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 class 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 passive, much more than an active, influence, and her
passivity 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 assuredly 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
_passive_, like that of the astronomer who sits immovable before the
telescope while the worlds whirl through space. 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 _assimilate_ 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
embarrassed 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.
"Then the little girl kissed him, and my uncle yielding to the influence
which had filled his heart, put his arms around her neck, and, still
silent and sobbing, kissed her in return. At last, sighing deeply, he
wiped from his face and eyes the damp traces of his emotion, and smiled
again.
"A strident voice called out from the other end of the courtyard:
"'Here, here, you two down there--be quick with you; inside, both of
you!'
"It was the teacher, the guardian. She crushed that first gentle
stirring in the soul of a rebel with the same blind brutality that she
would have used toward two children engaged in a fight.
"It was the time for all to go back into the school--and everybody had
to obey the rule."
Thus I saw my teachers act in the first days of my practice school in
the "Children's Houses." They almost involuntarily recalled the children
to immobility without _observing_ and _distinguishing_ the nature of
the movements they repressed. There was, for example, a little girl who
gathered her companions about her and then, in the midst of them, began
to talk and gesticulate. The teacher at once ran to her, took hold of
her arms, and told her to be still; but I, observing the child, saw that
she was playing at being teacher or mother to the others, and teaching
them the morning prayer, the invocation to the saints, and the sign of
the cross: she already showed herself as a _director_. Another child,
who continually made disorganised and misdirected movements, and who was
considered abnormal, one day, with an expression of intense attention,
set about moving the tables. Instantly they were upon him to make him
stand still because he made too much noise. Yet this was one of the
_first manifestations_, in this child, of _movements_ that were
_co-ordinated_ and _directed toward a useful end_, and it was therefore
an action that should have been respected. In fact, after this the child
began to be quiet and happy like the others whenever he had any small
objects to move about and to arrange upon his desk.
It often happened that while the directress replaced in the boxes
various materials that had been used, a child would draw near, picking
up the objects, with the evident desire of imitating the teacher. The
first impulse was to send the child back to her place with the remark,
"Let it alone; go to your seat." Yet the child expressed by this act a
desire to be useful; the time, with her, was ripe for a lesson in order.
One day, the children had gathered themselves, laughing and talking,
into a circle about a basin of water containing some floating toys. We
had in the school a little boy barely two and a half years old. He had
been left outside the circle, alone, and it was easy to see that he was
filled with intense curiosity. I watched him from a distance with great
interest; he first drew near to the other children and tried to force
his way among them, but he was not strong enough to do this, and he then
stood looking about him. The expression of thought on his little face
was intensely interesting. I wish that I had had a camera so that I
might have photographed him. His eye lighted upon a little chair, and
evidently he made up his mind to place it behind the group of children
and then to climb up on it. He began to move toward the chair, his face
illuminated with hope, but at that moment the teacher seized him
brutally (or, perhaps, she would have said, gently) in her arms, and
lifting him up above the heads of the other children showed him the
basin of water, saying, "Come, poor little one, you shall see too!"
Undoubtedly the child, seeing the floating toys, did not experience the
joy that he was about to feel through conquering the obstacle with his
own force. The sight of those objects could be of no advantage to him,
while his intelligent efforts would have developed his inner powers.
The teacher _hindered_ the child, in this case, from educating himself,
without giving him any compensating good in return. The little fellow
had been about to feel himself a conqueror, and he found himself held
within two imprisoning arms, impotent. The expression of joy, anxiety,
and hope, which had interested me so much faded from his face and left
on it the stupid expression of the child who knows that others will act
for him.
When the teachers were weary of my observations, they began to allow the
children to do whatever they pleased. I saw children with their feet on
the tables, or with their fingers in their noses, and no intervention
was made to correct them. I saw others push their companions, and I saw
dawn in the faces of these an expression of violence; and not the
slightest attention on the part of the teacher. Then I had to intervene
to show with what absolute rigour it is necessary to hinder, and little
by little suppress, all those things which we must not do, so that the
child may come to discern clearly between good and evil.
If discipline is to be lasting, its foundations must be laid in this way
and these first days are the most difficult for the directress. The
first idea that the child must acquire, in order to be actively
disciplined, is that of the difference between _good_ and _evil_; and
the task of the educator lies in seeing that the child does not confound
_good_ with _immobility_, and _evil_ with _activity_, as often happens
in the case of the old-time discipline. And all this because our aim is
to discipline _for activity_, _for work_, _for good_; not for
_immobility_, not for _passivity_, not for _obedience_.
