Pedagogical Anthropology

by Maria Montessori

Hitherto, we have not learned how to study; we know only, or at least the majority of us do, how to absorb the contents of books. The only true student is the scientist, who knows how to advance slowly; we educators on the contrary plunge in a dizzy, headlong rush, through all acquirable knowledge. To study is to look steadily, to stand still, to assimilate and to wait. We should study for the sake of creating, since the whole object of taking is to be able to give again; but in this giving and taking we ought not to be mere instruments, like high-pressure suction pumps; in work of this sort we ought to be creators, and when we give back, to add that part which has been born and developed within us from what we acquired. It is wise to give our acquired knowledge time not only to be assimilated but also to develop freely in that fertile psychic ground that constitutes our innermost personality. In other words: assimilate by every possible means, and then wait.

In order to start from a point of established knowledge, let us consider what is meant by meditation: to meditate means to isolate one's thoughts within the limits of some definite subject, and wait to see what that subject of its own accord may reveal to us, in the course of assimilation. The Jesuits succeeded in winning souls merely by encouraging the people to meditate; meditation opened up an unsuspected inner world, which fascinated the type of person accustomed to flit lightly in thought across a multitude of diverse matters; and under the spell of such fascination, their consciences could attribute to nothing less than some occult power, what was really the application of a great pedagogic principle.

There is a great difference between reading and meditating: we may read a voluminous novel in a single night; we may meditate upon a verse of Scripture for an entire hour. Anyone who reads a novel in a night undoubtedly squanders his physical powers, like a wind that passes over arid ground; but one who meditates assimilates in a special manner that surprises the meditator himself, because he feels something unforeseen coming to life within him, just as though a seed had been planted in fertile soil and, while remaining motionless, had begun to germinate. Accordingly, the act of holding acquired knowledge within ourselves for a period of time results in self-development; superficial learning, on the contrary, means the exhaustion of our personal resources. We become steadily more exhausted and more inefficient, through too much study; and instead, we ought to become all the time more flourishing and more robust, if we studied in the proper way: and this is because we squander our psychic powers, instead of acquiring new energy. The consequence of this mistaken method is that we rapidly forget all that we have learned. Everything is acquired at the cost of effort; what we need is to labor patiently, in order to acquire in the real sense. To-day it is the fashion to study in order to enter upon that particular business or profession that is destined to be our life's work; what we ought to do instead, is to devote our energies to the conquest of thought and the elevation of the spirit.

The didactic method that I am trying to illustrate is not a new one; it dates back to the first precursors of scientific pedagogy. Half a century ago, a marvellous work on pedagogy, based on similar principles, was issued from the press; it was the method elaborated by Séguin, based on thirty years of practical experience in the education of idiotic children. Such a system cannot be foreign to the interests of schools intended for average, normal children, because it is not a specialised method, like that for deaf-mutes or for the blind. Being designed for the mentally deficient, this method applies to any class of undeveloped beings who are striving to grow bigger; we may even apply it to ourselves, and thereby increase our own mental stature. In short, pedagogically considered, it is a rational method.

Perhaps it is already familiar to a good many of you; but an example or two will serve to illustrate it. Let us suppose that we have to impart a lesson in history to a deficient pupil: first of all, a picture is shown him, representing an historic fact; then the same fact will be shown him in as many different ways as possible—through the cinematograph, for example. Finally it will be acted on the stage; and in this case, it is the children themselves who prepare the setting and endeavor, to the best of their ability, to impersonate the historic figures. Now, it is precisely at the moment when they are reproducing the scene that these children feel it, and it is only then that they learn. But this is not peculiar to deficient children: the same path is the common path for all; it is necessary for all of us to assimilate mentally and to feel, before we can say: I have learned. If there is a latent tendency in the mind of a normal child to love historic happenings, then he will love them, and thus reveal to his teacher one of his intimate and secret tendencies; in other words, we shall have developed a taste, of which the hidden germs already existed. Perhaps it was in some such way that Sabatier succeeded in realising the environment and the life of St. Francis of Assisi.

Let us suppose, again, that we have to teach a child what is meant, in geography, by a mountain, a lake, or an island. According to Séguin's method, we should take the child out into the garden, and make him construct a miniature mountain with earth, a lake with water, etc., than make him trace their geographical outline with chalk, then make him paint them in oils or water-colours, so that in the end he will have, as the result of his handiwork, a little monument, so to speak, of the acquired lesson. It is only after a child has worked that he begins to learn and to be interested. Does not everyone know that, as between the one who receives, and the one who confers a favor, it is the latter who cares the more, because he has done something? The next step is to take the pupil to the top of some hill, so that he may see with his own eyes the things that we have taught him in the garden and through the medium of work; and in the silent contemplation of nature, it may happen that a normal child will hear the call of her mysterious voice, and reveal a dormant tendency to become some day, perhaps, a geographer, or an explorer, like the Duke of the Abruzzi; or perhaps he will feel that lure of nature which, some day or other, when he reaches maturity, will lead him to investigate the secrets of the earth and of meteorological phenomena, even to the point of such heroic sacrifice as was exemplified by Professor Matteucci, during the eruption of Vesuvius.

Repeating the same things over and over, keeping the mind fixed upon the selfsame lesson, teaching how to reproduce objects by the work of the hands, bringing the pupil into direct contact with the object that he is desired to study, such is the true way to enable him to learn. The man who has been educated according to this method has not fruitlessly expended his energy in fatiguing study; he has preserved his forces unimpaired; indeed, if anything, they are all the sounder and more flourishing. By such a system of education, we launch upon the world a sturdy generation, imbued with that living energy, that constitutes the one and only mainspring that really makes the world move.

Accordingly this is the method that we shall follow: studying, repeating, working experimentally: the subject of our study is humanity; our purpose is to become teachers. Now, what really makes a teacher is love for the human child; for it is love that transforms the social duty of the educator into the higher consciousness of a mission.

The Limits of Pedagogical Anthropology

In concluding this preamble, it may be well to define the form of study and the purposes of pedagogical anthropology; in order to distinguish it clearly from general anthropology and from the allied branches of applied anthropology (criminal and medical anthropology).