HOW THE LESSONS SHOULD BE GIVEN
"Let all thy words be counted."
_Dante, Inf., canto_ X.
Given the fact that, through the regime of liberty the pupils can
manifest their natural tendencies in the school, and that with this in
view we have prepared the environment and the materials (the objects
with which the child is to work), the teacher must not limit her action
to _observation_, but must proceed to _experiment_.
In this method the lesson corresponds to an _experiment_. The more fully
the teacher is acquainted with the methods of experimental psychology,
the better will she understand how to give the lesson. Indeed, a special
technique is necessary if the method is to be properly applied. The
teacher must at least have attended the training classes in the
"Children's Houses," in order to acquire a knowledge of the fundamental
principles of the method and to understand their application. The most
difficult portion of this training is that which refers to the method
for discipline.
In the first days of the school the children do not learn the idea of
collective order; this idea follows and comes as a result of those
disciplinary exercises through which the child learns to discern between
good and evil. This being the case, it is evident that, at the outset
the teacher _cannot give_ collective lessons. Such lessons, indeed, will
always be _very rare_, since the children being free are not obliged to
remain in their places quiet and ready to listen to the teacher, or to
watch what she is doing. The collective lessons, in fact, are of very
secondary importance, and have been almost abolished by us.
CHARACTERISTICS OF THE INDIVIDUAL LESSONS:--CONCISENESS, SIMPLICITY,
OBJECTIVITY
The lessons, then, are individual, and _brevity_ must be one of their
chief characteristics. Dante gives excellent advice to teachers when he
says, "Let thy words be counted." The more carefully we cut away useless
words, the more perfect will become the lesson. And in preparing the
lessons which she is to give, the teacher must pay special attention to
this point, counting and weighing the value of the words which she is to
speak.
Another characteristic quality of the lesson in the "Children's Houses"
is its _simplicity_. It must be stripped of all that is not absolute
truth. That the teacher must not lose herself in vain words, is included
in the first quality of conciseness; this second, then, is closely
related to the first: that is, the carefully chosen words must be the
most simple it is possible to find, and must refer to the truth.
The third quality of the lesson is its _objectivity_. The lesson must be
presented in such a way that the personality of the teacher shall
disappear. There shall remain in evidence only the _object_ to which she
wishes to call the attention of the child. This brief and simple lesson
must be considered by the teacher as an explanation of the object and of
the use which the child can make of it.
In the giving of such lessons the fundamental guide must be the _method
of observation_, in which is included and understood the liberty of the
child. So the teacher shall _observe_ whether the child interests
himself in the object, how he is interested in it, for how long, etc.,
even noticing the expression of his face. And she must take great care
not to offend the principles of liberty. For, if she provokes the child
to make an unnatural effort, she will no longer know what is the
_spontaneous_ activity of the child. If, therefore, the lesson
rigorously prepared in this brevity, simplicity and truth is not
understood by the child, is not accepted by him as an explanation of the
object,--the teacher must be warned of two things:--first, not to
_insist_ by repeating the lesson; and second, _not to make the child
feel that he has made a mistake_, or that he is not understood, because
in doing so she will cause him to make an effort to understand, and will
thus alter the natural state which must be used by her in making her
psychological observation. A few examples may serve to illustrate this
point.
Let us suppose, for example, that the teacher wishes to teach to a child
the two colours, red and blue. She desires to attract the attention of
the child to the object. She says, therefore, "Look at this." Then, in
order to teach the colours, she says, showing him the red, "This is
_red_," raising her voice a little and pronouncing the word "red" slowly
and clearly; then showing him the other colour, "This is _blue_." In
order to make sure that the child has understood, she says to him, "Give
me the red,"--"Give me the blue." Let us suppose that the child in
following this last direction makes a mistake. The teacher does not
repeat and does not insist; she smiles, gives the child a friendly
caress and takes away the colours.
Teachers ordinarily are greatly surprised at such simplicity. They often
say, "But everybody knows how to do that!" Indeed, this again is a
little like the egg of Christopher Columbus, but the truth is that not
everyone knows how to do this simple thing (to give a lesson with such
simplicity). To _measure_ one's own activity, to make it conform to
these standards of clearness, brevity and truth, is practically a very
difficult matter. Especially is this true of teachers prepared by the
old-time methods, who have learned to labour to deluge the child with
useless, and often, false words. For example, a teacher who had taught
in the public schools often reverted to collectivity. Now in giving a
collective lesson much importance is necessarily given to the simple
thing which is to be taught, and it is necessary to oblige all the
children to follow the teacher's explanation, when perhaps not all of
them are disposed to give their attention to the particular lesson in
hand. The teacher has perhaps commenced her lesson in this
way:--"Children, see if you can guess what I have in my hand!" She knows
that the children cannot guess, and she therefore attracts their
attention by means of a falsehood. Then she probably says,--"Children,
look out at the sky. Have you ever looked at it before? Have you never
noticed it at night when it is all shining with stars? No! Look at my
apron. Do you know what colour it is? Doesn't it seem to you the same
colour as the sky? Very well then, look at this colour I have in my
hand. It is the same colour as the sky and my apron. It is _blue_. Now
look around you a little and see if you can find something in the room
which is blue. And do you know what colour cherries are, and the colour
of the burning coals in the fireplace, etc., etc."