A room in which all the children move about usefully, intelligently, and
voluntarily, without committing any rough or rude act, would seem to me
a classroom very well disciplined indeed.
To seat the children in rows, as in the common schools, to assign to
each little one a place, and to propose that they shall sit thus quietly
observant of the order of the whole class as an assemblage--this can be
attained later, as _the starting place_ of _collective education_. For
also, in life, it sometimes happens that we must all remain seated and
quiet; when, for example, we attend a concert or a lecture. And we know
that even to us, as grown people, this costs no little sacrifice.
If we can, when we have established individual discipline, arrange the
children, sending each one to _his own place_, _in order_, trying to
make them understand the idea that thus placed they look well, and that
it is a _good thing_ to be thus placed in order, that it is a _good and
pleasing arrangement in the room_, this ordered and tranquil adjustment
of theirs--then their remaining in their places, _quiet_ and _silent_,
is the result of a species of _lesson_, not an _imposition_. To make
them understand the idea, without calling their attention too forcibly
to the practice, to have them _assimilate a principle of collective
order_--that is the important thing.
If, after they have understood this idea, they rise, speak, change to
another place, they no longer do this without knowing and without
thinking, but they do it because they _wish_ to rise, to speak, etc.;
that is, from that _state of repose and order_, well understood, they
depart in order to undertake _some voluntary action_; and knowing that
there are actions which are prohibited, this will give them a new
impulse to remember to discriminate between good and evil.
The movements of the children from the state of order become always more
co-ordinated and perfect with the passing of the days; in fact, they
learn to reflect upon their own acts. Now (with the idea of order
understood by the children) the observation of the way in which the
children pass from the first disordered movements to those which are
spontaneous and ordered--this is the book of the teacher; this is the
book which must inspire her actions; it is the only one in which she
must read and study if she is to become a real educator.
For the child with such exercises makes, to a certain extent, a
selection of his own _tendencies_, which were at first confused in the
unconscious disorder of his movements. It is remarkable how clearly
_individual differences_ show themselves, if we proceed in this way; the
child, conscious and free, _reveals himself_.
There are those who remain quietly in their seats, apathetic, or drowsy;
others who leave their places to quarrel, to fight, or to overturn the
various blocks and toys, and then there are those others who set out to
fulfil a definite and determined act--moving a chair to some particular
spot and sitting down in it, moving one of the unused tables and
arranging upon it the game they wish to play.
Our idea of liberty for the child cannot be the simple concept of
liberty we use in the observation of plants, insects, etc.
The child, because of the peculiar characteristics of helplessness with
which he is born, and because of his qualities as a social individual is
circumscribed by _bonds_ which _limit_ his activity.
An educational method that shall have _liberty_ as its basis must
intervene to help the child to a conquest of these various obstacles. In
other words, his training must be such as shall help him to diminish, in
a rational manner, the _social bonds_, which limit his activity.
Little by little, as the child grows in such an atmosphere, his
spontaneous manifestations will become more _clear, with the clearness
of truth_, revealing his nature. For all these reasons, the first form
of educational intervention must tend to lead the child toward
independence.
INDEPENDENCE
No one can be free unless he is independent: therefore, the first,
active manifestations of the child's individual liberty must be so
guided that through this activity he may arrive at independence. Little
children, from the moment in which they are weaned, are making their way
toward independence.
What is a weaned child? In reality it is a child that has become
independent of the mother's breast. Instead of this one source of
nourishment he will find various kinds of food; for him the means of
existence are multiplied, and he can to some extent make a selection of
his food, whereas he was at first limited absolutely to one form of
nourishment.
Nevertheless, he is still dependent, since he is not yet able to walk,
and cannot wash and dress himself, and since he is not yet able to _ask_
for things in a language which is clear and easily understood. He is
still in this period to a great extent the _slave_ of everyone. By the
age of three, however, the child should have been able to render himself
to a great extent _independent_ and free.
That we have not yet thoroughly assimilated the highest concept of the
term _independence_, is due to the fact that the social form in which we
live is still _servile_. In an age of civilisation where servants exist,
the concept of that _form of life_ which is _independence_ cannot take
root or develop freely. Even so in the time of slavery, the concept of
liberty was distorted and darkened.
Our servants are not our dependents, rather it is we who are dependent
upon them.
