Part 19 (2/2)
The exercise consists in calling attention, when perfect silence has been established, to the ticking of the clock, and to all the little noises not commonly audible to the ear. Finally we call the little ones, one by one from an adjoining room, p.r.o.nouncing each name in a low voice.
In preparing for such an exercise it is necessary to _teach_ the children the real meaning of _silence_.
Toward this end I have several _games_ of _silence_, which help in a surprising way to strengthen the remarkable discipline of our children.
I call the children's attention to myself, telling them to see how silent I can be. I a.s.sume different positions; standing, sitting, and maintain each pose _silently, without movement_. A finger moving can produce a noise, even though it be imperceptible. We may breathe so that we may be heard. But I maintain _absolute_ silence, which is not an easy thing to do. I call a child, and ask him to do as I am doing. He adjusts his feet to a better position, and this makes a noise! He moves an arm, stretching it out upon the arm of his chair; it is a noise. His breathing is not altogether silent, it is not tranquil, absolutely unheard as mine is.
During these manoeuvres on the part of the child, and while my brief comments are followed by intervals of immobility and silence, the other children are watching and listening. Many of them are interested in the fact, which they have never noticed before; namely, that we make so many noises of which we are not conscious, and that there are _degrees of silence_. There is an absolute silence where nothing, _absolutely nothing_ moves. They watch me in amazement when I stand in the middle of the room, so quietly that it is really as if ”I were not.” Then they strive to imitate me, and to do even better. I call attention here and there to a foot that moves, almost inadvertently. The attention of the child is called to every part of his body in an anxious eagerness to attain to immobility.
When the children are trying in this way, there is established a silence very different from that which we carelessly call by that name.
It seems as if life gradually vanishes, and that the room becomes, little by little, empty, as if there were no longer anyone in it. Then we begin to hear the tick-tock of the clock, and this sound seems to grow in intensity as the silence becomes absolute. From without, from the court which before seemed silent, there come varied noises, a bird chirps, a child pa.s.ses. The children sit fascinated by that silence as if by some conquest of their own. ”Here,” says the directress, ”here there is no longer anyone; the children have all gone away.”
Having arrived at that point, we darken the windows, and tell the children to close their eyes, resting their heads upon their hands. They a.s.sume this position, and in the darkness the absolute silence returns.
”Now listen,” we say. ”A soft voice is going to call your name.” Then going to a room behind the children, and standing within the open door, I call in a low voice, lingering over the syllables as if I were calling from across the mountains. This voice, almost occult, seems to reach the heart and to call to the soul of the child. Each one as he is called, lifts his head, opens his eyes as if altogether happy, then rises, silently seeking not to move the chair, and walks on the tips of his toes, so quietly that he is scarcely heard. Nevertheless his step resounds in the silence, and amid the immobility which persists.
Having reached the door, with a joyous face, he leaps into the room, choking back soft outbursts of laughter. Another child may come to hide his face against my dress, another, turning, will watch his companions sitting like statues silent and waiting. The one who is called feels that he is privileged, that he has received a gift, a prize. And yet they know that all will be called, ”beginning with the most silent one in all the room.” So each one tries to merit by his perfect silence the certain call. I once saw a little one of three years try to suffocate a sneeze, and succeed! She held her breath in her little breast, and resisted, coming out victorious. A most surprising effort!
This game delights the little ones beyond measure. Their intent faces, their patient immobility, reveal the enjoyment of a great pleasure. In the beginning, when the soul of the child was unknown to me, I had thought of showing them sweetmeats and little toys, promising to give them to the ones who were _called_, supposing that the gifts would be necessary to persuade the child to make the necessary effort. But I soon found that this was unnecessary.
The children, after they had made the effort necessary to maintain silence, enjoyed the sensation, took pleasure in the _silence_ itself.
They were like s.h.i.+ps safe in a tranquil harbour, happy in having experienced something new, and to have won a victory over themselves.
