single person we encounter in life; every new individual presents us with a new mystery, one that we cannot, however, fathom simply by thinking about it with our intellect. How do we solve the mystery that each individual presents to us? We solve it by approaching this person in such a way that harmony arises between us and them. In our empathy, in our love, in the way we relate to each individual, and in our behavior, we should learn the art of living through spiritual science. If we were to allow life and love to flow into our feelings and sensibilities, human life would be a beautiful expression of the fruits of this spiritual science. In every respect, we come to know the individual human being when we perceive them through the lens of spiritual science. Thus, we even learn to recognize the child: we gradually learn to respect and appreciate the unique and enigmatic aspects of individuality in the child, and we also learn how to treat this individuality; furthermore, we learn how we should relate to people in other aspects of life. This is why spiritual science becomes so fruitful in life: because it does not, so to speak, merely provide general intellectual instructions, but guides us in our behavior toward others, to solve the mysteries that need to be solved: to love people as we must love them, not merely by fathom them intellectually, but by allowing them to fully affect us, letting our feelings and our love be inspired by our insights from spiritual science.

[ 42 ] These are insights that can penetrate every fiber of the individual human being, that can govern every single action in life. Thus—and this became particularly evident in this examination of the intimate characteristics of human beings, the temperaments—spiritual science becomes a guide to the true art of living. Thus, the most beautiful things are kindled between one person and another when we look into a person’s face and understand not only how to fathom the mystery but also how to live it: to allow love to flow from one individual to another. Spiritual science does not need theoretical proofs; life itself provides its proofs. The spiritual scientist knows that one can always come up with arguments “for” and “against” everything. The true proofs are those that life itself provides, and life can show us at every turn the truth of what we think when we view human beings through the lens of spiritual science, for this perspective consists of a harmonious understanding, infused with life, that penetrates even the deepest mysteries of existence.