It is not possible to accept universally as a part of our social
structure such a deep human error without feeling the general effects of
it in the form of moral inferiority. We often believe ourselves to be
independent simply because no one commands us, and because we command
others; but the nobleman who needs to call a servant to his aid is
really a dependent through his own inferiority. The paralytic who
cannot take off his boots because of a pathological fact, and the prince
who dare not take them off because of a social fact, are in reality
reduced to the same condition.
Any nation that accepts the idea of servitude and believes that it is an
advantage for man to be served by man, admits servility as an instinct,
and indeed we all too easily lend ourselves to _obsequious service_,
giving to it such complimentary names as _courtesy_, _politeness_,
_charity_.
In reality, _he who is served is limited_ in his independence. This
concept will be the foundation of the dignity of the man of the future;
"I do not wish to be served, _because_ I am not an impotent." And this
idea must be gained before men can feel themselves to be really free.
Any pedagogical action, if it is to be efficacious in the training of
little children, must tend to _help_ the children to advance upon this
road of independence. We must help them to learn to walk without
assistance, to run, to go up and down stairs, to lift up fallen objects,
to dress and undress themselves, to bathe themselves, to speak
distinctly, and to express their own needs clearly. We must give such
help as shall make it possible for children to achieve the satisfaction
of their own individual aims and desires. All this is a part of
education for independence.
We habitually _serve_ children; and this is not only an act of servility
toward them, but it is dangerous, since it tends to suffocate their
useful, spontaneous activity. We are inclined to believe that children
are like puppets, and we wash them and feed them as if they were dolls.
We do not stop to think that the child _who does not do, does not know
how to do_. He must, nevertheless, do these things, and nature has
furnished him with the physical means for carrying on these various
activities, and with the intellectual means for learning how to do them.
And our duty toward him is, in every case, that of _helping him_ to make
a conquest of such useful acts as nature intended he should perform for
himself. The mother who feeds her child without making the least effort
to teach him to hold the spoon for himself and to try to find his mouth
with it, and who does not at least eat herself, inviting the child to
look and see how she does it, is not a good mother. She offends the
fundamental human dignity of her son,--she treats him as if he were a
doll, when he is, instead, a man confided by nature to her care.
Who does not know that to _teach_ a child to feed himself, to wash and
dress himself, is a much more tedious and difficult work, calling for
infinitely greater patience, than feeding, washing and dressing the
child one's self? But the former is the work of an educator, the latter
is the easy and inferior work of a servant. Not only is it easier for
the mother, but it is very dangerous for the child, since it doses the
way and puts obstacles in the path of the life which is developing.
The ultimate consequences of such an attitude on the part of the parent
may be very serious indeed. The grand gentleman who has too many
servants not only grows constantly more and more dependent upon them,
until he is, finally, actually their slave, but his muscles grow weak
through inactivity and finally lose their natural capacity for action.
The mind of one who does not work for that which he needs, but commands
it from others, grows heavy and sluggish. If such a man should some day
awaken to the fact of his inferior position and should wish to regain
once more his own independence, he would find that he had no longer the
force to do so. These dangers should be presented to the parents of the
privileged social classes, if their children are to use independently
and for right the special power which is theirs. Needless help is an
actual hindrance to the development of natural forces.
Oriental women wear trousers, it is true, and European women,
petticoats; but the former, even more than the latter, are taught as a
part of their education the art of _not moving_. Such an attitude toward
woman leads to the fact that man works not only for himself, but for
woman. And the woman wastes her natural strength and activity and
languishes in slavery. She is not only maintained and served, she is,
besides, diminished, belittled, in that individuality which is hers by
right of her existence as a human being. As an individual member of
society, she is a cypher. She is rendered deficient in all those powers
and resources which tend to the preservation of life. Let me illustrate
this:
A carriage containing a father, mother, and child, is going along a
country road. An armed brigand stops the carriage with the well-known
phrase, "Your money or your life." Placed in this situation, the three
persons in the carriage act in very different ways. The man, who is a
trained marksman, and who is armed with a revolver, promptly draws, and
confronts the assassin. The boy, armed only with the freedom and
lightness of his own legs, cries out and betakes himself to flight. The
woman, who is not armed in any way whatever, neither artificially nor
naturally (since her limbs, not trained for activity, are hampered by
her skirts), gives a frightened gasp, and sinks down unconscious.
These three diverse reactions are in close relation to the state of
liberty and independence of each of the three individuals. The swooning
woman is she whose cloak is carried for her by attentive cavaliers, who
are quick to pick up any fallen object that she may be spared all
exertion.
