"Impossible!" I cried.
Then Mary got up.
"I did," she blurted out nervously; "I said you were just a silly ass."
"That's all right!" I said cheerfully, "I am," and I made for the door.
Then the class got excited.
"Aren't you going to do anything?" asked Ian in surprise.
"Good Lord, no!" I cried. "Why should I?"
"You're on the staff," said Ian.
"Look here," I said impatiently, "I hereby authorise the crowd of you
to call me any name you like."
The class became indignant.
"You can't criticise the staff," said one.
"Why not?" I asked, and they looked at each other in alarm. This was
carrying self-government too far.
Suddenly Mary jumped up.
"Then if we can criticise the staff here goes! I accuse Miss Brown of
favouritism."
It was a bombshell. Everyone jumped up, and some cried: "Shame!
Withdraw!" The chairman appealed to me.
"I have nothing to do with it," I protested.
Then bitter words flew. They told me that I, as a member of the staff,
should squash Mary. Voices became louder, but then the bell rang and
the class had to go to its own class-room to work.
My colleagues when they heard the story agreed with the children; they
held that I acted wrongly in listening to an accusation against a
colleague. My argument was that I was a guest at a meeting; I had no
vote, nor would I have interfered had I been a member of the meeting.
I was quite sure that if the bell had not broken up the meeting
somebody would have made the discovery that Miss Brown was the proper
person to make the accusation to. When they thought that Mary insulted
me they sent for me, and I fully expected they would send for Miss
Brown. Again I argued that if Miss Brown had favourites the class had
a right to criticise her. If she had no favourites let her arraign the
class before a meeting of the whole school and accuse them of libel.
Looking back I still think my attitude was right, for unless the staff
can lay aside all dignity and become members of the gang education is
not free. Yet I see now that I was secretly exulting in the
discomfiture of a colleague . . . a common human failing which none of
us care to recognise in ourselves. It is a sad fact but a true one
that however much Dr. A. protests when a patient tells him that Dr. B.
is a clumsy fool, unconsciously at least Dr. A. is gratified at the
criticism of his rival. Psycho-analysts, that is people who are
supposed to know the contents of their unconscious, are just as guilty
in this respect as other doctors, and if anyone doubts this let him ask
a Freudian what he thinks of the Jungian in the next street.
My earliest memory of professional jealousy goes back to the age of
seven. I lived next door to a dentist, a real qualified L.D.S. Across
the street lived a quack dental surgeon. When trade was dull these two
used to come to their respective doors and converse with each other in
the good old simple way of putting the fingers to the nose. They never
spoke to each other. Life in a northern town was simple in these days.
* * * * *
Helen Macdonald is four years old, and her mother and I have some
breezy discussions about her upbringing. Mrs. Mac has a great
admiration for her own mother, and she is bent on bringing up her
daughter in the way that she was brought up.
"Mother made me obey and I'll make Helen obey," she said to-day with
decision.
"It's dangerous," I said.
"No it isn't; it worked well enough in my case anyway."
"Don't blow your own trumpet, madam!"
She smiled.
"I don't think I am a bad product of the good old way," she said with a
self-satisfied air.
"Madam, shall I tell you the truth about yourself?"
She bubbled and drew her chair closer to mine.
"Do!" she cried, and then added: "But I won't believe the nasty bits."
Mac chuckled.
"To begin with," I said pompously, "you are an awful example of a bad
education."
She bowed mockingly and Mac guffawed. He is a wee bit afraid of his
wife and he marvels at my courage in ragging her.
"You," I continued, "were made to obey as a child, and as a result you
became dependent on your mother. In short you are your own mother."
"Don't be silly," she said with a frown; "I want your serious opinion."
"And you are getting it," I replied. "Because you had to obey you
never lived your own life, and naturally you never had a mind of your
own. To this day you act as your mother acted. She made her daughter
obey; you follow her example; she made scones in such and such a way;
you make scones in exactly the same way."
"That's right!" laughed Mac.
Mrs. Mac looked thoughtful.
"Anyway," she said quickly, "they are excellent scones."
"Most excellent scones," I hastened to add, "but my point is that if we
all follow our parents there will be no progress."
"Progress will never bring better scones," said Mac and he patted his
wife's cheek.
"Mac," I said gallantly, "your wife has brought scones to their perfect
and utmost evolution. She has made the super-scone. Only, Helen isn't
a scone you know."