This, indeed, was their recompense. They _forgot_ the promise of sweets, and no longer cared to take the toys, which I had supposed would attract them. I therefore abandoned that useless means, and saw, with surprise, that the game became constantly more perfect, until even children of three years of age remained immovable in the silence throughout the time required to call the entire forty children out of the room! It was then that I learned that the soul of the child has its own reward, and its peculiar spiritual pleasures. After such exercises it seemed to me that the children came closer to me, certainly they became more obedient, more gentle and sweet. We had, indeed, been isolated from the world, and had pa.s.sed several minutes during which the communion between us was very close, I wis.h.i.+ng for them and calling to them, and they receiving in the perfect silence the voice which was directed personally toward each one of them, crowning each in turn with happiness.
_A Lesson in Silence_
I am about to describe a lesson which _proved_ most successful in teaching the perfect silence to which it is possible to attain. One day as I was about to enter one of the ”Children's Houses,” I met in the court a mother who held in her arms her little baby of four months. The little one was swaddled, as is still the custom among the people of Rome--an infant thus in the swaddling bands is called by us a _pupa_.
This tranquil little one seemed the incarnation of peace. I took her in my arms, where she lay quiet and good. Still holding her I went toward the schoolroom, from which the children now ran to meet me. They always welcomed me thus, throwing their arms about me, clinging to my skirts, and almost tumbling me over in their eagerness. I smiled at them, showing them the ”_pupa_.” They understood and skipped about me looking at me with eyes brilliant with pleasure, but did not touch me through respect for the little one that I held in my arms.
I went into the schoolroom with the children cl.u.s.tered about me. We sat down, I seating myself in a large chair instead of, as usual, in one of their little chairs. In other words, I seated myself solemnly. They looked at my little one with a mixture of tenderness and joy. None of us had yet spoken a word. Finally I said to them, ”I have brought you a little teacher.” Surprised glances and laughter. ”A little teacher, yes, because none of you know how to be quiet as she does.” At this all the children changed their positions and became quiet. ”Yet no one holds his limbs and feet as quietly as she.” Everyone gave closer attention to the position of limbs and feet. I looked at them smiling, ”Yes, but they can never be as quiet as hers. You move a little bit, but she, not at all; none of you can be as quiet as she.” The children looked serious. The idea of the superiority of the little teacher seemed to have reached them. Some of them smiled, and seemed to say with their eyes that the swaddling bands deserved all the merit. ”Not one of you can be silent, voiceless as she.” General silence. ”It is not possible to be as silent as she, because,--listen to her breathing--how delicate it is; come near to her on your tiptoes.”
Several children rose, and came slowly forward on tiptoe, bending toward the baby. Great silence. ”None of you can breathe so silently as she.”
The children looked about amazed, they had never thought that even when sitting quietly they were making noises, and that the silence of a little babe is more profound than the silence of grown people. They almost ceased to breathe. I rose. ”Go out quietly, quietly,” I said, ”walk on the tips of your toes and make no noise.” Following them I said, ”And yet I still hear some sounds, but she, the baby, walks with me and makes no sound. She goes out silently!” The children smiled. They understood the truth and the jest of my words. I went to the open window, and placed the baby in the arms of the mother who stood watching us.
The little one seemed to have left behind her a subtle charm which enveloped the souls of the children. Indeed, there is in nature nothing more sweet than the silent breathing of a new-born babe. There is an indescribable majesty about this human life which in repose and silence gathers strength and newness of life. Compared to this, Wordsworth's description of the silent peace of nature seems to lose its force. ”What calm, what quiet! The one sound the drip of the suspended oar.” The children, too, felt the poetry and beauty in the peaceful silence of a new-born human life.
CHAPTER XIV
GENERAL NOTES ON THE EDUCATION OF THE SENSES
I do not claim to have brought to perfection the method of sense training as applied to young children. I do believe, however, that it opens a new field for psychological research, promising rich and valuable results.
Experimental psychology has so far devoted its attention to _perfecting the instruments by which the sensations are measured_. No one has attempted the _methodical_ preparation _of the individual for the sensations_. It is my belief that the development of psychometry will owe more to the attention given to the preparation of the _individual_ than to the perfecting of the _instrument_.
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