The peril of servilism and dependence lies not only in that "useless
consuming of life," which leads to helplessness, but in the development
of individual traits which indicate all too plainly a regrettable
perversion and degeneration of the normal man. I refer to the
domineering and tyrannical behaviour with examples of which we are all
only too familiar. The domineering habit develops side by side with
helplessness. It is the outward sign of the state of feeling of him who
conquers through the work of others. Thus it often happens that the
master is a tyrant toward his servant. It is the spirit of the
task-master toward the slave.
Let us picture to ourselves a clever and proficient workman, capable,
not only of producing much and perfect work, but of giving advice in his
workshop, because of his ability to control and direct the general
activity of the environment in which he works. The man who is thus
master of his environment will be able to smile before the anger of
others, showing that great mastery of himself which comes from
consciousness of his ability to do things. We should not, however, be in
the least surprised to know that in his home this capable workman
scolded his wife if the soup was not to his taste, or not ready at the
appointed time. In his home, he is no longer the capable workman; the
skilled workman here is the wife, who serves him and prepares his food
for him. He is a serene and pleasant man where he is powerful through
being efficient, but is domineering where he is served. Perhaps if he
should learn how to prepare his soup he might become a perfect man! The
man who, through his own efforts, is able to perform all the actions
necessary for his comfort and development in life, conquers himself, and
in doing so multiplies his abilities and perfects himself as an
individual.
We must make of the future generation, _powerful men_, and by that we
mean men who are independent and free.
ABOLITION OF PRIZES AND OF EXTERNAL FORMS OF PUNISHMENT
Once we have accepted and established such principles, the abolition of
prizes and external forms of punishment will follow naturally. Man,
disciplined through liberty, begins to desire the true and only prize
which will never belittle or disappoint him,--the birth of human power
and liberty within that inner life of his from which his activities must
spring.
In my own experience I have often marvelled to see how true this is.
During our first months in the "Children's Houses," the teachers had not
yet learned to put into practice the pedagogical principles of liberty
and discipline. One of them, especially, busied herself, when I was
absent, in _remedying_ my ideas by introducing a few of those methods to
which she had been accustomed. So, one day when I came in unexpectedly,
I found one of the most intelligent of the children wearing a large
Greek cross of silver, hung from his neck by a fine piece of white
ribbon, while another child was seated in an armchair which had been
conspicuously placed in the middle of the room.
The first child had been rewarded, the second was being punished. The
teacher, at least while I was present, did not interfere in any way,
and the situation remained as I had found it. I held my peace, and
placed myself where I might observe quietly.
The child with the cross was moving back and forth, carrying the objects
with which he had been working, from his table to that of the teacher,
and bringing others in their place. He was busy and happy. As he went
back and forth he passed by the armchair of the child who was being
punished. The silver cross slipped from his neck and fell to the floor,
and the child in the armchair picked it up, dangled it on its white
ribbon, looking at it from all sides, and then said to his companion:
"Do you see what you have dropped?" The child turned and looked at the
trinket with an air of indifference; his expression seemed to say;
"Don't interrupt me," his voice replied "I don't care." "Don't you care,
really?" said the punished one calmly. "Then I will put it on myself."
And the other replied, "Oh, yes, put it on," in a tone that seemed to
add, "and leave me in peace!"
The boy in the armchair carefully arranged the ribbon so that the cross
lay upon the front of his pink apron where he could admire its
brightness and its pretty form, then he settled himself more comfortably
in his little chair and rested his arms with evident pleasure upon the
arms of the chair. The affair remained thus, and was quite just. The
dangling cross could satisfy the child who was being punished, but not
the active child, content and happy with his work.
One day I took with me on a visit to another of the "Children's Houses"
a lady who praised the children highly and who, opening a box she had
brought, showed them a number of shining medals, each tied with a bright
red ribbon. "The mistress," she said "will put these on the breasts of
those children who are the cleverest and the best."
As I was under no obligation to instruct this visitor in my methods, I
kept silence, and the teacher took the box. At that moment, a most
intelligent little boy of four, who was seated quietly at one of the
little tables, wrinkled his forehead in an act of protest and cried out
over and over again;--"Not to the boys, though, not to the boys!"
What a revelation! This little fellow already knew that he stood among
the best and strongest of his class, although no one had ever revealed
this fact to him, and he did not wish to be offended by this prize. Not
knowing how to defend his dignity, he invoked the superior quality of
his masculinity!
As to punishments, we have many times come in contact with children who
disturbed the others without paying any attention to our corrections.