Now in the mind of the child after he has made the useless effort of
trying to guess there revolves a confused mass of ideas,--the sky, the
apron, the cherries, etc. It will be difficult for him to extract from
all this confusion the idea which it was the scope of the lesson to
make clear to him; namely, the recognition of the two colours, blue and
red. Such a work of selection is almost impossible for the mind of a
child who is not yet able to follow a long discourse.
I remember being present at an arithmetic lesson where the children were
being taught that two and three make five. To this end, the teacher made
use of a counting board having coloured beads strung on its thin wires.
She arranged, for example, two beads on the top line, then on a lower
line three, and at the bottom five beads. I do not remember very clearly
the development of this lesson, but I do know that the teacher found it
necessary to place beside the two beads on the upper wire a little
cardboard dancer with a blue skirt, which she christened on the spot the
name of one of the children in the class, saying, "This is Mariettina."
And then beside the other three beads she placed a little dancer dressed
in a different colour, which she called "Gigina." I do not know exactly
how the teacher arrived at the demonstration of the same, but certainly
she talked for a long time with these little dancers, moving them about,
etc. If _I_ remember the dancers more clearly than I do the arithmetic
process, how must it have been with the children? If by such a method
they were able to learn that two and three make five, they must have
made a tremendous mental effort, and the teacher must have found it
necessary to talk with the little dancers for a long time.
In another lesson a teacher wished to demonstrate to the children the
difference between noise and sound. She began by telling a long story to
the children. Then suddenly someone in league with her knocked noisily
at the door. The teacher stopped and cried out--"What is it! What's
happened! What is the matter! Children, do you know what this person at
the door has done? I can no longer go on with my story, I cannot
remember it any more. I will have to leave it unfinished. Do you know
what has happened? Did you hear! Have you understood? That was a noise,
that is a noise. Oh! I would much rather play with this little baby
(taking up a mandolin which she had dressed up in a table cover). Yes,
dear baby, I had rather play with you. Do you see this baby that I am
holding in my arms?" Several children replied, "It isn't a baby." Others
said, "It's a mandolin." The teacher went on--"No, no, it is a baby,
really a baby. I love this little baby. Do you want me to show you that
it is a baby? Keep very, very quiet then. It seems to me that the baby
is crying. Or, perhaps it is talking, or perhaps it is going to say papa
or mamma." Putting her hand under the cover, she touched the strings of
the mandolin. "There! did you hear the baby cry! Did you hear it call
out?" The children cried out--"It's a mandolin, you touched the strings,
you made it play." The teacher then replied, "Be quiet, be quiet,
children. Listen to what I am going to do." Then she uncovered the
mandolin and began to play on it, saying, "This is sound."
To suppose that the child from such a lesson as this shall come to
understand the difference between noise and sound is ridiculous. The
child will probably get the impression that the teacher wished to play a
joke, and that she is rather foolish, because she lost the thread of her
discourse when she was interrupted by noise, and because she mistook a
mandolin for a baby. Most certainly, it is the figure of the teacher
herself that is impressed upon the child's mind through such a lesson,
and not the object for which the lesson was given.
To obtain a _simple lesson_ from a teacher who has been prepared
according to the ordinary methods, is a very difficult task. I remember
that, after having explained the material fully and in detail, I called
upon one of my teachers to teach, by means of the geometric insets, the
difference between a square and a triangle. The task of the teacher was
simply to fit a square and a triangle of wood into the empty spaces made
to receive them. She should then have shown the child how to follow with
his finger the contours of the wooden pieces and of the frames into
which they fit, saying, meanwhile, "This is a square--this is a
triangle." The teacher whom I had called upon began by having the child
touch the square, saying, "This is a line,--another,--another,--and
another. There are four lines: count them with your little finger and
tell me how many there are. And the corners,--count the corners, feel
them with your little finger. See, there are four corners too. Look at
this piece well. It is a square." I corrected the teacher, telling her
that in this way she was not teaching the child to recognise a form, but
was giving him an idea of sides, of angles, of number, and that this was
a very different thing from that which she was to teach in this lesson.
"But," she said, trying to justify herself, "it is the same thing." It
is not, however, the same thing. It is the geometric analysis and the
mathematics of the thing. It would be possible to have an idea of the
form of the quadrilateral without knowing how to count to four, and,
therefore, without appreciating the number of sides and angles. The
sides and the angles are abstractions which in themselves do not exist;
that which does exist is this piece of wood of a determined form. The
elaborate explanations of the teacher not only confused the child's
mind, but bridged over the distance that lies between the concrete and
the abstract, between the form of an object and the mathematics of the
form.
