{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_36762/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_36762","id":"gutenberg_36762","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36762","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Teaching & Education","Education","Education -- Philosophy","Gentile, Giovanni, 1875-1944"],"text":"</pre>\n\n\n\nProduced by Katherine Ward, Jonathan Ingram, and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE REFORM OF EDUCATION\n\n\nBY GIOVANNI GENTILE\n\n\nAUTHORIZED TRANSLATION BY DINO BIGONGIARI\n\nWith an Introduction by BENEDETTO CROCE\n\n\n  NEW YORK\n  HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY\n  1922\n\n\n  COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY\n  HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC.\n\n  PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY\n  THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY\n  RAHWAY, N.J.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                                                  PAGE\n        Introduction                                               vii\n     I. Education and Nationality                                    3\n    II. Education and Personality                                   18\n   III. The Fundamental Antinomy of Education                       40\n    IV. Realism and Idealism in the Concept of Culture              63\n     V. The Spirituality of Culture                                 85\n    VI. The Attributes of Culture                                  110\n   VII. The Bias of Realism                                        139\n  VIII. The Unity of Education                                     166\n    IX. Character and Physical Education                           192\n     X. The Ideal of Education                                     219\n    XI. Conclusion                                                 246\n\n\n\n\nNOTE\n\n\nShortly after Trieste fell into Italian hands, a series of lectures was\narranged for the school teachers of the city, in order to welcome them\nto their new duties as citizens and officials of Italy. The task of\nopening the series was assigned to Giovanni Gentile, Professor of\nPhilosophy in the University of Rome, who delivered the lectures which\nconstitute the present volume. At my request Signor Gentile has\nrewritten the first chapter, eliminating some of the more local of the\nallusions which the nature of the original occasion called forth, and\nSenatore Croce has very generously contributed his illuminating\nIntroduction. The volume as it stands is more than a treatise on\neducation: it is at one and the same time an introduction to the thought\nof one of the greatest of living philosophers, and an introduction to\nthe study of all philosophy. If the teachers of Trieste were able to\nunderstand and to enjoy a philosophic discussion of their chosen work,\nwhy should not the teachers of America?\n\nJ. E. S.\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nThe author of this book has been working in the same field with me for\nover a quarter of a century, ever since the time when we undertook--he a\nvery young man, and I somewhat his senior--to shake Italy out of the\ndoze of naturalism and positivism back to idealistic philosophy; or, as\nit would be better to say, to philosophy pure and simple, if indeed\nphilosophy is always idealism.\n\nTogether we founded a review, the _Critica_, and kept it going by our\ncontributions; together we edited collections of classical authors; and\ntogether we engaged in many lively controversies. And it seems indeed as\nthough we really succeeded in laying hold of and again firmly\nre-establishing in Italy the tradition of philosophical studies, thus\nwelding a chain which evidently has withstood the strain and destructive\nfury of the war and its afterclaps.\n\nBy this I do not mean to imply that our gradual achievements were the\nresult of a definite preconcerted plan. Our work was the spontaneous\nconsequence of our spontaneous mental development and of the spontaneous\nagreement of our minds. And therefore this common task, too, gradually\nbecoming differentiated in accordance with the peculiarities of our\ntemperaments, our tendencies, and our attitudes, resulted in a kind of\ndivision of labour between us. So that whereas I by preference have\ndevoted my attention to the history of literature, Gentile has\ndedicated himself more particularly to the history of philosophy and\nespecially of Italian philosophy, not only as a thinker but as a\nscholar too, and as a philologist. He may be said to have covered the\nentire field from the Middle Ages to the present time by his works on\nScholasticism in Italy, on Bruno, on Telesio, on Renaissance\nphilosophy, on Neapolitan philosophy from Genovesi to Galluppi, on\nRosmini, on Gioberti, and on the philosophical writers from 1850 to\n1900. And though his comprehensive _History of Italian Philosophy_,\npublished in parts, is far from being finished, the several sections\nof it have been elaborated and cast in the various monographs which I\nhave just mentioned.\n\nIn addition to this, Gentile has been devoting special attention to\nreligious problems. He took a very important part in the inquiry into\nand criticism of \"modernism,\" the hybrid nature of which he laid bare,\nexposing both the inner contradictions and the scanty sincerity of the\nmovement. His handling of this question was shown to be effective by the\nfact, among others, that the authors of the encyclical _Pascendi_, which\nbrought upon Modernism the condemnation of the Church, availed\nthemselves of the sharp edge of Gentile's logical arguments, prompted\nby scientific loyalty and dictated by moral righteousness.\n\nFinally, and in a more close connection with the present work, it will\nbe remembered that Gentile has done away with the chaotic pedagogy of\nthe positivistic school, and has also definitely criticised the\neducational theory of Herbart. As far back as 1900 he published a\nmonograph of capital importance, in which he showed that pedagogy in so\nfar as it is philosophical resolves itself without residuum into the\nphilosophy of the spirit; for the science of the spirit's education can\nnot but be the science of the spirit's development,--of its dialectics,\nof its necessity.\n\nIndeed, we owe it to Gentile that Italian pedagogy has attained in the\npresent day a simplicity and a depth of concepts unknown elsewhere. In\nItaly, not educational science alone, but the practice of it and its\npolitical aspects have been thoroughly recast and amply developed. And\nthis, too, is due pre-eminently to the work of Gentile. His authority\ntherefore is powerfully felt in schools of all grades, for he has lived\nintensely the life of the school and loves it dearly.\n\nIn addition to these differences arising from our division of labour,\nothers may of course be noticed, and they are to be found in the form\nthat philosophical doctrines have taken on in each of us. Identity is\nimpossible in this field, for philosophy, like art, is closely bound up\nwith the personality of the thinker, with his spiritual interests, and\nwith his experiences of life. There is never true identity except in the\nso-called \"philosophical school,\" which indicates the death of a\nphilosophy, in the same way that the poetical school proclaims death in\npoetry.\n\nAnd so it has come about that our general conception of philosophy as\nsimple philosophy of the spirit--of the subject, and never of nature, or\nof the object--has developed a peculiar stress in Gentile, for whom\nphilosophy is above all that point in which every abstraction is\novercome and submerged in the concreteness of the act of Thought;\nwhereas for me philosophy is essentially methodology of the one real and\nconcrete Thinking--of historical Thinking. So that while he strongly\nemphasises unity, I no less energetically insist on the distinction and\ndialectics of the forms of the spirit as a necessary formation of the\nmethodology of historical judgment. But of this enough, especially since\nthe reader can only become interested in these differences after he has\nacquired a more advanced knowledge of contemporary Italian philosophy.\n\nI am convinced that the translation and popularisation of Gentile's work\nwill contribute to the toilsome formation of that consciousness, of that\nsystem of convictions, of that moral and mental faith which is the\nprofound need of our times. For our age, eager and anxious for Faith, is\nperhaps not yet completely resigned to look for the new creed of\nhumanity there where alone it may be found, where by firm resolve it\nmay be secured--in pure Thought. Clear-sighted observers have perhaps\nnot failed to notice that the World War, in addition to every thing\nelse, has been a strife of religions, a clash of conflicting conceptions\nof life, a struggle of opposed philosophies. It is surely not the duty\nof thinkers to settle economic and political contentions by ineffective\nappeals to the universal brotherhood of man; but it is rather their duty\nto compose mental differences and antagonisms, and thus form the new\nfaith of humanity--a new Christianity or a new Humanism, as we may wish\nto call it. Such a faith will certainly not be spared the conflicts from\nwhich ancient Christianity itself was not free; but it may reasonably be\nhoped that it will rescue us from intellectual anarchy, from unbridled\nindividualism, from sensualism, from scepticism, from pessimism, from\nevery aberration which for a century and a half has been harassing the\nsoul of man and the society of mankind under the name of Romanticism.\n\nBENEDETTO CROCE.\n\nROME, April, 1921.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nEDUCATION AND NATIONALITY\n\n\nParticipation on the part of elementary school teachers in the work and\nstudies of the Universities has always seemed to me to constitute a real\nneed of culture and of primary education. For the elementary school, by\nthe very nature of the professional training of its teachers, is exposed\nto a grave danger from which it must be rescued if we mean to keep it\nalive.\n\nThe training of the elementary school teacher tends to be dogmatic. True\nit is that vigilant individuality and passionate love for his\nexquisitely spiritual calling impel the school teacher to an untiring\ncriticism of his methods, of his actual teaching, and of the life of the\nschool which he directs and promotes. But nevertheless in consequence of\nthose very studies by which he has prepared himself to be an elementary\ninstructor, he is led to look upon that learning which constitutes his\nmental equipment and the foundation of all his future teaching, as\nsomething quite finished, rounded out, enclosed in definite formulas,\nrules, and laws, all of which have been ascertained once for all and are\nno longer susceptible of ulterior revision. He looks upon this learning\nnot as a developing organism, but as something definitely moulded and\nstereotyped. From this the conclusion is drawn that a certain kind of\nknowledge may serve as a corner stone for the whole school edifice.\nSince his discipline and his teaching consist mainly of elements which\nbecause of their abstractness miss the renovating flow of spiritual\nlife, the teacher slowly but surely ends by shutting himself up in a\ncertain number of ideas, which are final as far as he is concerned. They\nare never corrected or transformed; in their mechanical fixity they\ncease to live; and the mind which cherishes and preserves them loses its\nnatural tendency to doubt. Yet what is doubt but dissatisfaction with\nwhat is known and with the manner of knowing, and a spur to further\ninquiry, to better and fuller learning, to self scrutiny, to an\nexamination of one's own sentiments, one's own character, and an\ninducement to broadmindedness, to a welcoming receptiveness of all the\nsuggestions and all the teachings which life at all moments generously\nshowers on us?\n\nThe remedy against this natural tendency of the teacher's mind is to be\nfound in the University, where in theory, and so far as is possible, in\npractice too, science is presented not as ready-made, definitely turned\nout in final theories, enclosed in consecrated manuals; but as inquiry,\nas research, as spiritual activity which does not rest satisfied with\nits accomplishments, but for ever feels that it does not yet know or\ndoes not know enough, aware of the difficulties which threaten every\nattained position, and ready unrestingly to track them, to reveal them,\nand meet them squarely. This life, which is perpetual criticism, and\nunceasing progress in a learning which is never completed, which never\naspires to be complete, is the serious and fruitful purpose of the\nUniversity. Here we must come, to restore freshness to our spiritual\nactivities, which alone give value to knowledge, and wrest it from\ndeadening crystallisation, from mechanical rigidity. For this reason, it\nseems to me, special provision should be made in the University to\nsatisfy the needs of school teachers. It is not a question of merely\nfurnishing them with additional information which they might just as\nwell get out of books. The University must act on their minds, shake\nthem, start them going, instil in them salutary doubt by criticism, and\ndevelop a taste for true knowledge.\n\nThe following chapters contain a series of University lectures, in\naccordance with these criteria, and delivered originally to the\nelementary teachers of Trieste, now for the first time again an Italian\ncity. They constitute a course which aims not to increase the quantity\nof culture, but to change its character. It is an attempt to introduce\nthe elementary teacher into those spiritual workshops which are the\nhalls of a University, to induce him to take part in the original\ninvestigations which constantly contribute to the formation of our\nnational learning; which forever make and reshape our ideas and our\nconvictions as to what we should want Italian science to be, the Italian\nconcepts of life and literature; as to what constitute the heirloom of\nour school, that sacred possession bequeathed to us by our forefathers\nwhich makes us what we are, which gives us a name and endows us with a\npersonality, by which we are enabled to look forward to a future of\nItaly which is not solely economic and political, but moral and\nintellectual as well.\n\nAnd thus, because of the time, the place, the audience, and the subject,\nwe are from the start brought face to face with a serious question,--a\nquestion which has often been debated, and which in the last few years,\non account of the exasperation of national sentiment brought about by\nthe World War, has become the object of passionate controversies. For if\nit has been frequently argued on one side that science is by nature and\nought to be national, there has been no lack of warning from the other\nside as to the dangers of this position. For war, it was said, would,\nsooner or later, come to an end and be a thing of the past; whereas\ntruth never sets, never becomes a thing of the past; it is error alone\nthat is destined to pass and disappear. We were reminded of the fact\nthat what is scientifically true and artistically beautiful is beautiful\nand true beyond no less than within the national frontier; and that only\non this condition is it worthy of its name. This question therefore\npresents itself as a preliminary to our investigation, and it is for us\nto examine it. We shall do so in as brief a manner as the subject will\nallow.\n\nWe shall first point out the inutility of distinguishing science from\nculture, education from instruction. Those who insist on these\ndistinctions maintain that though a school is never national in virtue\nof the content of its scientific teaching, it must nevertheless be\nnational in that it transforms science into culture, makes it over into\nan instrument with which to shape consciousness and conscience, and uses\nit as a tool for the making of men and for the training of citizens.\nThus we have as an integral part of science a form of action directed on\nthe character and the will of the young generations that are being\nnurtured and raised in accordance with national traditions and in view\nof the ends which the state wants to attain. Such distinctions however\ncomplicate but do not resolve the controversy. They entangle it with\nother questions which it were better to leave untouched at this\njuncture. For it might be said of questions what Manzoni said of books:\none at a time is enough--if it isn't too much.\n\nWe shall therefore try to simplify matters, and begin by clarifying the\ntwo concepts of nationality and of knowledge, in order to define the\nconcept of the \"nationality of knowledge.\" What, then, is the nation? A\nvery intricate question, indeed, over which violent discussions are\nraging, and all the more passionately because the premises and\nconclusions of this controversy are never maintained in the peaceful\nseclusion of abstract speculative theories, but are dragged at every\nmoment in the very midst of the concrete interests of the men themselves\nwho affirm or deny the value of nationalities. So that serious\ndifficulties are encountered every time an attempt is made to determine\nthe specific and concrete content of this concept of the nation, which\nis ever present, and yet ever elusive. Proteus-like, it appears before\nus, but as we try to grasp it, it changes semblance and breaks away. It\nis visible to the immediate intuition of every national consciousness,\nbut it slips from thought as we strive to fix its essence.