Such children were at once examined by the physician. When the case
proved to be that of a normal child, we placed one of the little tables
in a corner of the room, and in this way isolated the child; having him
sit in a comfortable little armchair, so placed that he might see his
companions at work, and giving him those games and toys to which he was
most attracted. This isolation almost always succeeded in calming the
child; from his position he could see the entire assembly of his
companions, and the way in which they carried on their work was an
_object lesson_ much more efficacious than any words of the teacher
could possibly have been. Little by little, he would come to see the
advantages of being one of the company working so busily before his
eyes, and he would really wish to go back and do as the others did. We
have in this way led back again to discipline all the children who at
first seemed to rebel against it. The isolated child was always made the
object of special care, almost as if he were ill. I myself, when I
entered the room, went first of all directly to him, caressing him, as
if he were a very little child. Then I turned my attention to the
others, interesting myself in their work, asking questions about it as
if they had been little men. I do not know what happened in the soul of
these children whom we found it necessary to discipline, but certainly
the conversion was always very complete and lasting. They showed great
pride in learning how to work and how to conduct themselves, and always
showed a very tender affection for the teacher and for me.
THE BIOLOGICAL CONCEPT OF LIBERTY IN PEDAGOGY
From a biological point of view, the concept of _liberty_ in the
education of the child in his earliest years must be understood as
demanding those conditions adapted to the most favourable _development_
of his entire individuality. So, from the physiological side as well as
from the mental side, this includes the free development of the brain.
The educator must be as one inspired by a deep _worship of life_, and
must, through this reverence, _respect_, while he observes with human
interest, the _development_ of the child life. Now, child life is not an
abstraction; _it is the life of individual children_. There exists only
one real biological manifestation: the _living individual_; and toward
single individuals, one by one observed, education must direct itself.
By education must be understood the active _help_ given to the normal
expansion of the life of the child. The child is a body which grows, and
a soul which develops,--these two forms, physiological and psychic, have
one eternal font, life itself. We must neither mar nor stifle the
mysterious powers which lie within these two forms of growth, but we
must _await from them_ the manifestations which we know will succeed one
another.
_Environment_ is undoubtedly a _secondary_ factor in the phenomena of
life; it can modify in that it can help or hinder, but it can never
_create_. The modern theories of evolution, from Naegeli to De Vries,
consider throughout the development of the two biological branches,
animal and vegetable, this interior factor as the essential force in the
transformation of the species and in the transformation of the
individual. The origins of the _development_, both in the species and in
the individual, _lie within_. The child does not grow _because_ he is
nourished, _because_ he breathes, _because_ he is placed in conditions
of temperature to which he is adapted; he grows because the potential
life within him develops, making itself visible; because the fruitful
germ from which his life has come develops itself according to the
biological destiny which was fixed for it by heredity. Adolescence does
not come _because_ the child laughs, or dances, or does gymnastic
exercises, or is well nourished; but because he has arrived at that
particular physiological state. Life makes itself manifest,--life
creates, life gives:--and is in its turn held within certain limits and
bound by certain laws which are insuperable. The _fixed_ characteristics
of the species do not change,--they can only vary.
This concept, so brilliantly set forth by De Vries in his Mutation
Theory, illustrates also the limits of education. We can act on the
_variations_ which are in relation to the environment, and whose limits
vary slightly in the species and in the individual, but we cannot act
upon the _mutations_. The mutations are bound by some mysterious tie to
the very font of life itself, and their power rises superior to the
modifying elements of the environment.
A species, for example, cannot _mutate_ or change into another species
through any phenomenon of _adaptation_, as, on the other hand, a great
human genius cannot be suffocated by any limitation, nor by any false
form of education.
The _environment_ acts more strongly upon the individual life the less
fixed and strong this individual life may be. But environment can act in
two opposite senses, favouring life, and stifling it. Many species of
palm, for example, are splendid in the tropical regions, because the
climatic conditions are favourable to their development, but many
species of both animals and plants have become extinct in regions to
which they were not able to adapt themselves.
Life is a superb goddess, always advancing, overthrowing the obstacles
which environment places in the way of her triumph. This is the basic
or fundamental truth,--whether it be a question of species or of
individuals, there persists always the forward march of those victorious
ones in whom this mysterious life-force is strong and vital.
It is evident that in the case of humanity, and especially in the case
of our civil humanity, which we call society, the important and
imperative question is that of the _care_, or perhaps we might say, the
_culture_ of human life.