Let as suppose, I said to the teacher, that an architect shows you a
dome, the form of which interests you. He can follow one of two methods
in showing you his work: he can call attention to the beauty of line,
the harmony of the proportions, and may then take you inside the
building and up into the cupola itself, in order that you may appreciate
the relative proportion of the parts in such a way that your impression
of the cupola as a whole shall be founded on general knowledge of its
parts, or he can have you count the windows, the wide or narrow
cornices, and can, in fact, make you a design showing the construction;
he can illustrate for you the static laws and write out the algebraic
formulae necessary in the calculation of such laws. In the first place,
you will be able to retain in your mind the form of the cupola; in the
second, you will have understood nothing, and will come away with the
impression that the architect fancied himself speaking to a fellow
engineer, instead of to a traveller whose object was to become familiar
with the beautiful things about him. Very much the same thing happens if
we, instead of saying to the child, "This is a square," and by simply
having him touch the contour establish materially the idea of the form,
proceed rather to a geometrical analysis of the contour.
Indeed, we should feel that we are making the child precocious if we
taught him the geometric forms in the plane, presenting at the same time
the mathematical concept, but we do not believe that the child is too
immature to appreciate the simple _form_; on the contrary, it is no
effort for a child to look at a square window or table,--he sees all
these forms about him in his daily life. To call his attention to a
determined form is to clarify the impression he has already received of
it, and to fix the idea of it. It is very much as if, while we are
looking absent-mindedly at the shore of a lake, an artist should
suddenly say to us--"How beautiful the curve is that the shore makes
there under the shade of that cliff." At his words, the view which we
have been observing almost unconsciously, is impressed upon our minds as
if it had been illuminated by a sudden ray of sunshine, and we
experience the joy of having crystallised an impression which we had
before only imperfectly felt.
And such is our duty toward the child: to give a ray of light and to go
on our way.
I may liken the effects of these first lessons to the impressions of one
who walks quietly, happily, through a wood, alone, and thoughtful,
letting his inner life unfold freely. Suddenly, the chime of a distant
bell recalls him to himself, and in that awakening he feels more
strongly than before the peace and beauty of which he has been but dimly
conscious.
To stimulate life,--leaving it then free to develop, to unfold,--herein
lies the first task of the educator. In such a delicate task, a great
art must suggest the moment, and limit the intervention, in order that
we shall arouse no perturbation, cause no deviation, but rather that we
shall help the soul which is coming into the fulness of life, and which
shall live from its _own forces_. This _art_ must accompany the
_scientific method_.
When the teacher shall have touched, in this way, soul for soul, each
one of her pupils, awakening and inspiring the life within them as if
she were an invisible spirit, she will then possess each soul, and a
sign, a single word from her shall suffice; for each one will feel her
in a living and vital way, will recognise her and will listen to her.
There will come a day when the directress herself shall be filled with
wonder to see that all the children obey her with gentleness and
affection, not only ready, but intent, at a sign from her. They will
look toward her who has made them live, and will hope and desire to
receive from her, new life.
Experience has revealed all this, and it is something which forms the
chief source of wonder for those who visit the "Children's Houses."
Collective discipline is obtained as if by magic force. Fifty or sixty
children from two and a half years to six years of age, all together,
and at a single time know how to hold their peace so perfectly that the
absolute silence seems that of a desert. And, if the teacher, speaking
in a low voice, says to the children, "Rise, pass several times around
the room on the tips of your toes and then come back to your place in
silence" all together, as a single person, the children rise, and follow
the order with the least possible noise. The teacher with that one voice
has spoken to each one; and each child hopes from her intervention to
receive some light and inner happiness. And feeling so, he goes forth
intent and obedient like an anxious explorer, following the order in his
own way.
In this matter of discipline we have again something of the egg of
Christopher Columbus. A concert-master must prepare his scholars one by
one in order to draw from their collective work great and beautiful
harmony; and each artist must perfect himself as an individual before he
can be ready to follow the voiceless commands of the master's baton.
How different is the method which we follow in the public schools! It is
as if a concert-master taught the same monotonous and sometimes
discordant rhythm contemporaneously to the most diverse instruments and
voices.
Thus we find that the most disciplined members of society are the men
who are best trained, who have most thoroughly perfected themselves, but
this is the training or the perfection acquired through contact with
other people. The perfection of the collectivity cannot be that material
and brutal solidarity which comes from mechanical organisation alone.
In regard to infant psychology, we are more richly endowed with
prejudices than with actual knowledge bearing upon the subject. We have,
until the present day, wished to dominate the child through force, by
the imposition of external laws, instead of making an interior conquest
of the child, in order to direct him as a human soul. In this way, the
children have lived beside us without being able to make us know them.
But if we cut away the artificiality with which we have enwrapped them,
and the violence through which we have foolishly thought to discipline
them, they will reveal themselves to us in all the truth of child
nature.
Their gentleness is so absolute, so sweet, that we recognise in it the
infancy of that humility which can remain oppressed by every form of
yoke, by every injustice; and child love and _knowledge_ is such that it
surpasses every other love and makes us think that in very truth
humanity must carry within it that passion which pushes the minds of men
to the successive conquest of thought, making easier from century to
century the yokes of every form of slavery.