\n\nIs it common territory that constitutes nationality? or is it common\nlanguage? or political life led in common? or the accumulation of\nmemories, of traditions, and of customs by which a people looks back to\n_one_ past where it never fails to find itself? Or is it perhaps the\nrelationship which binds together all the individuals of a community\ninto a strong and compact structure, assigning a mission and an\napostolate to a people's faith? One or the other of these elements, or\nall of them together, have in turn been proposed and rejected with\nequally strong arguments. For in each case it may be true or it may be\nfalse that the given element constitutes the essence of a people's\nnationality, or of any historical association whatsoever. All these\nelements, whether separately or jointly, may have two different\nmeanings, one of which makes them a mere accidental content of the\nnational consciousness, whereas the other establishes them as necessary,\nessential, and unfailing constituents. For they may have a merely\nnatural value, or they may have a moral and spiritual one. Our\nbirth-land, which nourished us in our infancy, and now shelters the\nbodies of our parents, the mountains and the shores that surround it and\nindividualise it, these are natural entities. They are not man-made; we\ncannot claim them, nor can we fasten our existence to them. Even our\nspeech, our religion itself, which do indeed live in the human mind, may\nyet be considered as natural facts similar to the geographical accidents\nwhich give boundaries and elevation to the land of a people. We may,\nabstractly, look upon our language as that one which was spoken before\nwe were born, by our departed ancestors who somehow produced this\nspiritual patrimony of which we now have the use and enjoyment, very\nmuch in the same way that we enjoy the sunlight showered upon us by\nnature. In this same way a few, perhaps many, conceive of religion: they\nlook upon it as something bequeathed and inherited, and not therefore as\nthe fruit of our own untiring faith and the correlate of our actual\npersonality. All these elements in so far as they are natural are\nevidently extraneous to our personality. We do dwell within this\npeninsula cloistered by the Alps; we delight in this luminous sky, in\nour charming shores smiled upon by the waters of the Mediterranean. But\nif we emigrate from this lovely abode, if under the stress of economic\nmotives we traverse the ocean and gather, a number of us, somewhere\nacross the Atlantic; and there, united by the natural tie of common\norigin, and fastened by the identity of speech, we maintain ourselves as\na special community, with common interests and peculiar moral\naffinities, then, in spite of the severance from our native peninsula,\nwe have preserved our nationality: Italy has crossed the ocean in our\nwake. Not only can we sunder ourselves from our land, but we may even\nrelinquish our customs, forget our language, abandon our religion; or we\nmay, within our own fatherland, be kept separate by peculiar historical\ntraditions, by differences of dialects or even of language, by religion,\nby clashing interests, and yet respond with the same sentiment and the\nsame soul to the sound of one Name, to the colours of one flag, to the\nsummons of common hopes, to the alarm of common dangers.\n\nAnd it is then that we feel ourselves to be a people; then are we a\nnation. It is not what we put within this concept that gives consistency\nand reality to the concept itself; it is the act of spiritual energy\nwhereby we cling to a certain element or elements in the consciousness\nof that collective personality to which we feel we belong. Nationality\nconsists not in content which may vary, but in the form which a certain\ncontent of human consciousness assumes when it is felt to constitute a\nnation's character.\n\nBut this truth is still far from being recognised. Its existence is not\neven suspected by those who utilise a materially constituted nationality\nas a title, that is, an antecedent, and a support for political rights\nclaimed by more or less considerable ethnical aggregates that are more\nor less developed and more or less prepared to take on the form of free\nand independent states and to secure recognition of a _de facto_\npolitical personality on the strength of an assumed _de jure_\nexistence.\n\nThis truth, however, was grasped by the profound intuition of Mazzini,\nthe apostle of nationalities, the man who roused our national energies,\nand whose irresistible call awakened Italy and powerfully impelled her\nto affirm her national being. Even from the first years of the _Giovine\nItalia_ he insisted that Italy, when still merely an idea, prior to her\ntaking on a concrete and actual political reality, was not a people and\nwas not a nation. For a nation, he maintained, is not something existing\nin nature; but a great spiritual reality. Therefore like all that is in\nand for the spirit, it is never a fact ready to be ascertained, but\nalways a mission, a purpose, something that has to be realised--an\naction.\n\nThe Italians to whom Mazzini spoke were not the people around him. He\nwas addressing that future people which the Italians themselves had to\ncreate. And they would create it by fixing their souls on one idea--the\nidea of a fatherland to be conquered--a sacred idea, so noble that\npeople would live and die for it, as for that sovereign and ultimate\nGood for which all sacrifices are gladly borne, without which man can\nnot live, outside of which he finds nothing that satisfies him, nothing\nthat is conducive to a life's work. For Mazzini nationality is not\ninherited wealth, but it is man's own conquest. A people can not\nfaint-heartedly claim from others recognition of their nation, but must\nthemselves demonstrate its existence, realise it by their willingness to\nfight and die for its independence: independence which is freedom and\nunity and constitutes the nation. It is not true that first comes the\nnation and then follows the state; the nation is the state when it has\ntriumphed over the enemy, and has overcome the oppression, which till\nthen were hindering its formation. It is not therefore a vague\naspiration or a faint wish, but an active faith, an energetic volition\nwhich creates, in the freed political Power, the reality of its own\nmoral personality and of its collective consciousness. Hence the lofty\naim of Mazzini in insisting that Italy should not be made with the help\nof foreigners but should be a product of the revolution, that is, of its\nown will.\n\nAnd truly the nation is, substantially, as Mazzini saw and firmly\nbelieved, the common will of a people which affirms itself and thus\nsecures self-realisation. A nation is a nation only when it wills to be\none. I said, when it really wills, not when it merely says it does. It\nmust therefore act in such a manner as to realise its own personality in\nthe form of the State beyond which there is no collective will, no\ncommon personality of the people. And it must act seriously, sacrificing\nthe individual to the collective whole, and welcoming martyrdom, which\nin every case is but the sacrifice of the individual to the universal,\nthe lavishing of our own self to the ideal for which we toil.\n\nFrom this we are not, however, to infer that a nation can under no\ncircumstances exist prior to the formation of its State. For if this\nformation means the formal proclamation or the recognition by other\nStates, it surely does pre-exist. But it does not if we consider that\nthe proclamation of sovereignty is a moment in a previously initiated\nprocess, and the effect of pre-existing forces already at work; which\neffect is never definite because a State, even after it has been\nconstituted, continues to develop in virtue of those very forces which\nproduced it; so that it is constantly renewing and continually\nreconstituting itself. Hence a State is always a future. It is that\nstate which this very day we must set up, or rather at this very\ninstant, and with all our future efforts bent to that political ideal\nwhich gleams before us, not only in the light of a beautiful thought,\nbut as the irresistible need of our own personality.\n\nThe nation therefore is as intimately pertinent and native to our own\nbeing as the State, considered as Universal Will, is one with our\nconcrete and actual ethical personality. Italy for us is the fatherland\nwhich lives in our souls as that complex and lofty moral idea which we\nare realising. We realise it in every instant of our lives, by our\nfeelings, and by our thoughts, by our speech and by our imagination,\nindeed, by our whole life which concretely flows into that Will which is\nthe State and which thus makes itself felt in the world. And this Will,\nthis State is Italy, which has fought and won; which has struggled for a\nlong time amid errors and sorrows, hopes and dejection, manifestations\nof strength and confessions of weakness, but always with a secret\nthought, with a deep-seated aspiration which sustained her throughout\nher entire ordeal, now exalting her in the flush of action, now, in the\ncritical moment of resistance, confirming and fortifying her by the\nundying faith in ultimate triumph. This nation, which we all wish to\nraise to an ever loftier station of honour and of beauty, even though we\ndiffer as to the means of attaining this end, is it not the substance of\nour personality,--of that personality which we possess not as\nindividuals who drift with the current, but as men who have a powerful\nself-consciousness and who look upward for their destiny?\n\nIf we thus understand the nation, it follows that not only every man\nmust bear the imprint of his nationality, but that also there is no true\nscience, no man's science, which is not national. The ancients believed,\nin conformity with the teachings of the Greeks, that science soars\noutside of the human life, above the vicissitudes of mortals, beyond the\ncurrent of history, which is troubled by the fatal conflicts of error,\nby falterings and doubts, and by the unsatisfied thirst for knowledge.\nTruth, lofty, pure, motionless, and unchangeable, was to them the fixed\ngoal toward which the human mind moved, but completely severed from it\nand transcendent. This concept, after two thousand years of speculation,\nwas to reveal itself as abstract and therefore fallacious,--abstract\nfrom the human mind, which at every given instance mirrors itself in\nsuch an image of truth, ever gazing upon an eternal ideal but always\nintent on reshaping it in a new and more adequate form. The modern\nworld, at first with dim consciousness, and guided rather by a fortunate\nintuition than by a clear concept of its own real orientation, then with\nan ever clearer, ever more critical conviction, has elaborated a concept\nwhich is directly antithetical to the classical idea of a celestial\ntruth removed from the turmoil of earthly things. It has accordingly and\nby many ways reached the conclusion that reality, lofty though it be,\nand truth itself, which nourishes the mind and alone gives validity to\nhuman thought, are in life itself, in the development of the mind, in\nthe growth of the human personality, and that this personality, though\nideally beyond our grasp, is yet in the concrete always historical and\nactual, and realises itself in its immanent value. It therefore creates\nits truth and its world. Modern philosophy and modern consciousness no\nlonger point to values which, transcending history, determine its\nmovement and its direction by external finalities: they show to man that\nthe lofty aim which is his law is within himself; that it is in his ever\nunsatisfied personality as it unceasingly strains upward towards its own\nideal.\n\nScience is no longer conceived to-day as the indifferent pure matter of\nthe intellect. It is an interest which invests the entire person, extols\nit and with it moves onward in the eternal rhythm of an infinite\ndevelopment. Science is not for us the abstract contemplation of yore;\nit is self-consciousness that man acquires, and by means of which he\nactuates his own humanity. And therefore science is no longer an\nadornment or an equipment of the mind, considered as diverse to its\ncontent; it is culture, and the formation of this very mind. So that\nwhenever science is as yet so abstract that it seems not to touch the\nperson and fails to form it or transform it, it is an indication that it\nis not as yet true science.\n\nSo we conclude thus: he who distinguishes his person from his knowledge\nis ignorant of the nature of knowledge. The modern teacher knows of no\nscience which is not an act of a personality. It knows no personality\nwhich admits of being sequestered from its ideas, from its ways of\nthinking and of feeling, from that greater life which is the nation.\nConcrete personality then is nationality, and therefore neither the\nschool nor science possesses a learning which is not national.\n\nAnd for this reason therefore our educational reforms which are inspired\nby the teachings of modern idealistic philosophy demand that the school\nbe animated and vivified by the spiritual breath of the fatherland.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nEDUCATION AND PERSONALITY\n\n\nIt is essential at the very outset to understand clearly what is meant\nby _concrete personality_, and why the particular or empirical\npersonality, as we are usually accustomed to consider it, is nothing\nmore than an abstraction.\n\nOrdinarily, relying on the most obvious data of experience, we are led\nto believe that the sphere of our moral personality coincides exactly\nwith the sphere of our physical person, and is therefore limited and\ncontained by the surface of our material body. We consider this body in\nitself as an indivisible whole, with such reciprocal correspondence and\ninterdependence of its parts as to become a veritable system. It seems\nto us also that this system moves in space as a whole when the body is\ndisplaced, continuing to remain united as long as it exists. We look\nupon it as though it were separated from all other bodies, whether of\nthe same or of different kinds, in such a manner that it excludes others\nfrom the place it occupies, and is itself in turn excluded by them. One\nbody then, one physical person, one moral personality--that moral\npersonality which each one of us recognises and affirms by the\nconsciousness of the ego.\n\nAnd in fact when I walk I am not a different person from when I think.\nMy ego remains the same whether my body moves through space or whether\nmy mind inwardly meditates. Impenetrability, which is possessed by\nmatter, seems to be also a property of human individualism.\n\nFrom my ego every other ego is apparently excluded. What I am no one\nelse can be, and I in turn cannot be confused with another person. Those\nof my fellow beings that are most intimately, most closely related to me\nseem yet as completely external to me, as thoroughly sundered from my\nspirit, as their bodies are from mine. My father, my brother are dead.\nThey have vanished from this world in which I nevertheless continue to\nexist; just as a stone remains in its place and is in no way affected\nwhen another stone near by is removed; or as a mutilated pedestal may\nstill remain to remind the onlooker of the statue that was torn away.\n\nHundreds of individuals assemble to listen to the words of an orator.\nBut no necessary ties exist between the various persons; and when the\nspeaking is over, each one goes his way confident that he has lost no\npart of himself and that he has maintained his individuality absolutely\nunaltered.\n\nOur elders lived on this planet when we had not yet arrived. After we\ncame, they gradually withdrew, one after the other. And just as they had\nbeen able to exist without us, so shall we continue to live without\nthem, and away from them develop our personality. For each one of us,\naccording to this point of view, has his own being within himself, his\nown particular destiny. Every man makes of himself the centre of his\nworld, of that universe which he has created with deeds and thoughts: a\nuniverse of ideas, of images, of concepts, of systems, which are all in\nhis brain; a universe of values, of desirable goods and of abhorred\nevils, all of which are rooted in his own individual will, in his\ncharacter, and originate from the peculiar manner in which he personally\ncolours this world and conceives the universe.\n\nWhat is another man's sorrow to me? What part have I in his joys? And\nhow can the science of Aristotle or of Galileo be anything to me, since\nI do not know them, since I cannot read their books, and am totally\nunfamiliar with their teachings? And the unknown wayfarer who passes by,\nwrapped in his thoughts, what does he care for my loftiest conceptions,\nfor the songs that well forth from the depths of my soul? The hero's\nexploit brings no glory to us; the heinous deed of the criminal makes us\nshudder indeed, but drives no pangs of remorse through our conscience.\nFor every one of us has his own body and his own particular soul. Every\none, in short, is himself independently of what others may be.\n\nThis conception, which we ordinarily form of our personality, and on\nwhich we erect the system of our practical life in all our manifold\nrelations with other individuals, is an abstract concept. For when we\nthus conceive our being, we see but a single side of it and that the\nleast important: we fail to grasp that part which reveals all that is\nspiritual, and human, and truly and peculiarly ours. I shall not here\ninvestigate how the human personality has two aspects so totally\ndifferent one from the other; and in what remote depths we must\nsearch for the common root of these two contrasting and apparently\ncontradictory manifestations. Our task for the moment is to establish\nwithin ourselves through reflection the firm conviction that we are\nnot lone individualities: that there is another and a better part of\nus, an element which is the very antithesis of the particular, that\none, namely, which is the deep-seated source of our nature, by which\nwe cease, each one of us, to be in irreducible opposition to the rest of\nhumanity, and become instead what all the others are or what we want\nthem to be.