At this point Helen was found trying to pull the marble clock down from
the mantlepiece. Her mother rescued the clock as it was falling, and
she scolded the fair Helen.
"You are all theory," she cried to me. "What would you do in a case
like this?"
"Same as you did," I answered hastily, and then added: "Only I would
try to give her so many interesting things to play with that she'd
forget to want the clock."
Then Mrs. Mac indignantly dragged out Helen's toys from a cupboard.
"Dozens of them!" she cried, "and she is tired of every one."
Then I discoursed on toys. The toys of the world are nearly all bad.
Helen has a beautiful sleeping doll that cost five pounds; rather I
should say that Helen _had_ a beautiful sleeping doll that cost five
pounds. On the one occasion that Helen was allowed to play with it she
made a careful attempt to open the head with a pair of scissors to see
what made the eyes close and open. Then her mother put the doll in a
box, packed the box in a trunk, and explained to Helen that the doll
was to lie in that trunk until Helen had a little baby girl of her own.
I explained to Mrs. Mac that the toy a child needs is one that will
take to pieces. Every toy should be a mine of discovery. The only
good toys that I know of are Meccano and Primus, but there is much need
for constructive toys for younger children.
"Mac," I said, "if you were even a passably good husband you would be
making Montessori apparatus for your offspring."
We have many arguments like this. Mrs. Mac's problem is that of a
million mothers; she has to fit the child into an adult environment.
Yesterday she was painting in oils. The baker whistled outside and she
ran out to get the bread. On her return she found that Helen was
busily painting the pink wall-paper a prussian blue.
Wealthy mothers solve the problem by employing nurses, but the solution
is a poor one. Few nurses know enough about children, and many do
positive harm by frightening the child. Nor can the hired nurse give
the infinite amount of love that a child demands. If she could it is
probable that she would be sacked, for no mother likes to see her child
lavish his love on another. On more than one occasion I have
discovered that the parents of children who loved me were hostile to
me. That is natural. If a father is continually hearing his daughter
say: "Mr. Neill says this; Mr. Neill says that," I have every sympathy
with him when he growls: "Damn this Neill blighter!" On the other hand
I have no sympathy with him if he expects me to ask his little Ada how
her dear charming papa is.
* * * * *
A book of ten volumes might well be written on the subject of parents
and teachers. If a teacher were the author no publisher would look at
it, for the language would be unprintable.
To the teacher the parent is an enemy. When Mrs. Brown comes to school
she and the dominie chat pleasantly about the weather, while the
children look on and marvel. Little Willie is amazed to see his mother
smile as she talks, for it was only last night that he heard her say:
"That Mr. Smith is by no means a gentleman. Did you see his nails?"
Poor little Willie does not know that his mother and the dominie are
using fair smiles to cover a real hostility. Mrs. Brown will talk
agreeably all through her visit, but as she is shaking hands on the
doorstep she will say, "Oh, by the way, Mr. Smith, Willie came home
last night saying that he wasn't allowed to play hockey yesterday. I
want him to play every Wednesday."
"But," says Mr. Smith deferentially, "I--er--well, Wednesday is the day
when the Seniors play, and--er--since Willie is a Junior I--er--I--"
"Oh, thank you so much," she gushes, "I knew that you would arrange
that he will play on Wednesdays," and she sails away.
Or perhaps Mrs. Brown will put it on to her husband.
"The way things are done at that school are disgraceful, Tom. You must
go and see Smith and insist that the boy has his hockey."
Well, the poor father comes up to school, and he and the dominie
discuss the weather and Lloyd George. All the time Brown is trying to
muster up enough courage to tackle the hockey question.
"Er," he begins after clearing his throat, "my wife was saying
something about--er--what a splendid view you have from here!"
"First rate," nods the dominie. "Your wife was saying?"
"Er--something about hockey." He coughs. "Splendid game! I--er--I
must go . . . er--good-bye."
No mere man can badger a dominie.
From the parent's point of view a teacher is a rival when he isn't a
sort of under-gardener. The parent would never think of arguing with
the doctor when he says that Willie has measles; the doctor is a
specialist in disease, and the parent is not. But it is different with
the dominie. He is a specialist in education, but then so is the
parent. That is possibly one of the reasons that the teaching
profession is such a low-class one, for a teacher is merely a
specialist in a world of specialists. Everybody knows how a child
ought to be brought up. In justice to parents I must confess that
there are only two teachers in Britain to whom I should trust the
education of any child of mine. Most teachers are instructionists
only, and the parent has some ground for suspicion.