Part 8 (1/2)

In the old method, the proof of discipline attained lay in a fact entirely contrary to this; that is, in the immobility and silence of the child himself. Immobility and silence which _hindered_ the child from learning to move with grace and with discernment, and left him so untrained, that, when he found himself in an environment where the benches and chairs were not nailed to the floor, he was not able to move about without overturning the lighter pieces of furniture. In the ”Children's Houses” the child will not only learn to move gracefully and properly, but will come to understand the reason for such deportment.

The ability to move which he acquires here will be of use to him all his life. While he is still a child, he becomes capable of conducting himself correctly, and yet, with perfect freedom.

The Directress of the Casa dei Bambini at Milan constructed under one of the windows a long, narrow shelf upon which she placed the little tables containing the metal geometric forms used in the first lessons in design. But the shelf was too narrow, and it often happened that the children in selecting the pieces which they wished to use would allow one of the little tables to fall to the floor, thus upsetting with great noise all the metal pieces which it held. The directress intended to have the shelf changed, but the carpenter was slow in coming, and while waiting for him she discovered that the children had learned to handle these materials so carefully that in spite of the narrow and sloping shelf, the little tables no longer fell to the floor.

The children, by carefully directing their movements, had overcome the defect in this piece of furniture. The simplicity or imperfection of external objects often serves to develop the _activity_ and the dexterity of the pupils. This has been one of the surprises of our method as applied in the ”Children's Houses.”

It all seems very logical, and now that it has been actually tried and put into words, it will no doubt seem to everyone as simple as the egg of Christopher Columbus.

CHAPTER V.

DISCIPLINE

The pedagogical method of _observation_ has for its base the _liberty_ of the child; and _liberty is activity_.

Discipline must come through liberty. Here is a great principle which is difficult for followers of common-school methods to understand. How shall one obtain _discipline_ in a cla.s.s of free children? Certainly in our system, we have a concept of discipline very different from that commonly accepted. If discipline is founded upon liberty, the discipline itself must necessarily be _active_. We do not consider an individual disciplined only when he has been rendered as artificially silent as a mute and as immovable as a paralytic. He is an individual _annihilated_, not _disciplined_.

We call an individual disciplined when he is master of himself, and can, therefore, regulate his own conduct when it shall be necessary to follow some rule of life. Such a concept of _active discipline_ is not easy either to comprehend or to apply. But certainly it contains a great _educational_ principle, very different from the old-time absolute and undiscussed coercion to immobility.

A special technique is necessary to the teacher who is to lead the child along such a path of discipline, if she is to make it possible for him to continue in this way all his life, advancing indefinitely toward perfect self-mastery. Since the child now learns to _move_ rather than to _sit still_, he prepares himself not for the school, but for life; for he becomes able, through habit and through practice, to perform easily and correctly the simple acts of social or community life. The discipline to which the child habituates himself here is, in its character, not limited to the school environment but extends to society.

The liberty of the child should have as its _limit_ the collective interest; as its _form_, what we universally consider good breeding. We must, therefore, check in the child whatever offends or annoys others, or whatever tends toward rough or ill-bred acts. But all the rest,--every manifestation having a useful scope,--whatever it be, and under whatever form it expresses itself, must not only be permitted, but must be _observed_ by the teacher. Here lies the essential point; from her scientific preparation, the teacher must bring not only the capacity, but the desire, to observe natural phenomena. In our system, she must become a pa.s.sive, much more than an active, influence, and her pa.s.sivity shall be composed of anxious scientific curiosity, and of absolute _respect_ for the phenomenon which she wishes to observe. The teacher must understand and _feel_ her position of _observer_: the _activity_ must lie in the _phenomenon_.

Such principles a.s.suredly have a place in schools for little children who are exhibiting the first psychic manifestations of their lives. We cannot know the consequences of suffocating a _spontaneous action_ at the time when the child is just beginning to be active: perhaps we suffocate _life itself_. Humanity shows itself in all its intellectual splendour during this tender age as the sun shows itself at the dawn, and the flower in the first unfolding of the petals; and we must _respect_ religiously, reverently, these first indications of individuality. If any educational act is to be efficacious, it will be only that which tends to _help_ toward the complete unfolding of this life. To be thus helpful it is necessary rigorously to avoid the _arrest_ of _spontaneous movements and the imposition of arbitrary tasks_. It is of course understood, that here we do not speak of useless or dangerous acts, for these must be _suppressed_, _destroyed_.

Actual training and practice are necessary to fit for this method teachers who have not been prepared for scientific observation, and such training is especially necessary to those who have been accustomed to the old domineering methods of the common school. My experiences in training teachers for the work in my schools did much to convince me of the great distance between these methods and those. Even an intelligent teacher, who understands the principle, finds much difficulty in putting it into practice. She can not understand that her new task is apparently _pa.s.sive_, like that of the astronomer who sits immovable before the telescope while the worlds whirl through s.p.a.ce. This idea, that _life acts of itself_, and that in order to study it, to divine its secrets or to direct its activity, it is necessary to observe it and to understand it without intervening--this idea, I say, is very difficult for anyone to _a.s.similate_ and _to put into practice_.

The teacher has too thoroughly learned to be the one free activity of the school; it has for too long been virtually her duty to suffocate the activity of her pupils. When in the first days in one of the ”Children's Houses” she does not obtain order and silence, she looks about her embarra.s.sed as if asking the public to excuse her, and calling upon those present to testify to her innocence. In vain do we repeat to her that the disorder of the first moment is necessary. And finally, when we oblige her to do nothing but _watch_, she asks if she had not better resign, since she is no longer a teacher.

But when she begins to find it her duty to discern which are the acts to hinder and which are those to observe, the teacher of the old school feels a great void within herself and begins to ask if she will not be inferior to her new task. In fact, she who is not prepared finds herself for a long time abashed and impotent; whereas the broader the teacher's scientific culture and practice in experimental psychology, the sooner will come for her the marvel of unfolding life, and her interest in it.

Notari, in his novel, ”My Millionaire Uncle,” which is a criticism of modern customs, gives with that quality of vividness which is peculiar to him, a most eloquent example of the old-time methods of discipline.

The ”uncle” when a child was guilty of such a number of disorderly acts that he practically upset the whole town, and in desperation he was confined in a school. Here ”Fufu,” as he was called, experiences his first wish to be kind, and feels the first moving of his soul when he is near to the pretty little Fufetta, and learns that she is hungry and has no luncheon.

”He glanced around, looked at Fufetta, rose, took his little lunch basket, and without saying a word placed it in her lap.

”Then he ran away from her, and, without knowing why he did so, hung his head and burst into tears.

”My uncle did not know how to explain to himself the reason for this sudden outburst.

”He had seen for the first time two kind eyes full of sad tears, and he had felt moved within himself, and at the same time a great shame had rushed over him; the shame of eating near to one who had nothing to eat.

”Not knowing how to express the impulse of his heart, nor what to say in asking her to accept the offer of his little basket, nor how to invent an excuse to justify his offering it to her, he remained the victim of this first deep movement of his little soul.

”Fufetta, all confused, ran to him quickly. With great gentleness she drew away the arm in which he had hidden his face.

”'Do not cry, Fufu,' she said to him softly, almost as if pleading with him. She might have been speaking to her beloved rag doll, so motherly and intent was her little face, and so full of gentle authority, her manner.