\n\nIn order to fix our attention on this more profound aspect of our inner\nlife, I shall take as an example one of those elements which are\ncontained in the concept of nationality, Language. Language it must be\nremembered does not belong _per se_ to nationality; it belongs to it in\nvirtue of an act by which a will, a personality, affirms itself with a\ndetermined content. We must now point out the abstract character of\nthat concept by which language, which is a constituent element of our\npersonality, is usually ascribed to what is merely particular in it.\n\nThat language is a peculiar and constituent element of personality is\nquite obvious. Through language we speak not to others only, but to\nourselves also. Speaking to ourselves means seeing within ourselves\nour own ideas, our soul, our very self in short,--it means\nself-consciousness, as the philosophers say, and therefore\nself-control, clear vision of our acts, knowledge of what stirs within\nus; it means, therefore, living not after the manner of dumb\nanimals, but as rational beings, as men. Man cannot think, have\nconsciousness of himself, reason, without first expressing all that to\nhimself. Man has been defined as a rational animal; he may also be\ndefined as the speaking animal. The remark is as old as Aristotle.\n\nMan, however, this animal endowed with the faculty of speaking, is not\nman in general who never was, but the real man, the historical man,\nactually existing. And he does not speak a general language, but a\ncertain definite one.\n\nWhen I speak before a public, I can but use my language, the Italian\nlanguage. And I exist, that is I affirm myself, I come into real being,\nby thinking in conformity with my real personality, in so far as I\nspeak, and speak this language of mine. _My_ language, the _Italian_\nlanguage. Here lies the problem. Were I not to speak, or were I to\nspeak otherwise than I know how, I would not be myself. This manner of\nexpressing myself is then an intrinsic trait of my personality. But this\nspeech which makes me what I am, and which therefore intimately belongs\nto me, could it possibly be mine, could I use it, mould it into my own\nlife-substance, if, mine though it be, it were yet enclosed within me in\nthe manner that every particle of my flesh is contained within my body,\nhaving nothing in common with any other part of matter co-existing in\nspace? Could my language in short really be my language, if it belonged\nexclusively to me, to what I have called my particular or empirical\npersonality?\n\nA simple reflection will suffice to show that my language, like a beacon\nof light, inwardly illumines my Thought, and renders visible to me every\nmovement and every sense, only because this language is not exclusively\nmy own. It is that same language through which I grasp the ancient\nauthors of Italy. I read about Francesca da Rimini and Count Ugolino,\nand find them within me in the emotion of my throbbing soul. I read of\nPetrarch's golden-haired Laura, of Ariosto's Angelica, fair love of\nchivalrous men and the unhappy friend of youthful Medoro. I read of the\ncunning art whereby the Florentine secretary, in his keen speculative\ndiscourses, sought to establish the principalities and the state of\nItaly. I read of the many loves, sorrows, discoveries and sublime\nconcepts which did not blossom forth from my spirit, but which, once\nexpressed by the great men of my country, have, because of their merits,\ncontinued to exist in the imagination, in the intellect, in the hearts\nof Italians, and have thus constituted a literature, a light-shedding\nhistory which is the life of language, varied indeed and restless, but\never the same. This is the language which I first heard from the dear\nlips of my mother, which gradually and constantly I made my own by\nstudying and reflecting on the books and on the conversations of those\nwho for years, or days, or instants, were with me in my native town and\nexchanged with me their thoughts and their sentiments; the language\nwhich unites to me all those who, living or dead, together constitute\nthis which I call and feel to be my own people.\n\nYet I might want to break away with my speech from this glorious\ncommunion. I might try to demonstrate to myself that my speech is\nexclusively mine, and surely I would thus accomplish something. I would\nproduce an exception which in this case too would serve to confirm the\nrule.\n\nFor surely a man may devise a cryptic language, a cipher, a jargon.\nSecret codes and conventional cants are resorted to by individuals who\nhave some reason to conceal their meaning from others. Such individuals,\nhowever, can form but very small groups, and because of the artificial\ncharacter of their communications never may constitute a nation. An\nartificial jargon of this sort is however a language of some kind: it\nmust be, since art imitates nature. It complies with the law that is\nimmanent in the peculiar nature of language, namely, that there be\nnothing secret or hidden in it, for speech and in general every form of\nspiritual activity invests a community and aims at universality. The\njargon is possible only because of the key by which it may be translated\nback into the common language. Give a ciphered document to the\ncryptographer; by study and ingenuity--that is by the use of that very\nintelligence which arbitrarily combined the cipher--he discovers the\nkey; thus he too breaks up the artificial form, and draws from it the\nnatural flow of a speech that is intelligible to all those who speak the\nsame national tongue. And again, words as they flow from the inspired\nbosom of the poet, when they first appear in the freshness of the new\nartistic creation, do have something that is cryptic. That language is\nthe poet's own; it never had been used by another; a jargon before it is\ndeciphered may be and is the language of a particular personality. But\nif we look more attentively, we shall see that in both cases the\nlanguage is the language of the community. The inspired poet does indeed\nspeak to himself, but with the consciousness of a potential audience, he\nutters a word to himself which must eventually be intelligible to others\nbecause it is by its nature intelligible. In the conditions in which the\npoet finds himself when speaking, he must use that word and no other,\nand any other person in those same spiritual conditions would use, could\nnot help using, the same word. For his word is the Word, the one that is\nrequired by the circumstances. And since he is a poet, a serious mind\nuttering a word which needs no translation, it will be the word of his\nown people first and then of humanity at large, in so far as its beauty\nwill inspire men of different nations and of diverse speech with the\ndesire of learning the poet's own intimate language.\n\nAll this is true because the spirit is universal activity, which, far\nfrom separating men, unites them. It realises historically its\nuniversality in the community of the family, of the city, of the\ndistrict, and of the nation, and in every form of intimate aggregation\nand of fusion which history may call into being.\n\nLanguage may or may not be in the formation of a man's nationality. What\nhowever must be ever present is the Will by which man every moment of\nhis life renovates his own personality. Can the Will, by which each one\nof us is what he is, be his own Will, exclusively his own? Or is the\nWill itself, like language, not perhaps a national heirloom, but surely\na common act, a communion of life, in such a way that we live our own\nlife while living the life of the nation?\n\nOf course, in the abstract, as I have explained above, my will is\nparticular. But we must be reminded that Will is one thing, and\nfaint wishing another. There is such a thing as real effective\nvolition, and there is something which strives to be such and fails;\nthis latter we might call \"velleity.\" Real will does not rest\nsatisfied with intentions, designs, or sterile desires; it acts, and\nby its effectiveness it reveals itself, and by its value shows its\nreality. And our being results not from velleities but from the real\nwill. We are not what we might conditionally desire to be, but what we\nactually will to be. A velleity we might say is the will directed to\nan end which is either relatively or absolutely impossible; will is\nthat which becomes effective.\n\nBut, then, when is it that my will really is effective, really\n_wills_? I am a citizen of a state which has power; this power, this\nwill of the state expresses itself to me in laws which I must obey. The\ntransgression of laws, if the state is in existence, bears with it the\ninevitable punishment of the transgressor, that is, the application of\nthat law which the offender has refused to recognise. The state is\nsupported by the inviolability of laws, of those sacred laws of the\nland which Socrates, as Plato tells us, taught his pupils to revere. I,\nthen, as a citizen of my country, am bound by its Law in such a\nmanner that to will its transgression is to aim at the impossible.\nIf I did so, I should be indulging in vain velleities, in which my\npersonality, far from realising itself, would on the contrary be\ndisintegrated and scattered. I then want what the law wants me to\nwill.\n\nIt makes no difference that, from a material and explicit point of view,\na system of positive law does not coincide throughout with the sphere of\nmy activity, and that therefore the major part of the standards of my\nconduct must be determined by the inner dictates of my particular\nconscience. For it is the Will of the State that determines the limits\nbetween the moral and the juridical, between what is imposed by the law\nof the land and what is demanded by the ethical conscience of the\nindividual. And there is no limit which pre-exists to the line by which\nthe constituent and legislative power of the State delimits the sphere\nsubject to its sanctions. So that positively or negatively, either by\ncommand or by permission, our whole conduct is subject to that will by\nwhich the State establishes its reality.\n\nBut the Will of the State does not manifest itself solely by the\nenactments of positive legislation. It opens to private initiative such\ncourses of action as may presumably be carried on satisfactorily without\nthe impulse and the direct control of the sovereign power. But this\nconcession has a temporary character, and the State is ever ready to\nintervene as soon as the private management ceases to be effective. So\nthat even in the exercise of what seems the untrammelled will of the\nindividual we discern the power of the State; and the individual is free\nto will something only because the sovereign power wants him to. So\nthat in reality this apparently autonomous particular will is the will\nof the state not expressed in terms of positive legislation, there being\nno need of such an expression. But since the essence of law is not in\nthe expression of it, but in the will which dictates it, or observes it,\nor enforces the observance of it, in the will, in short, that wills it,\nit follows that the law exists even though unwritten.\n\nIn the way of conclusion, then, it may be said that I, as a citizen,\nhave indeed a will of my own; but that upon further investigation my\nwill is found to coincide exactly with the will of the State, and I want\nanything only in so far as the State wants me to want it.\n\nCould it possibly be otherwise? Such an hypothesis overwhelms me at the\nvery thought of it. For it would come to this,--that I exist and my\nstate does not:--the state in which I was born, which sustained and\nprotected me before I saw the light of day, which formed and guaranteed\nto me this communion of life; the state in which I have always lived,\nwhich has constituted this spiritual substance, this world in which I\nsupport myself, and which I trust will never fail me even though it does\nchange constantly. I could, it is true, ignore this close bond by which\nI am tied and united to that great will which is the will of my country.\nI might balk and refuse to obey its laws. But acting thus, I would be\nindulging in what I have called velleities. My personality, unable to\ntransform the will of the state, would be overcome and suppressed by\nit.\n\nLet us however assume for a moment that I might in the innermost depths\nof my being segregate myself. Averse to the common will and to the law\nof the land, I decide to proclaim over the boundless expanse of my\nthought the proud independence of my ego, as a lone, inaccessible summit\nrising out of the solitude. Up to a certain point this hypothesis is\nverified constantly by the manner in which my personality freely becomes\nactual. But even then I do not act as a particular being: it is the\nuniversal power that acts through my personal will.\n\nFor when we effectively observe the law, with true moral adhesion and\nin thorough sincerity, the law becomes part of ourselves, and our\nactions are the direct results of our convictions,--of the necessity of\nour convictions. For every time we act, inwardly we see that such must\nbe our course; we must have a clear intuition of this necessity. The\nSaint who has no will but the will of God intuitively sees necessity in\nhis norm. So does the sinner in his own way: but his norm is erroneous\nand therefore destined to fail. Every criminal in transgressing the\nlaw obeys a precept of his own making which is in opposition to the\nenactments of the state. And in so doing he creates almost a state\nof his own, different from the one which historically exists and must\nexist because of certain good reasons, the excellence of which the\ncriminal himself will subsequently realise. From the unfortunate point\nof view which he has taken, the transgressor is justified in acting as\nhe does, and to such an extent that no one in his position, as he\nthinks, could possibly take exception to it. His will is also\nuniversal; if he were allowed to, if it were possible for him, he\nwould establish new laws in place of the old ones: he would set up\nanother state over the ruins of the one which he undermines. And what\nelse does the tyrant when he destroys the freedom of the land and\nsubstitutes a new state for the crushed Commonwealth? In the same\nmanner the rebel does away with the despot, starts a revolution and\nestablishes liberty if he is successful; if not, he is overcome and must\nagain conform his will to the will of that state which he has not been\nable to overthrow. So then, I exercise my true volition whenever the\nwill of my state acts in my personal will, or rather when my will is\nthe realisation of the will of a super-national group in which my state\nco-exists with other states, acting upon them, and being re-acted upon\nin reciprocal determinations. Or perhaps better still, when the\nentire world wills in me. For my will, I shall say it once again, is\nnot individual but universal, and in the political community by which\nindividuals are united into a higher individuality, historically\ndistinct from other similar ones, we must see a form of universality.\n\nFor this reason, then, we are justified in saying that our personality\nis particular when we consider it abstractly, but that concretely it\nrealises itself as a universal and therefore also as a national\npersonality. This conception is of fundamental importance for those of\nus who live in the class-room and have made of teaching our life's\noccupation, our ultimate end, and the real purpose of our existence. For\nin this conception of human activities we find the solution of a problem\nthat has been present in the minds of thinking men ever since they began\nto reflect on the subject of education, or, in other words, from time\nimmemorial. Education, we must remember, is not a fact, if by fact we\nmean, as we should, something that has happened, or is wont to happen,\nor must inevitably take place in virtue of the constancy of the law\nwhich governs it. We teachers are all sincerely convinced that\neducation, as we speak of it, as it draws our interests, for which we\nwork, and which we strive to improve, is not now what it was before. For\nthere is no education that works out in conformity with natural laws. It\nis a free act of ours, the vocation of our souls, our duty as men. By it\nmore nobly than by any other action man is enabled to actualise his\nsuperior nature. Animals do not educate: even though they do raise their\nyoung ones they yet form no family, no ethical organism with members\ndifferentiated and reciprocally correlated. But we freely, by an act of\nour conscience, recognise our children, as we do our parents and our\nbrothers; and we discern our fellow-beings in ourselves and ourselves in\nothers; and by the growth of our own we unconsciously develop the\npersonality of others; and therefore in the family, in the city, in any\ncommunity, we constitute one spirit, with common needs that are\nsatisfied by the operations of individual activity which is a social\nactivity.\n\nMan has been called a political or a social animal. He might therefore\nbe considered also as an educating animal. For we do not merely educate\nthe young ones, our young ones. Education being spiritual action bearing\non the spirit, we really educate all those that are in any way and by\nany relations whatsoever connected with us, whether or not they belong\nto our family or to our school, as long as they concur with us in\nconstituting a complete social entity. And we not only train those of\nminor age, who are as yet under tutelage, and still frequent the schools\nand are busily intent upon developing and improving their skill, their\ncharacter, their culture. We also educate the adults, the grown-up men\nand women, the aged; for there is no man alive who does not daily add to\nhis intellectual equipment, who does not derive some advantage from his\nhuman associations, who could not appropriately repeat the statement of\nthe Roman emperor--_nulla dies sine linea_. Man always educates.\n\nBut here, as in every other manifestation of his spiritual activity, man\ndoes not behave in sole conformity with instinct; he does not teach by\nabandoning himself, so to speak, to the force of natural determinism. He\nis fully aware of his own doings. He keeps his eyes open on his own\nfunction, so that he may attain the end by the shortest course, that he\nmay without wasting his energies derive from them the best possible\nresults. For man reflects.\n\nIt is evident then that education is not a scheme which permits\npedagogues and pedants to interfere with their theories and lucubrations\nin this sacred task of love, which binds the parents to the children,\nbrings old and young together, and keeps mankind united in its never\nceasing ascent. Before the word came into being, the thing, as is\nusually the case, already existed. Before there was a science and an\nincumbent for the chair, there existed something that was the life of\nthis science and therefore the justification of the chair. There was the\nintent reflectiveness of man, who in compliance with the divine saying,\n\"Know thyself,\" was becoming conscious of his own work, and therefore,\nunwilling to abandon his actions to external impulses, began to question\neverything. What the lower animal does naturally and unerringly through\nits infallible instinct, man achieves by the restless scrutiny of his\nmind. Ever thoughtful, always yearning for the better, he searches and\nexplores, often stumbling in error, but ever rising out of it to a\nhigher station of learning and of art. Our education is human, because\nit is an action and not a fact; because it is a problem that we always\nsolve and have to keep solving for ever.\n\nThis intuitive truth is demonstrated experimentally to us by the very\nlives we live as educators. As long as the freshness of our vocation\nlasts, as long as we can remain free from mechanical routine and from\nthe impositions of fixed habits; as long as we are able to consider\nevery new pupil with renewed interest, discover in him a different soul,\nunlike that of any other that we have previously come in contact with,\nand differing within itself from day to day; as long as it is still\npossible for us to enter the class-room thrilled and throbbing in the\nanticipation of new truths to reveal, of novel experiments to perform,\nof unexpected difficulties to overcome, in the full consciousness of the\nrapid motion of a life ever renewed in us and around us by the incoming\ngenerations, that flow to us and ebb away unceasingly towards life and\ndeath; so long shall we really live and love the teacher's life, so long\nshall we demonstrate to ourselves and to others the truth I have already\naffirmed.\n\nWe teachers should be constantly on our guard against the dangers of\nroutine, against the belief that we have but to repeat the same old\nstory in the same class-room, to the same kind of distant, blank faces,\nstaring at us in dreary uniformity from the same benches. We shall\ncontinue to be educators only as long as we are able to feel that every\ninstant of our life's work is a new instant, and that education\ntherefore is a problem that insistently stimulates our ingenuity to an\never renewed solution.\n\nNow the most important of all tasks, ancient and modern, in the field of\neducation is this,--the task of the teacher to represent the Universal\nto his pupils, the Universal, of course, as historically determined.\nScientific thought, customs, laws, religious beliefs are brought before\nthe pupil's mind, not as the science, the laws, the religion of the\nteacher, but as those of humanity, of his country, of his period. And\nthe pupil is the particular individual who, having entered upon the\nprocess of education, and being submitted, so to speak, to the yoke of\nthe school, ceases to enjoy his former liberty in the pursuit of a\nspiritual endowment and in the formation of his character, and, in\nconsequence of this educational pressure, bends compliantly before the\ncommon law. Hence the world-old opposition to the coercive power of the\nschool, and the outcry raised from time to time against the privilege\ndemanded by the educator, who on the strength of the assumedly higher\nquality of his beliefs, his learning, his taste, or his moral\nconscience, claims to interfere with the spontaneous development of a\npersonality in quest of itself.\n\nOn one side education undoubtedly assumes the task of developing\nfreedom, for the aim of education is to produce men; and man is worthy\nof this name only when he is a master of himself, capable of initiating\nhis own acts, responsible for his deeds, able to discern and assimilate\nthe ideas which he accepts and professes, affirms and propagates, so\nthat whatever he says, thinks, or does, really comes from him. Our\nchildren are said to be properly raised when they give evidence of being\nable to take care of themselves without the help of our guidance and\nadvice. And we trust that we have accomplished our task as educators\nwhen our pupils have made our language their own and are able to tell us\nnew things originally thought out by them. Freedom then must be the\nresult of education.\n\nBut on the other hand, teaching implies an action exercised on another\nmind, and education cannot therefore result in the relinquishment and\nabandonment of the pupil. The educator must awaken interests that\nwithout him would for ever lie dormant. He must direct the learner\ntowards an end which he would be unable to estimate properly if left\nalone, and must help him to overcome the otherwise unsurmountable\nobstacles that beset his progress. He must, in short, transfuse into the\npupil something of himself, and out of his own spiritual substance\ncreate elements of the pupil's character, mind, and will. But the acts\nwhich the pupil performs in consequence of his training will, in a\ncertain measure, be those of his teacher; and education will therefore\nhave proved destructive of that very liberty with which the pupil was\noriginally endowed. Is it not true that people constantly attribute to\nearly family influences and to environment--that is, to education--the\ngood and the bad in the deeds of the mature man?\n\nThis is the form in which the problem usually presents itself. The mind\nof the educator is therefore torn by two conflicting forces: the desire\nzealously to watch and control the pupil's growth and direct his\nevolution along the course that seems quickest and surest for his\ncomplete development; and, on the other hand, the fear that he may kill\nfertile seeds, stifle with presumptuous interference the spontaneous\nlife of the spirit in its personal impulses, and clothe the individual\nwith a garment that is not adapted for him,--crush him under the weight\nof a leaden cape.\n\nThe solution of this problem must be sought in the concrete conception\nof individual personality; and this will be the theme of the next\nchapter. But I must at the very outset utter an emphatic word of\nwarning. My solution does not remove all difficulties; it cannot be used\nas a key to open all doors. For as I have repeatedly stated, the value\nof education consists in the persistence of the problems, ever solved\nand yet ever clamouring for a new solution, so that we may never feel\nreleased from the obligation of thinking.\n\nMy solution must be simply accepted as affording a guidance by which\ndifferent people may, along more or less converging lines, approach\ntheir particular objectives. For the problem presents itself under\never-changing forms, and demands a continuous development, and almost a\nprogressive interpretation of the concept which I am going to offer as\nan aid to its solution. No effort of thinking, once completed, will ever\nexonerate us from thinking, from thinking unceasingly, from thinking\nmore and more intensively.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nTHE FUNDAMENTAL ANTIMONY OF EDUCATION\n\n\nA more precise determination must now be given to the problem, touched\nupon in the preceding chapter, which might be called the _fundamental\nantinomy of education_, understanding by \"antinomy\" the conflict of two\ncontradictory affirmations, either one of which appears to be true and\nirrefutable.\n\nThe two contradictory affirmations are (1) that man as the object of\neducation is and must be free, and (2) that education denies man's\nfreedom. They might perhaps be better re-stated in this way: (1)\nEducation presupposes freedom in man and strives to increase it. (2)\nEducation treats man by ignoring the freedom he may originally be\nendowed with, and acts in such a way as to strip him entirely of it.\n\nEach of the two propositions must be taken, not as an approximate\naffirmation, but as an exact enunciation of an irrefutable truth.\nTherefore freedom here means full and absolute liberty; and when we\nspeak of the negation of freedom, we mean that education as such, and as\nfar as it is carried, destroys the freedom of the pupil.\n\nLet us first see precisely what is meant by this _freedom_ which we\nattribute to man. Each one of us firmly even though obscurely possesses\nsome conception of it. Every one of us, even though unfamiliar with the\ncontroversies that have raged for centuries on the question of free\nwill, must have sometimes been compelled by the conditions of human life\nto face the difficulties that beset the concept of man's freedom, and\nmust have been led to question, if not to deny outright, the proposition\nthat man is free. But on the other hand, every one of us has to admit\nthat the experience of life has confirmed the belief in our freedom\nwhich for a moment had been shaken by doubt and perplexity; and that\nfaith, instinctive and incoercible, outlives every time the onslaughts\nof negation.\n\nBy liberty we mean that power peculiar to man by which he moulds himself\ninto his actual being and originates the series of facts in which every\none of his actions becomes manifest. In nature, all facts, or, as they\nare called, all phenomena appear to us to be so interrelated as to\nconstitute a universal system in which no phenomenon can ever be\nconsidered as absolutely beginning, but can in each case be traced back\nto a preceding phenomenon as its cause, or at any rate as the condition\nof its intelligibility. The condensation of the aqueous vapour in the\ncloud produces rain; but vapour would not condense without the action\nof temperature, nor again would temperature be lowered without the\nconcurrence of certain meteorological facts which modify it, etc.\n\nBut we believe on the other hand that man derives from no one but\nhimself the principles and the causes of his actions. So that whenever\nwe see in his conduct the necessary effects of causes that have acted on\nhis character or momentarily on his will, we cease to consider such acts\nas partaking of that moral value through which man's conduct is really\nhuman and completely sundered from the instinctive impulses of the lower\nanimal, and even more so from the behaviour of the forces of inanimate\nmatter.\n\nWe may in certain moments deny a man's humanity, and see in his conduct\nonly brutal impulse, fierce cruelty, and unreasoning bestiality. In such\nmoments we cannot stop either to praise or to blame him. We do not even\nstrive to reason with him, for we feel that arguments would produce no\nimpression on his obdurate consciousness. Only through force can we\ndefend ourselves from his violence; against him we must use the same\nweapon that we rely upon in our struggle with the wild beasts and the\nblind forces of nature. We then become aware that our soul refuses to\nrecognise such an individual as a man. We esteem man to be such only\nwhen we believe that we can influence him by words, by arguments that\nare directed to reason, which is the birthright of man, and when we are\nable to prevail upon those sentiments of his which, as peculiarly human,\nappear to be almost the foundation and the understructure of rational\nactivity. This reason and these sentiments it must be remembered are the\npeculiar constituents of human personality. They cannot be imparted to\nman from the outside. They are in him from the very start even if only\nas germs which he must himself cultivate, and which will, when\ndeveloped, enable him to act consciously, that is, with full knowledge\nof his acts. This knowledge is twofold, for he knows what he is doing,\nand he knows also how his actions must be judged. And so all the causes\nthat bear on him are practically of no weight in determining a course\nwhich he will take, if he is a man, only after the approval of his own\njudgment. What is more natural than to avenge an insult, and to harbour\nhatred against an enemy? And yet from the viewpoint of morals, man is\nworthy of this name only in so far as he is able to resist his\noverpowering passions and to release himself from that force which\ncompels him to offset harm with more harm, and meet hatred with hatred.\nHe must pardon; he must love the enemy who harms him. Only when a man is\ncapable of understanding the beauty of this pardon and of such love,\nonly when, attracted by their beauty, he acts no longer in compliance\nwith the force of instinctive nature, does he cease to count as a purely\nnatural being, and lift himself to a higher level into that moral world\nwhere he must progressively exhibit his human activities. Whether man is\nequal to this task or not, we must demand that he satisfy this\nrequirement before we admit him into the society of mankind. He must\nhave in himself the strength to withstand the pressure of external\nforces which may act on his will, on his personality, on that inner\ncentre from which his personality moves towards us, speaks to us, and\nthus affirms its existence. We make these demands on him; and as we\nextol him when by his deeds he shows sufficient capacity for his human\nrole, so we also blame him every time we find him through weakness\nyielding to these forces. And the import of our blame is that he is\nresponsible for not having the power which he should have had.\n\nIt is of no importance that out of compassion, or through sympathy\nfor human frailty, we lighten or even entirely remove the burden of our\ncensure. Our disapproval of the deficiency, even though unexpressed,\nremains within us side by side with the conviction that the delinquent\nmay do a great deal, nay, must, aided by us in the future, do\neverything in his power to meet successfully the opposing forces of\nevil. We surely cannot abandon the unfortunate wretch who through\nmoral impotence--whether it be the craven submissiveness of the\ncoward, or the undaunted violence of the overbearing brute--commits an\nevil deed. We feel it our duty to watch over him and help him on\nthe road to redemption, because of our firm conviction that he will\neventually redeem himself; for he is after all a man like the rest of\nus, and possesses therefore within himself the source and principle\nof a life which will raise him from the slough in which he lies\nimmersed.\n\nThere is, however, a pseudo-science which, on the basis of superficial\nand inaccurate observations, dogmatically asserts that certain forms of\ncriminality give evidence of original and irremediable moral depravity;\nand that therefore persons tainted with it are fatally condemned never\nto heed sufficiently the voice of duty and ever to yield to their\nperverted instinct, which presses unrestrained from the depths of their\nbeing at the slightest provocation and on the occasion of the most\ninsignificant clash with other human beings.\n\nThis is the doctrine of the modern school of criminal anthropology which\nhas spread throughout the world the fame of some Italian writers. Though\ntheir influence is now on the wane, their observations on the\npathological nature of criminal acts have contributed to establish the\nneed of a more humane treatment of offenders,--more humane because\nrational and effective.\n\nTheir doctrine falls in with a series of systems which at all times, and\nalways for materialistic motives,--materialistic even though disguised\nunder religious and theological robes,--have denied to man that power\nwhich we call liberty, compelling him therefore to bend down under the\nstress of universal determinism, and to behave as the drop that forever\nmoves with the motion of the boundless ocean, an insignificant particle\nof the entire watery mass. What force intrinsic to this drop could ever\nstop it on the crest of the wave which hurls it forward? Man, they say,\nis no different from this drop: from the time of his birth to the\ninstant of his death, hemmed in by all the beings of nature, acted upon\nby innumerable concurrent causes, he is pushed and dragged at every\nmoment by the irresistible current of all the forces of the entire mass\nof the universe. At times he may delude himself into believing that he\nhas lifted his consciousness out of the huge flood, that it is within\nhis power to resist, to stop it as far as he is concerned, and to\ncontrol it; that, in short, it rests with him to fashion his own\ndestiny. But alas! this very belief, this illusion is the determined\nresult of the forces acting upon him: it is the inevitable effect of the\nplay of his representations,--representations which have not their\norigin in him, but have been impressed upon him by outside forces. So\nthat the illusion of independence is but a mocking confirmation of the\nimpossibility of escaping the rush of fatal currents.\n\nI shall not here give a critical presentation of the arguments by which\nsystems such as these have established the absence of freedom in man.\nIn our present need, a single remark will suffice, and will permit us,\nI believe, to cut the discussion short. A great German philosopher,\nwho had conceived science and reality, which is the object of\nscience, in such a way as to preclude the possibility of finding in\nreality a place for man's freedom, noticed that freedom, in spite of all\nthe difficulties which science encounters in accounting for it,\ncorresponds and answers to an invincible certitude in our soul,\ninvincible because a postulate of our moral conscience. That is to\nsay, that whatever our scientific theories and ideas, we have a\nconscience which imposes a law upon us,--a law which, though not\npromulgated and sustained by any external force, or rather because of\nit, compels us in a manner which is absolute. This law is the moral\nlaw. It requires no speculative demonstration. The scrutiny of\nphilosophers might not be helpful to it. It rises spontaneously and\nnaturally from the intimate recesses of our spirit; and it demands from\nour will, from the will of the most uncouth man, an unconditional\nrespect. What sense would there be in the word duty, if man were able to\ndo only those things which his own nature, or worse still, nature in\ngeneral, compelled him to do? The existence of duty implies a power to\nfulfil it. And the certitude of our moral obligations rests on the\nconviction that we have within us the power to meet them. We can\nanswer the call of duty because we are free.\n\nThis consideration, important as it is, cannot however be considered as\nsufficient. For this moral conscience, this certitude with which the\nmoral conscience affirms the existence of an unavoidable duty, might\nalso be an illusion determined in us by natural causes. Nothing hinders\nus from thinking thus, and surely there is no contradiction implied in\nthis explanation, which in fact because of its possibilities is offered\nby the philosophers of materialism.\n\nBut the need of liberty is not solely felt when we strive to conceive\nour moral obligations; freedom is not only the ground for existence, the\n_raison d'etre_ of moral law, as Kant thought--for he is the philosopher\nto whom I alluded above;--no! freedom is the condition of the entire\nlife of the spirit. And the materialist who, having destroyed liberty as\na condition of moral conduct, believes that he is still able to think,\nthat his intellectual activity can proceed undisturbed after his faith\nin the objective value and in the reality of moral laws has been\nabandoned, such a materialistic thinker is totally mistaken. For without\nfreedom, man not only is unable to speak of duty, but he cannot speak at\nall,--not even of his materialistic views. This is the same as saying\nthat the negation of liberty is unthinkable.\n\nA brief reflection will make this clearer. We speak to others or to\nourselves in so far as we think, or say something or make affirmations.\nLet us suppose that ideas be present to our minds (as people have\nsometimes imagined) without our looking at them, without our noticing\nthem. Such ideas would have offered themselves in vain, in the same way\nthat many material objects remain unseen before us, because we do not\nturn our gaze toward them. Every object of the mind, that is, every\nthought, can only be thought because in addition to it we too are in the\nmind: our mental activity is there, the ego of the thinking man, the\nsubject which is ready to affirm the object. And thought proper consists\nin this affirmation of the object by the subject. Now, the subject, that\nis, man, must be as free in the affirmation of his thought, by which he\nthinks something, as he must be free in every one of his actions in\norder that his action be truly his, and really human. In fact, we demand\nof man that he give an account of his thoughts as well as of his deeds.\nWe evaluate not only what he does, but also what he thinks; we praise\nhim or we disapprove of him because of his sayings, that is, his\nthoughts, and we call upon him to correct those thoughts which he should\nnot entertain. In this way we indicate our conviction that the thought\nof each one of us is not simply a logical consequence of its premises,\nnot an effect determined by a psychic mechanism set in motion by the\nuniversal mechanism of which our individual psyche is a part; we are\nconvinced that thought depends upon man, upon his capacity, upon his\npersonality, which is not controlled by any mechanical forces, nor\nsubject to premises which he may no longer modify once he has accepted\nthem. We are the masters of our thinking; and if the vigour of the human\npersonality is indeed shown by the steadfast constancy whereby in\npractical life we pursue a hard and toilsome course toward an arduous\ngoal, it is revealed just as much by the quickness, the readiness, the\nassiduousness, the lack of prejudice, the love which we manifest in our\nsearch after truth.\n\nIt has therefore been said that cognition in man has moral value, and\nthat on the other hand the will is operative in the act of the\nintellect. Such distinctions are dangerous. But whether we call it will\nor intellect, the activity which makes us what we are, by which we\nactualise our personality, also by thinking, it is certain that it is a\nconscious and discriminating activity, through no force of gravity\nprecipitating on its object, but approaching it with selective freedom\nof determination. And in the manner that every action aims at the good,\nbecause it seems good, and appears in contrast with evil, so every\ncognition is the affirmation of what to us is or seems to be a truth in\nopposition to error and falseness. Without the antithesis of good to\nevil there would be no moral action: without the antithesis of the true\nto the false there would be no cognition. But the existence of this\nantithesis implies a choice and therefore the liberty of choosing.\n\nShould we deny freedom, and consequently abandon man to the determinism\nof the causes acting upon him, we should deny the possibility of\ndistinguishing between good and evil, between true and false. The\nmaterialist, therefore, when he rejects freedom, is compelled to affirm\nthat the value which moral conscience attributes to goodness is devoid\nof any real grounds, and what is worse, that his very statement is\nthereby stripped of all the value of truth. For he must be inwardly\nconvinced that what he thinks has no reason to be thought and therefore\ncannot be thought.\n\nThe negation of freedom leads to this _absurdum_, to this impossible\nthought, which is the Thought that is being thought as such, and yet\ndoes not admit of being thought. Man, in so far as he thinks, affirms\nhis faith in freedom, and every attempt on his part to uproot this faith\nfrom his soul is but a glaring confirmation of its existence. This\nobservation, properly grasped, is sufficient to establish human freedom\non a solid ground.\n\nFreedom, moreover, which man needs in order to be human, cannot be, as\nsome have supposed, a relative liberty, limited and restricted by\ncertain conditions, for conditional liberty does not differ from\nslavery. Here indeed is the very crux of the problem. Every one would\nreadily admit the existence of a limited freedom, and the divergence\nwould then be reduced to a question of degree. But the fact is that\nfreedom must be absolute or not be at all. Matter, that is, every\nmaterial object, is not free for the very reason that it is limited;\nwhereas the spirit--every spiritual act--is free because it is infinite,\nand as such not relative to any thing, and therefore absolute.\n\nAny limitation of the spirit would annihilate its liberty. The slave is\nsuch because his will is constrained within the bounds imposed upon it\nby the master's volition. The human spirit is not free in the presence\nof nature because nature envelops it and enfolds it within narrow\nconfines, which allow only a certain development; and this development\ntherefore cannot be looked upon as a grant of nature but rather as a\ncondemnation, in that it marks out boundaries which cannot be\ntrespassed. The lower animal is not free because even if its actions\nseem to imply a rationality not very different from that of man, yet in\nreality its acts, differently from the doings of man, follow the\nstraight line pre-established by instinct, which admits of no original\npower and allows no individual creation. If there is a limit, there must\nbe something limiting and something limited; there must be a necessary\nrelationship of one to the other, so that the thing limited can in no\nway free itself from the consequences of this relationship. These\nconsequences are summed up in the impossibility of _being all_, or in\nother words in the necessity of remaining within limits, and to obey\ntherefore the untransgressable laws set by one's own nature. This\nnecessity which binds every natural being to the laws of its own nature,\nthis impossibility of being aught else than what is appointed by nature,\nto be a wolf of necessity, and of necessity to be a lamb; this is the\nhard lot of natural beings, this is the destiny from which man is\nransomed by the power of his freedom.\n\nThe sculptor in the fervour of his inspiration, which proceeds from the\nimage that lives in his phantasy, searches eagerly for the marble with\nwhich, as though from the very bosom of nature, he may call to life the\nphantom of his mind. He fails in his search, and his chisel remains,\nmust need remain, inactive. The artist then in the utmost intensity of\nhis creation is baffled by an external impediment, by an obstacle of\nnature which therefore seems to have the power of limiting his creative\npower. But when we consider what the artist has created in the statue\nitself, in this living image of marble, we find nothing that is\nmaterial. The artist has transfused into the stone an idea, a sentiment,\na soul, which we, under the influence of the ravishing power of artistic\nbeauty, are able to seize to the exclusion of all material attributes;\nas though we no longer possessed eyes for the whiteness of the marble\nand were deprived of the muscle which gives us the impression of its\nphysical weight. When we are able thus to spiritualise the statue--and\nwe do so every time we get to know it as a work of art--then all\nlimitations that might be imposed on the creative power of the artist\ndisappear. For we see no longer the artist's phantasy, and then his arm,\nand then his hand, his chisel, the block which he is carving; all we see\nis the phantasy soaring untrammelled in the infinite world of the\nartist, with his arm, his hand, his marble, his universe which is\ntotally different from the universe in which the men live who quarry the\nmarble and move it and sell it.\n\nThere is a point of view from which we see the spirit limited and\nenslaved by the conditions in which its life is unfolded. But there is a\nhigher point of view to which we must ascend if we are bent on\ndiscovering our freedom. If we say, as the psychologists do, this is a\nsoul and this is a body, here are sensations, there is motion, this is\nthought within us and that is the world outside of us, then we are\nobliged to consider the spirit as conditioned by physical happenings to\nwhich in some manner our internal determinations correspond. It is not\npossible to see without eyes and without the light that strikes them. It\nis equally impossible not to see when we have eyes and are surrounded by\nlight, and according to the greater or lesser velocity of the luminous\nwaves, we shall of necessity discern now one colour and now another. And\nthe objects thus seen by us will determine our thoughts; and in turn our\nvolitions will depend upon these thoughts; and our characters will be\nshaped accordingly, and we shall be this or that man in conformity with\nthe determination of circumstances. Man, according to this conception,\nwill be the result of time, of place, of environment, of everything\nexcept of his own self.\n\nBut there is a higher point of view than the one I have just described,\nand to it we must rise, if we mean to understand our nature,--this\nmarvellous human nature which was first disclosed to our consciousness\nat the advent of Christianity and in the course of time made more and\nmore manifest, until it now loudly proclaims in us our human dignity\nexalted above the forces of nature, and is empowered by its cognitive\nfaculty to dominate these forces, which must bend to man's purposes\nwithout ever blocking or obstructing his progress. Whosoever says: here\nis a body and there is a soul--two things, one outside of the\nother--such a man does not consider that these two things are two terms\ndistinguished and differentiated by thought in the bosom of thought,\nthat is to say, of the soul: of that soul which is truer than the other\nfor the obvious reason that the latter thinks and therefore reveals its\nsoul-nature by its own acts, whereas the former is the object of\nthinking, is a thing thought, and may therefore be a fallacious entity,\nan idolon, and a simple _ens rationis_, like so many other things that\nare thought and are subsequently found to have no kind of subsistence.\nIn speaking of sensation and of motion which generates or somehow\nconditions sensation, we lose sight of the fact that sensation is truly\nenough a determination of consciousness, but in the same manner as the\nmotion which is encountered in consciousness when the latter, in\nthinking, among other things thinks the displacement of objects in\nspace.\n\nFor everything is within consciousness, and no way can be devised of\nissuing forth from it. We say that the brain is external to\nconsciousness, and that the cranium encloses the brain, which in turn is\nenveloped by space luminous and airy, space filled with beautiful plants\nand beautiful animals; yet the fact remains that brain and skull and\neverything else are the potential or actual object of our thinking\nfaculty, and cannot but remain therefore within that consciousness to\nwhich for a moment we supposed them to be external. We may start\nthinking, keeping in mind this indestructible substance of our thought;\nand as we proceed from this centre in which we have placed ourselves as\nsubjects of thinking, and advance towards an ever-receding horizon, do\nwe ever come in sight of the point where we must pause and say: \"Here my\nthought ends; here something begins that is other than my thought\"?\nThought halts only before mystery. But even then it thinks it as\nmystery, and thinking it, transforms it, and then proceeds, and so never\nreally stops.\n\nSuch being the true life of the spirit, rightly have we called it\nuniversal. At every throb it soars through the infinite, without ever\nencountering aught else than its own spiritual actualisations. In this\nlife, such as we see it from the interior when we do not fantastically\nmaterialise it with our imaginations, the spirit is free because it is\ninfinite.\n\nEducation then posits this liberty in the pupil, for it presupposes in\nhim a susceptibility of development,--educability, as we may call it.\nThe learner could not possibly be educable, that is, susceptible of\nreceiving instruction, unless he were able to think. But thinking, we\nhave already seen, signifies freedom. And not only is freedom\npresupposed by the educator, but it is the very thing he is aiming at in\nhis work. As a result of his teaching, liberty must be developed in the\nsame manner that the capacity for thinking and all modes of spiritual\nactivity are developed. For the development of thought is a development\nof reflection, a constant increase of control over our own ideas, over\nthe content of our consciousness, over our character, over our whole\nbeing in relation to every other being. And this growth of power is what\nwe mean when we speak of the development of our freedom. It has been\nsaid, in fact, that education consists in liberating the individual from\nhis instincts. Surely, education is the formation of man, and when we\nsay man we mean liberty.\n\nHere we stumble upon our antinomy. How are we to reconcile this\npresupposition and this aim of the educator with his interference in the\npersonality of the pupil? This interposition surely signifies that the\ndisciple must not be left to himself and to his own resources; that he\nhas to clash with something or somebody that is not his own personality.\nEducation implies a dualism of terms, the teacher and the learner; and\nit is this dualism which destroys the freedom, which sets a limit, and\ntherefore annihilates infinity in which freedom consists. The disciple\nwho encounters a stronger mastering will, an intellect equipped with a\nmultitude of ideas, with an experience which forestalls his own powers\nof observation, and his innate zeal for investigation, sees in this more\npotent personality either a barrier obstructing his progress towards a\ngoal which he spontaneously would attain; or else a goad which hurries\nhim along the way which he would have indeed chosen of his own accord,\nbut along which he would have liked to advance freely, calmly, joyously,\nas our Vittorino da Feltre would have it, and without any unwelcome\ncompulsion. This pupil then would want to be left alone in order that he\nmight be free, as free as God when as yet the world was not and he\ncreated it out of nothing by his joyous _fiat_, symbol of the loftiest\nspiritual liberty.\n\nFor these reasons we have come to believe that the most serious problem\nof education is the agreement between the liberty of the pupil and the\nauthority of the teacher. Therefore great masters who meditated on the\nsubject of education, from Rousseau to Tolstoi, have exalted the rights\nof liberty, but have fallen into the opposite extreme of denying the\nduty to authority, and have pursued in their abstractions a vague and\nunrealisable ideal of negative education.\n\nBut we must not cling to negatives. It should be our purpose to\nconstruct, not to destroy. The school, this glorious inheritance of\nhuman experiences, this ever-glowing hearth where the human spirit\nkindles and sublimates life as an object of constant criticism and of\nundying love, may be transformed, but cannot be destroyed. Let the\nschool live, and let us cling to the teacher and maintain his authority,\nwhich limits the spontaneity and the liberty of the pupil. For this\nlimitation is only apparent.\n\nApparent, however, when we deal with true education. For the school has\nfor centuries been the victim of a grave injustice. People have been led\nto consider the classroom as a place of confinement and of punishment,\nand teachers have been cruelly lashed by the scourge of ridicule cracked\nin the face of pedantry. Through this injustice, the school has been\nburdened with faults that are not its own, and teachers, genuine\neducators, have been confused with the pedantic drill-masters that are\nthe negation of intelligent education and of inspired ethical\ndiscipline. In order to see whether education really limits the free\nactivity of the pupil, we must not consider abstractly any school, which\nmay not be after all a school. We must examine an institution at the\nmoment and in the act which realises its significance--when the\ninstructor teaches and the pupils are learning. Such a moment should at\nleast hypothetically be granted to exist.\n\nLet us take a concrete example and consider a teacher in the act of\ngiving lessons in Italian. Where is this something which I have called\nthe Italian language? In the grammar, perchance? Or in the dictionary?\nYes, partly. Provided grammar can invest its rules with the life of the\nindividual examples that together constitute the expressive power of the\nliving language; and provided the dictionary does not wither up all\nwords in the arid abstraction of alphabetical classification; does not\nhang each of them by itself as limbs torn from the living body of the\nspeech in which they had so often resounded and to which they will be\njoined again in the fulness of life and expressiveness; but does instead\nincorporate, as every good dictionary should, complete phrases, living\nutterances of great authors or perhaps of that nameless many-souled\nwriter that somewhat confusedly is called the people.\n\nBut more than in the grammar and more than in the dictionary, the word\nis and exists in the writers themselves. The teacher should there point\nit out, as he guides his pupils through the authors who were able to\nexpress most powerfully our common thoughts. To his students who are\nstriving to learn the language--that is the writers--he reads for\nexample the poems of Leopardi. The poet's word, his soul hovers over\nthe classroom, as the master reads. It penetrates into the minds of the\npupils, hushes every other sentiment, removes every other thought, and\nthrobs within them, stirs them, arouses them. It becomes one with the\nsoul of each pupil, which speaks to itself a language of its own, using,\ntruly enough, the words of Leopardi, but of a Leopardi who is peculiar\nto each of the listeners. Under this spell, the pupil who hears the\npoet's word echoing in the depths of his being, will he stop to reflect\nthat this word is the echo of an echo? That he is under the influence of\nsomething repeated after a first utterance? Our own experience answers:\nNo! But if any of the audience become absent-minded, if they should lose\nthe rapt delight of poetical exaltation communicated to their soul by\nthe teacher's voice, and should say that the word they hear is not their\nown but the master's, or rather, the poet's, then they would commit a\nserious blunder. For the word they intently listen to in their soul is\ntheir own, exclusively their own. Leopardi does not impart any poesy to\nhim who, through his love, his study, and the intensity of his feelings,\nis unable to live his own poetry. And Leopardi (or the teacher who reads\nhim) is not materially external to the enraptured listener; he is his\nown Leopardi, such as he has been able to create for himself. The\nmaster, as St. Augustine long ago warned us, is within us.\n\nHe is within us even if we see him in front of us, away from us seated\nin his chair. For in so far as he is a real teacher, he is ever the\nobject of our consciousness, surrounded and uplifted in our spirit by\nthe reverence of our feelings and by our trustful affection. He is _our_\nteacher, he is our very soul.\n\nThe dualism then is non-existent when we are educating. We do notice it\nbefore, and we are thus brought to examine the antinomy; but the\ndifficulty is removed by the very act of education itself, by the first\nword that comes to the pupils' ears from the lips of the teacher. The\ndualism however cannot be resolved if the master's word fails to reach\nthe pupils' soul, but then under those circumstances there is no\neducation. But even in such cases, if the teacher is not sluggish, if he\ndisplays a real spiritual power, the abiding existence of the barrier\nbetween the two minds proves helpful to the spiritual growth of the\nlearner, who, because of his incoercible freedom, is impelled by the\ninsufficiency of the master to affirm his personality with increased\nvigour. So that the school is a hearth of liberty, even in spite of the\nintentions of the teacher. A school without freedom is a lifeless\ninstitution.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nREALISM AND IDEALISM IN THE CONCEPT OF CULTURE\n\n\nWe found it necessary in the previous chapter to pass from the abstract\nto the concrete in order to arrive at the truth. The universality of the\nindividual was made clear when for the empirical concept of the\nindividual, abstractly considered, we substituted the deeper and more\nspeculative one of the individual himself in the concreteness of his\nrelationships. In like manner, the fundamental antinomy of education was\nresolved as soon as we replaced the abstract idea of the dualism of\nteacher and pupil, by the idea of their intrinsic, profound, unseverable\nunity as it gradually works out and is actualised in the process of\neducation. We were enabled therefore to conclude that the real teacher\nis within the soul of the pupil, or, better still, the teacher is the\npupil himself in the dynamism of his development. So that, far from\nlimiting the autonomy of the disciple, the master, as the propulsive\nelement of the pupil's spontaneity, penetrates his personality, not to\nsuppress it, but to help its impulses and facilitate its infinite\ndevelopment.\n\nThe same method of resorting to the concrete now leads us to the\ndetermination of a third essential element in the process of education.\nWe have spoken of the master, and we have spoken of the pupil,--of the\nlatter as becoming actual as universal personality, of the former as\nbecoming identical with this same personality. We must now take up the\nconnecting link between the two, that is, culture. By culture we mean\nthe content of education, the presupposed heirloom which in the course\nof time must pass from the teacher to the pupil. This spiritual content,\nin being apprehended, appears under different aspects: as erudition and\ninformation; as formation of personal capacities and training of\nspiritual activities; as art and science; as experience of life and as\nconcept and ideal of existence; as simple cognition and as a norm of\nconduct. It includes everything that comes within the scope of teaching,\nand from whose value education derives its peculiar worth.\n\nCulture, so defined, may be conceived of in two ways; and in as much as\ntheir differences are highly significant in the sphere of education as\nelsewhere, we must now somewhat carefully consider them.\n\nThese two ways correspond to two opposite conceptions of reality, and as\nsuch they pertain to philosophy. But men in general constantly have\nrecourse to them, and so it happens that people frequently indulge in\nphilosophic speculations without knowing it; and much philosophising\ngoes on outside of the schools of the specialists, who are few compared\nto the great number of those who in their own way handle genuine\nconcepts of philosophy.\n\nLet us begin from the most obvious of these concepts, from the one which\nis fundamental and original to the human mind. Our whole life, if we\nconsider the data of experience, seems to unfold itself on the\nsubstratum of a natural world, which therefore, far from depending on\nhuman life, represents the very condition of it. In order to live, to\nact, to produce, or in any way to exercise an influence on the external\nworld, we must, first of all, be born. Our birth is the effect of a life\nwhich is not our life, which step by step rises and grows and spreads\nuntil it gathers all nature within itself. This nature existed before we\nwere born, it will continue to be after we are all dead. Men draw their\nlife from an organic and inorganic nature which had to exist in order\nthat they might come into being. When nature will cease to provide these\nconditions, human life, according to this point of view, will come to an\nend; but nature, transformed, chilled, darkened, dead, will yet continue\nto be.\n\nOn this living trunk of nature our own life is grafted; animals come\ninto existence, and among animals the human species. Each of us, as he\ncomes into the world, finds this nature, developed, abundant,\ndiversified in millions of forms, traversed by innumerable forces,\norganised up to the most highly developed structures, man included. We\nfind this nature, and we begin to study it. We examine its parts one by\none, their complexity, and the difference of their functioning. For each\none of them has its peculiar way of being and of acting; it has its\n\"laws.\" The aggregate of these laws, mutually corresponding, and\nintegrating one another, constitutes the natural world--reality--as it\nstands before us. With this external reality we strive to become\nacquainted; and in order that we may live in it we either adapt\nourselves to it, or adapt its conditions to ourselves. In this reality\ntoo we acquire the knowledge of the needs of our organism and of the\nmeans by which they may be satisfied,--the ratio, so to speak, between\nnatural desires and controlled resources.\n\nWe are also told that our organism is in constant change and hurries on\nto its destination, to our death, which we abhor as passionately as we\ncherish life, but which we accept because such is the law of human life,\nfatal and inexorable; for reality is what it is, and we must adapt\nourselves to it.\n\nBut if reality appears as constituted before us, as therefore\nconditioning our existence, and as existing independently of us; if it\nis indifferent to reality whether we be in it or not; if we are truly\nextraneous to it, the conclusion must then be drawn that we, from the\noutside, presume to know reality and to move about it without being this\nreality itself or any part of it. For all reality is thought by us as a\nconnected whole, though indeed vaguely; in its totality it is regarded\nas an object known to us, but existing in utter independence of this\nknowledge of ours. Its whole process is therefore complete in objective\nnature, which conditions our spiritual life, and this in turn can mirror\nreality but can never be a part of it.\n\nThis then is the primitive and fundamental concept that the human mind\nforms of reality. In consequence of it man feels that he is enclosed\nwithin himself: he knows he is producing the dreams and the fair images\nof art; that he can construct inwardly abstract geometrical figures and\nnumbers; that he can generate ideas. But he also feels that between\nthese ideal creations of his own, and the solid, sound, real living\nforms of nature, there is an abyss. He must, indeed, fall in with\nnature, in the process of generating other living beings of flesh and\nblood. He must avail himself of nature by first submitting to its\nunfailing laws, if he intends to give body, that is, real existence, to\nthe ideal conceptions of his intelligence. On one side then we have\nthought; on the opposite side reality,--that reality, Nature.\n\nThis conception at a certain moment is transformed but not substantially\nchanged. As we begin to reflect, we notice that this nature, as known to\nus, is not the real external nature, the nature which is unfolded in\ntime and space, which we see before our eyes, an object perceptible by\nour bodily senses. We conclude then, that nature as known to us is an\n_idea_; that Nature is one thing and the idea of nature another. And if\nwe think this perceptible nature and have faith in its reality and in\nthe reality of its determinations, this nature in which reality is made\nto consist is the nature which is within our thought,--the idea of\nnature; or in other words, thought considered as the content of our\nmind. This thought is the aim of all the inquiries by which we strive to\nbecome thoroughly acquainted with nature, and which we finally discover\nor at least ought to discover when we succeed in attaining true\nknowledge. We say that we know nature only when we are able to recognise\nan idea in nature: that is, an idea in each of its elements, and a\nsystem of ideas in the whole of nature. So that what we know is not\nreally nature as it presents itself to our senses, still less nature as\nit is, before it has impressed our senses; but nature as disclosed to us\nby thought, as it exists in thought--i.e., the idea. And this idea must\nbe real, otherwise nature, which has its truth in the idea, could not be\nreal. Not only is it real, it is that reality itself which a moment ago\nwe were led to think of as consisting in external perceptible nature.\n\nThis reality makes the life of our thought possible, but it is not a\nproduct of this life. It is a condition and a prerequisite of\nthought, and as such it does not exist because we think it: but\nrather we are able to think it because it exists. It is eternal\ntruth, at first unknown to man, then by him desired. In quest of it\nhe gradually lifts on all sides the veil which hides it from his eyes,\nwithout however hoping that it will ever entirely disclose to him its\ndivine countenance.\n\nAccording to this transformed point of view, then, reality, which in the\nfirst instance appeared to be natural, that is physical or material, has\nnow become ideal. But even thus it remains extraneous to thought, and\nunconcerned with the presence or the absence of it; transcending the\nentire life of the human spirit, and incessantly subject to the danger\nof error. Whereas the idea as a complexus of all ideas that can be\nthought (but have not been thought, or rather have not all been thought)\nis the beacon of light that guides the way of man in the ocean of life;\nit is Truth pure and perfect.\n\nThis idea evidently must not be confused with the purely subjective\nideas which we spoke of above, and which as such are extraneous to\nreality. This idea is reality itself idealised. It is to this idea, for\ninstance, that we all appeal when we affirm the existence of a justice\nsuperior to that of which man is capable, of a justice in behalf of\nwhich man is in duty bound to sacrifice his private interests, and even\nhis life. This idea we have in mind when we speak of a sacred and\ninviolable right, whereas in daily practice there is perhaps no right\nwhich is not more or less trampled upon. This idea is before us when we\nconsider truth in general: truth which is indeed real, even though it\nmay not be seen or felt, much more real than physical nature, for nature\ncomes to life and dies and constantly changes, while truth is\nmotionless, impassible, eternal. In its bosom then we must try to find\neverything that we want to accept as not illusory.\n\nBut in substituting the conception of an ideal reality for the\nconception of a material one, reality as a whole continues to be\nsomething contradistinguished from us, an object indeed of our thoughts,\nbut one which cannot be conceived as it is in itself except by\nabstracting it from our own thought.\n\nWe, then, who open our eager eyes in the endeavour to discover, to know,\nto orient ourselves, to live in the midst of a known and familiar world;\nwe, thinking beings, and not simply things of nature, beings who as such\naffirm our personality in the very act of saying _We_, we then are of\nless account than the earthworms which crawl along until they die\nunknown to the foot that crushes them. We are nothing because we do not\nbelong to reality; we deceive ourselves into believing that we are doing\nsomething on our own account, but in truth we renounce every desire of\ndoing or creating something original, something we might really call\nours; and we abandon ourselves, we drift away confused with external\nreality and submerged under the irresistible current of its laws.\n\nThis conception of life, which I have given only in its barest outline,\nis a very common one. For thousands of years it has persisted in the\nphilosophical field, the nourishment and the torment of the greatest\nintellects of humanity. But humanity could not rest satisfied with a\nworld conceived in such a manner; with a world which, whether we call it\nnature or idea, is at bottom always nature. For by nature we understand\nnot only that reality which is in space and time, but also every reality\nwhich is not the product of our will, nor the result in general of that\nspiritual activity, which in a manner peculiar to all human acts reveals\na diversity of values, extending from the sublimity of heroism and of\ngenius to the lowest depths of cowardice and to the gloom of sloth. Nor\ncan it be considered as the product or result of a process; for it is\nimmediate reality, original and immutable. In a world which is Nature,\nman is an intruder, a stranger without rights, without even real\nexistence. As a being, he is destined to be suppressed; nay, he does not\neven exist. And his life, with all his aspirations, his needs, his\nclaims, is but a fallacious illusion which will sooner or later\ncollapse. Man cannot help succumbing in a world where there is no place\nfor him. Therefore a more or less cloudy gust of pessimism lowers over\nthe consciousness that has stopped at this conception of reality.\nLeopardi is the most eloquent expression of the intense misery to which\nman is condemned in such circumstances, or to which rather he condemns\nhimself. He condemns himself because he has it in his power to conceive\nreality otherwise. For let him ponder seriously and he will succeed in\nconvincing himself that the naturalistic conception of reality is\nabsurd. Philosophy has so demonstrated this truth, that he who now\nstrives eagerly to attain a moral point of view in harmony with\nestablished principles can no longer repeat that note of pessimism, can\nno longer assert that the world is nature, or that it is the eternal\nidea from which nature is derived and by which it is made intelligible.\nSuch views are no longer tenable.\n\nThe teacher who, because of his lofty mission, claims the right of\nforming souls, of arousing those powerful moral energies which alone\nempower man to live as a human being, may not, must not be ignorant of\nthe fact that the contention of naturalism, which makes of the world an\nabstract reality, presupposed by the human spirit and therefore anterior\nand indifferent to it, is a belief that has been superseded and\nsurpassed by modern thought. The teacher too can easily grasp this view,\nfor in gathering all the arguments by which, along different lines, the\nnew conception of reality has been attained, we find that the whole\nmatter reduces itself to a simple and very easy reflection. Very easy in\nitself, though it may seem difficult to the greater part of us,--to the\nsuperficial thinkers, to the absent-minded, to those who lack the\nstrength necessary to face the great responsibility imposed upon us by\nthe truth which is derived from this reflection.\n\nFor naturalism reduces itself to the affirmation that we think nature,\nbut do not ourselves exist; nature alone exists. We do not exist and yet\nwe think, and we think of nature as existing. We do not exist and yet\nnature exists, of whose existence we have no other testimony than our\nthoughts. And if thought is a shadow, what will reality then be? The\n\"dream of a shadow,\" in the words of the Greek poet. Is it possible for\nus to stop at this conclusion? Is it possible for an inexistent thing to\nvouch for the existence of something which we know only from its\nattestations? Such is the absurd position we are forced into when we\nassume that Thought, in equipoise with reality, remains outside of it\nand leaves it out of its own self.\n\nWe give the name of realism to that manner of thinking which makes all\nreality consist in an external existence, abstract and separate from\nthought, and makes real knowledge consist in the conforming of our ideas\nto external things. By idealism on the other hand we mean that higher\npoint of view from which we discover the impossibility of conceiving a\nreality which is not the reality of thought itself. For it reality is\nnot the idea as a mere object of the mind, which therefore can exist\noutside of the mind, and must exist there in order that the mind may\neventually have the means of thinking it. Reality is this very thought\nitself by which we think all things, and which surely must be something\nif by means of it we want somehow to affirm any reality whatsoever, and\nmust be a real activity if, in the act of thinking, it will not entangle\nitself in the enchanted web of dreams, but will instead give us the life\nof the real world. If it is not conceivable that such activity could\never go forth from itself and penetrate the presumably existent world of\nmatter, then it means that it has no need of issuing from itself, in\norder to come in contact with real existence; it means that the reality\nwhich we call material and assume to be external to thought is in some\nway illusory; and that the true reality is that which is being realised\nby the activity of thought itself. For there is no way of thinking any\nreality except by setting thought as the basis of it.\n\nThis is the conception, or, if you will, the faith, not only of modern\nphilosophy, but of consciousness itself in general, of that\nconsciousness which was gradually formed and moulded under the influence\nof the deeply moral sentiment of life fostered by Christianity. For it\nwas Christ that first opposed to nature and to the flesh a truer\nreality,--not the world in which man is born, but that world to which he\nmust uplift himself: that world in which he has to live, not because it\nis anterior to him, but because he must create it by his will: and this\nworld is the kingdom of the spirit.\n\nIn accordance with this conception there is, properly speaking, no\nreality: there is a spirit which creates reality, which therefore is\nself-made and not the product of nature. The realist speaks of external\nexistence, of a world into which man is admitted and to which he must\nadapt himself. But the idealist knows only what the spirit does, what\nman acts. A nature, ever at work in the progress of the spirit, throbs\nin the soul of man, who with his intellect and his will re-creates it by\nits restless, unceasing motion. It is a world which is never created,\nbecause the entire past flows and becomes actual in that form which is\npeculiar to it and in which it exists, namely, the present,--history in\nthe incessant rhythm of its becoming, in the ever-living act of\nself-production.\n\nOn what side of the controversy should the teacher stand who means to\nabsorb into his soul the life of the school? Will he with the realists\nbelieve in a reality which must be observed and verified? Or will he as\nan idealist trust that the only world is the one which is to be\nconstructed by him; that in all this task he can rely only on the\ncreative activity of the spirit that moves within us, ever unsatisfied\nwith what is, incessantly aspiring for what does not yet exist, for what\nmust come to be as being the only thing which deserves to exist and to\nfulfil life?\n\nThere are then these two ways of conceiving culture, the realistic and\nthe idealistic. By the former we are led to imagine that man's spirit\nis empty, and that no nourishment can come to it except from the outside\nworld, from those external elements which he can acquire because they\nexist prior to the activity by which he assimilates them. The latter,\nadmitting only what is derived from the developing life of the spirit,\ncan conceive of culture solely as an immanent product of this very life,\nand separable from it only by abstraction.\n\nIt is evident that the ordinarily accepted view of educators to-day is\nrealistic rather than otherwise. The ideal and therefore the historical\norigin of the school itself is intimately connected with the realistic\npresupposition. For the school begins when man for the first time\nbecomes aware of the existence of a store of accumulated culture which\nshould be protected from dispersion. Grammar, for instance, exists\nbefore the notion of teaching it arises. Men already possess a language\nwhen they make up their minds to teach it to their children. Self-taught\nand inventive genius, by new observation and discoveries, gives rise to\nnew disciplines; and men, discovering the value of such disciplines,\ndetermine to institute a school where they may be cultivated and handed\ndown to the coming generations. In general then, first comes knowledge;\nthen the school as a depository of it. It may be granted that the\nprogress of learning is made possible or at least accentuated by\neducational institutions; but the fact remains that the school is\nfounded on pre-existing knowledge. Science, arts, customs must exist\nbefore they can be taught to others, and they do exist, but not in the\nspirit of the one who is to acquire them, who must appropriate them as\nthey are in themselves. The _Iliad_ exists: Homer sang: the poems\nattributed to him were collected into an epic from which we learn of the\nbeliefs, of the aspirations, and of the memories that were dear to the\nancient Greeks, and every cultivated person to-day must derive from them\nhis own spiritual substance. The teacher shows to his pupils how best to\nread, how to understand that epic which is a treasure of the past\nbequeathed not only to the modern Greeks but to humanity in general. For\nwe all profit from this inherited spiritual wealth in the same manner\nthat every man that comes into the world enjoys the light and the heat\nof the sun which he surely did not kindle in heaven.\n\nThe fact that culture, as the subject matter of education, exists before\nthe exercise of that spiritual activity which can be educated only\nthrough its means, seems to the realist a condition without which the\nschool cannot arise. Only as culture develops and spreads does the\nschool grow and expand; and, in the progress of civilisation, as culture\nbecomes specialised, the school is correspondingly differentiated into\ninstitutions of ever-growing specialisation. For the school can but\nfollow and reflect the advance of science, of letters, of art,--of\nhumanity in general in all it strives to perpetuate.\n\nAll this evidently can be maintained only from the point of view of the\nrealist. For him the school is concerned not with those that already\nknow and therefore have no need of it, but for those who are still\nignorant. For them it is instituted; it ministers to their needs, and is\ntherefore adjusted in the direction in which it believes their spirit\nshould be oriented. In the school of physicians, there is not medicine\nbut the learning of it, for if the art of healing were already mastered\nas it seems to be in the case of the professors, there would be no need\nof a medical school. There is indeed the professor in the lecture room;\nbut he is there only for the learners, and his role has no meaning\nexcept in relation to their needs. He is the possessor of science, and\nas such he teaches and does not learn. The school then is not the\npossession of culture, but the development of a spiritual life aspiring\nto this possession; and this aspiration is possible because of the\nexistence of the teacher who has already mastered it, who possesses it,\nnot as his own property, but as social wealth entrusted to him for the\nuse of everybody. He himself is only an instrument of communication.\nCulture antedates him; it does so even when he is the author of it. For\nit is not possible for him to impart it to others until he has first\nelaborated it himself, and not until the merits of his contributions\nhave been in part at least recognised by the world.\n\nThe school to the realist presupposes the library. The teacher needs\nbooks, plenty of books in order to increase his knowledge and thus\nbecome better acquainted with that world through which he has to pilot\nhis pupils. In the books, then, in the long shelves, culture lives: in\nthe innumerable volumes that no one ever hopes to read; in the shelves\nwhich contain a world of beautiful things, and so valuable that man, as\nHorace says, should spend sleepless nights in order to acquire them,\nshould endure cold and heat, fatigue and sacrifice. For humanity, we are\ntold, lives in those volumes to which the teacher must somehow link\nhimself if he intends to advance properly, to live the life which our\nforefathers have generously endowed for us, and to protect our spiritual\ninheritance from dispersion. In this atmosphere he must live; he must\nplunge in that spiritual sea which rolls limitless across the centuries.\nThe pupil looks out upon this ocean which allures every man who is born\nto the life of culture. At first he clings to the shore, dreads the\nwater, and asks to be helped until he has at least become familiar with\nthe element. Who will encourage the beginner to leave the dry land and\nplunge into the deep where he would meet sure destruction? He must first\nbe trained in some sheltered cove, where protected from the violence of\nthe tumultuous surf, from the might of the indivisible mass of the\nocean, he may gradually learn the ways of the deep.\n\nThe student must accordingly begin with a definite book; he must be\nsaved from the haunting power of the library, which draws the youthful\nmind towards every volume, towards every subject. In the multitude of\nbooks, not all of them read, not all of them readable, thought founders,\nsees nothing, thinks nothing, is unable to rest in any of the things\nwhich he imagines exist in the vast library shelves. He must choose. Let\nhim select, say, Dante. He reads the _Divine Comedy_, the poem written\nby that great Italian who has been dead these six centuries and now\nrests at Ravenna, no longer mindful of his Francesca, of his magnanimous\nFarinata, of his kindly master Brunetto, or of Beatrice. Dante created\nhis miraculous world, he breathed life into his characters, wrote the\nlast line of his last canto, smiled in rapture at the divine beauty of\nhis creation, now complete and perfect, and died. His manuscript was\ncopied thousands of times; and after the discovery of printing, millions\nof copies were made. In one of these we now are able to find it, this\ndivine poem, just as it was written,--for we want it exactly as it\nflowed from his pen without the change of a letter, without the omission\nof a comma. And this volume is an example of what exists in a\nlibrary,--of the culture that teachers strive to find there, and thence\ncommunicate to their pupils!--something that belongs to the world,\nsomething which is a part of reality, which men therefore can grasp, if\nthey want to, just as they can get to know the stars and the plants,\nand all things of nature. The _Divine Comedy_ can be realistically\nconceived in respect to us who open the volume and prepare to read it,\nfor the reason that it already exists and arouses our desire. If we had\nleft it on the shelf where it was resting, it would have had exactly the\nsame existence. What we find in the volume, as we read of that land of\nthe dead which is much more living than all the living beings who\nsurround us in our daily life, would all of it have been in that book,\nwould have continued to be there, even if we had never opened it.\n\nBut is it really so? If we reflect a while we shall see that this is not\nthe case. The book contains exactly what we find there, what we are\ncapable of finding there, nothing more, nothing less. Different persons\ndiscover in it different things, but it is nevertheless obvious that for\neach individual the book contains only what he finds in it; and in order\nto be able to say that the book contains more than what a given reader\ndiscovers in it, it is necessary that some other person should find that\nsomething more; and that the text contains this additional beauty is\nonly true for him who discovered it and for those who seek it after\nhim.\n\nDante waited for centuries for De Sanctis[1] to appear and to\ndisclose the meaning of Francesca's words. Therefore it has been\nsaid that to understand Dante is a sign of greatness. Abstractly\nconsidered, of course, the poet is what he is, but only in the\nabstract. In the concrete, Dante is the author whom we admire and\nappreciate proportionately to our power. For as we read the poem in\naccordance with our training, and the development of our personality,\nDante is grafted on a trunk which did not exist before us, which, on\nthe contrary, is our very life; and before this life is realised,\nevidently none of those things can be found there which actually come\ninto being in the process of its realisation. So that if we had not\nread the book, far from its being true that everything we found in it\nwould still continue to be there, nothing would remain of what we find\nin it, absolutely nothing.\n\nWe have said nothing of \"what _we_ find.\" But if we consider the matter\nwe shall see that what we find is everything; everything for me;\neverything for everybody. Only that can come out of a book which the\nreader with his soul and with his labours is capable of getting out of\nit; and in consequence of these labours and in virtue of his soul he is\nable to say that a certain book has a content. In fact, to return to our\nexample, the _Divine Comedy_ which we know, the only one which we can\nknow, the only one which exists, is the one which lives in our souls,\nand which is a function of the criticism that interprets it, understands\nit, and appreciates it. That _Divine Comedy_ therefore did not close\nthe circle of its life on the day when Dante wrote the last line of the\nlast canto; it continued to live, still continues to exist in the\nhistory, in the life of the spirit. Its life never draws to a close. The\npoem is never finished.\n\nThis is true of the poem of Dante; it is true of everything which we\nconceive of as inherited from our great predecessors, from those who\nbuilt up the patrimony of human culture. Culture then is not before us,\na treasure ready to be excavated from the depths of the earth, awaiting\nto be revealed to us. Culture is what we ourselves are making; it is the\nlife of our spirit.\n\nAbstract culture, on the contrary, is merely as realistically conceived.\nIt slumbers in the libraries, in the sepulchres of those who lived, who\npassed away and created it once for all. It belongs to the past, to the\nthings that have died. But the past, if we really mean to grasp it, if\nwe want to see it close by as something that is and not merely as an\nabstraction, the past itself, becoming the present, made into that\nactuality which we call living memory, is history,--history constructed\nby us, meditated by us, re-created by us, in accordance with our\nabilities;--and with our powers of evocation we awaken the past from its\nslumber and breathe into it the life of the spiritual interests, of the\nideas, of the sentiments that are, after all, the living substance in\nwhich the past really survives, in which it is real. In the same way the\nonly culture that can be bestowed upon the spirit, the only one that\nadmits of being concretely taught and learned, the only one that can be\nsought, because it is the only one that really exists, is idealistic\nculture. It is not in books, nor in the brains of others. It exists in\nour own souls as it is gradually being formed there. It cannot therefore\nbe an antecedent to the activity of the spirit, since it consists in\nthis very activity.\n\nThis must be the faith of all those who cannot bring themselves to\nbelieve that they are strangers in this world, and that they have come\nhere to exercise a function which is not their own. For the world in\ngeneral, and the sphere of culture in particular, is not completed when\nwe arrive upon the scene. This is why human life has a value, why\neducation is a mission.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n  [1] Francesco de Sanctis, a great Italian critic, whose \"History of\n      Italian Literature\" is still unfortunately inaccessible in\n      English.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nTHE SPIRITUALITY OF CULTURE\n\n\nThe idealistic conception of culture enables us to get an initial\nunderstanding of the spirituality of the school. This spirituality is\nsurely felt by all those who live within the class-room; but it should\nbe understood in the most rigorous and absolute manner by those who wish\nto have a deeper consciousness of the extreme delicacy of the tasks\nperformed and the words uttered by those who enter it with the sincere\nheart and the pure soul of the teacher.\n\nThe school is obviously not the hall which contains the teacher and the\npupils. These may have a hall, may even have the teacher, without yet\npossessing the school, which consists in the communication of culture.\nThis culture, we have seen, is not really pre-existent to the act which\ncommunicates it; it is not to be found in books, not to be looked for in\nan ideal transcendent world, not to be demanded of the teacher. It is\nonly in the spirit of the person who is in the act of learning. It is\nthere in the manner in which it is possible for it to be there, not\ncomparable to any presumed form of pre-existing culture. The school\ngains its existence entirely in the soul of the learner.\n\nKnowledge is not to be found beyond the bounds of the human spirit. I\ninsist on this conception because I am well aware that the minds of many\nrebel against this conclusion, no matter how irrefutable its grounds may\nbe. For they ask: what then is the learning which we ascribe to the\nmaster minds of humanity, now indeed dead but still active in their\nworks? They also ask how we are able to think and account for that\nlearning which we feel we are not originating, which we know we are\nre-acquiring for ourselves after it has many times been in the domain of\nothers.\n\nCan we really consider as non-existent what we as yet do not know, may\nperhaps never know, but which is none the less capable of being known?\nWhen we are filled with reverence for the glory of men whose learning\nsurpasses our powers, are we the victims of an illusion? Are we\nprevailed upon by ignorance and lack of reflection? And how then can we\njustify the cult which every civilised man consecrates to the mighty\nspirits--philosophers, poets, artists, and heroes--who added so much to\nthe moral fund of humanity? Was there not a Dante six centuries back,\nwho composed a lofty poem, which was admired by everybody, at a time\nwhen we, who now read it and bring it to life in our souls, were still\nso far removed from the entrance of this life?\n\nThe answer to all these questions is very simple, so simple that we must\nbe careful lest we miss its significance. All this lore of the past\nwhich we strive to preserve surely does exist; it does contain all the\nnames which are sacred to the memory of humankind. The _Divine Comedy_\nhas been written and no longer awaits its Dante. But this lore of the\npast, as we for brevity's sake call it, is nothing else than what _we\nthink_ as such. History, as it unfolds itself from century to century,\nis never compressed within a past which because of its completeness\nmight be made to exist beyond the present and in opposition to it; but\nit exists in a past which is in the present as a plant that grows or an\nanimal that lives, never adding anything new to the old, always\ntransforming the old into the new; at no time, therefore, having\nanything but what is new, never being anything else but the new. In\nhistory, thus comprehended, we to-day are but one person with the men\nwho thought before us, with the poets, the philosophers, the spiritual\ncreators of the past. With them we are a person that grows and develops,\never acquiring, never losing; a single being that apprehends and recalls\nand constantly makes all his past bear fruit in the present. Our\nchildhood has not completely passed away into nothing: it keeps\nreturning to the ever-busy phantasy that tenderly fondles it, cherishes\nit, idealises it into poetry. If we consider this childhood as something\nthat once was, that existed in utter ignorance of this poetry that was\nyet to be written, that could not then be written, surely this infancy\nis quite dead; we should rather say that it never existed. But it does\nlive as the childhood which is a recollection, which arouses feelings,\nand such feelings as are at a given moment the actual sentiment of the\nadult. Once in the years long gone by a kindly word reached the depths\nof my soul. We all have heard in the years long gone by some such kindly\nwords that in the mystery of our childish mind appeared as a revelation.\nSuch words as fall from the lips of a mother and inspired by her tender\naffection have the secret power of appeasing us in a moment of rage, and\nof making us feel the gentle sweetness of that goodness which is made of\nlove. We may since have forgotten that word, and the circumstances in\nwhich it was uttered: but it is none the less true that on that day our\nsoul was modified and became endowed almost with a sixth sense. This\nsense has enabled us subsequently to perceive so many things that are\nbeautiful in life, and it in turn grew stronger because of frequent use\nand increasing exercise, until it finally became the most potent organ\nof our moral personality. Here too our development has been a constant\nacquiring with no losing: a preserving of the past by which it was\nconverted into the present, and therefore annulled as past pure and\nsimple.\n\nSuch is the moral development of man, who believes himself an\nindividual, but is in truth humanity considered momentarily in one of\nits fragments. Such is history: the unfolding of the spirit in its\nuniversality. It is not therefore difficult to determine what is the\npast culture in which we desire to graft our present one. It is our own\nactual culture in so far as it is not the patrimony, not the spiritual\nlife of the isolated individual, of a particular being; but is instead\nthe life of the spirit in its universality, the development of the human\npersonality taken in its effective, historical concreteness.\n\nThe past with its entire content is a projection of our actual\nconsciousness, i.e., of the present. But we must not give this\nproposition a sceptical sense. As I have already pointed out, the\npresent neither in the particular individual nor in the universal\nhistory of the spirit, is sundered from the past by that abyss which is\nordinarily seen from a materialistic point of view. The past is one and\nthe same thing with the present. The past _is_ the present in its inmost\nsubstance; and the present is the past that has matured. The grain of\nwheat which was buried in the furrow is now no longer to be found under\nthe glebe. It lives, multiplied in the ear of wheat. The seed as such\nwas decomposed and destroyed in the soil; it is there no more, it sprung\nthence as a blade of grass, it grew, was transformed, still is, still\nlasts, and will continue to endure in other forms. Where is it now? Why,\nin whatever form it may now have assumed. It is the past in the present,\nas the present.\n\nSo then, what is Dante the poet who towers over the centuries, the\nobject of our admiration, the master of all who speak and use the\nItalian language? He is the lordly poet of the fourteenth century, not\nbecause he then lived his own individual life, but because he survives\nto-day in us who think him, who appreciate him even when we are not\nfully acquainted with him. In this sense he lives in us, as the seed\ndoes in the ear of corn.\n\nI have just hinted at the possibility of appreciating something without\nfully understanding it. I wanted to make clear how impossible it is to\nseparate, with a clean cut, knowledge from ignorance. It is far from\ntrue that before taking up a certain science we know absolutely nothing\nabout it,--that the boy who goes to school for the first time is\ncompletely devoid of all knowledge, or that he who is in quest of a book\nwhich he has never read can in no way whatever speak about it.\n\nFor fair renown begets love for the unseen person, as the poet reminds\nus and as experience often teaches. Frequently we know of the existence\nand the beauty of a woman whom we have never seen, but who is not\ntherefore completely unknown to us. So also many of us desired to go to\nschool long before we had seen the inside of a classroom. What is dearer\nthan the joy foretasted at the first imaginings of school? We look\nforward to that new life upon which we are about to enter in the company\nof our bigger brothers and of our older playmates. They have told us so\nmany things about it. From their accounts and from the fond memories of\nour parents we already know the school before we approach it, and its\npleasing aspects invite us into the classroom.\n\nFor the same reason we search for books we have never seen, and we are\ndrawn towards new studies and pursuits. There is no leaping from\nignorance to knowledge, as from pitch darkness to noon-tide brilliancy.\nThe transition is imperceptible, as when the dim morning twilight merges\ninto the first glimmerings of dawn, which in turn fade away under the\ndazzling flashes of sunrise. And even from the midst of darkness we\nyearn for a world which though unseen is somehow present to our\nconsciousness, already illumined by our thought, warmed by our\nsentiments. Or, in other words, the culture which we do not yet possess,\nand which we expect to get at school, is already implanted in our mind,\nwhere it will sprout and grow and bear fruit, fused and confused with\nthe life of our spirit.\n\nHaving now reached this point, can we define culture? I am inclined for\na moment to assume the role of Don Ferrante in Manzoni's novel.[2] By\npedantic ratiocinations he proved that the plague could not be a\ncontagious disease: \"for,\" he said, \"in nature everything is either a\nsubstance or an accident.\" Contagion, he then went on to prove, could\nneither be the one nor the other; therefore the plague was but an influx\nof the stars, and there could be no use in taking precautions; and\nhaving proved this, he fell a victim to the epidemic, and died cursing\nthe stars like an operatic hero. Let us follow for a moment in the\nfootsteps of this pedant, whose method, ridiculous as it may seem, has\nhad nevertheless a glorious history, and one which Manzoni himself\nadmired.\n\nI say: We can think only and we do think only two kinds of\nreality,--person or thing. Every one of us is naturally drawn to this\ndistinction; and when we have formulated it, we feel more or less\nvaguely, more or less clearly, that every possibility is comprised\nwithin these two terms, that outside of them it is impossible to think\nany reality whatsoever. The reason is this: if we think, if we act, if\nwe live, we inevitably place ourselves in a situation such that we on\none side are as centre, as beginning, or as subject of our activity; and\non the other side are the objects toward which our activity is directed\nand by which it is terminated. _We_ therefore as subject of the entire\nsurrounding world; and _this world_ as the end of our thoughts and of\nour scientific inquiries, end of our desires and of our practical\nactivity; the world which is represented in our consciousness, and which\nwe strive to dominate by our labours, and our reason. Can there be\nanything else beside _us_ and what _we_ think?\n\nThe world which we think and which we oppose to ourselves seems at first\nto contain different kinds of objects. There seem to be both persons and\nthings; simple objects of cognition which we ordinarily call _things_\nwhich can never become subjects; and persons who at first are\nrepresented to us as objects of our knowing, of our love, and of our\nhatred, as ends of our activity; but who under a closer scrutiny are\ntransformed before our eyes into knowing and acting subjects, who, in\nother words, become just exactly what we are. But when we really get to\nknow these beings that surround us as subjects on an equal basis, then\nwe cease to consider them as objects of our cognition, and as solely\nendowed with that material objectivity which at first put them in the\nsame category with the inanimate things, with plants and animals. We\nthen find them close to us, very close: fused with our own spiritual\nsubstance. We feel them to be our fellow men, our kinsmen, with whom we\nconstitute that person of whose existence I am aware every time I say\n_We_: the person we must take into account whenever we wish to affirm\nour personality in a concrete manner, the only person, the one subject,\nthe true subject of human knowledge and of human activity. The subject\nwhich knows and acts as a universal in the interests of all men, or\nrather in behalf of the _one man_ in whom all single individuals are\nunited and with whom they are all identified.\n\nThen if we give a rigorous and exact meaning to the expressions, \"We and\nwhat is before us,\" \"We and the objects,\" \"We and the World,\" we have a\ncorrect classification of all thinkable reality differentiated into\npersons and things, but with the understanding that all persons are in\nreality one Person.\n\nOne _person_, and things innumerable! As we look about us, we find the\nhorizon peopled with thousands and millions and infinite quantities of\nobjects, which may one by one attract our attention, and may be gathered\nup in the vast, unbounded picture surveyed by the eye as it moves on\nfrom thing to thing, incessantly, without ever reaching the last. The\nworld which we first discover is the world of matter, of things which\nstrike our senses. This world rushes impetuously into our mind at the\nbeginning of our natural experience. And these material objects are many\nnot only _de facto_ but also _de jure_. They must be, they cannot but be\nmany if we are to consider them as material things. It is their peculiar\nnature, it is their very essence to be an indefinite multitude.\n\nA material thing means a thing occupying space. And space is made up of\nelements, each one of which excludes all the others and is therefore\nconceived independently of the others, must so be conceived. For it is\nthe very nature of space to be divisible. When it is narrowed down to a\npoint and cannot be further subdivided, then it ceases to be space. Its\ndivisibility signifies that space is nothing more than the sum of its\nparts; that it contains nothing in addition to these parts; that it\ntherefore resolves itself into them without at all losing its being and\nwithout any of the parts being deprived of anything which was theirs in\nthe whole. In fact, if anything were lost of the entire whole, this loss\ncould not but be felt in each single part. A book, considered as a\nmaterial thing, is composed of a certain number of printed leaves\nstitched together; and if the leaves fall apart, they may be brought\ntogether again so that they will compose the same book as before. An\niron rod weighs the same before and after it has been broken up into\nparts.\n\nThings cease to be exclusively and solely material when, though they may\nbe divisible in a certain respect, they are nevertheless indivisible in\nanother respect. Plants, animals, all living organisms, considered\nsimply as objects occupying space and as therefore having certain\ndimensions, admit surely of being separated into parts. Trees are cut\ninto logs, sawed into boards; animals are slaughtered and quartered. But\nconsidered from the point of view of its peculiar quality, of the\nessential property which distinguishes it from all other bodies, an\norganism is not divisible. If we do divide it, each component part\nceases to be what it previously was when conjoined with the others. Such\na part cannot be preserved; it withers, it decays, and is dispersed, so\nthat the whole can never be reconstituted. The various parts of an\norganism, considered as such, are inseparable, because each of them is\nand maintains itself on the strength of its relations to the others,\nforming with them a true and essential unity. If we however try to find\nout what this unity is by which all the limbs are indissolubly held\ntogether, we shall discover nothing which can be observed and\nrepresented spatially, nothing endowed with dimensions, however small,\nafter the manner of the several limbs which this unity fuses within\nitself and vivifies.\n\nIf unity which is the life-giving principle of every organism could be\nspatially represented, or in other words, if it were something material,\nit would be one of those very limbs that have to be unified, and could\nnot then be the unifying principle itself. Hence the vanity of the\nefforts on the part of materialistic physiologists who obstinately\nstrive to explain life by observing the parts which compose the organic\nmass, by studying the concurrence of their processes, their chemical\nrelationships, and their mechanism. A material being, organically\nconstituted, is something more than a material thing pure and simple: it\nannounces already a higher principle; it presages the spirit.\n\nBut the things that we all agree to regard as spiritual defy absolutely\nevery attempt at division. A poem may be considered in a certain way as\nmaterial, and may accordingly be divided into various parts,--stanzas,\nlines, words. But it is clear that such a separation cannot have the\nvalue which we assign to the divisions of things material. For in their\ncase every part can stand by itself, and is in no way deprived of its\ncharacteristic being; whereas every part of a poem, stanza, verse, word,\ncalls out and responds to every other part; and if isolated from them,\nloses the meaning which it had in the context; or rather it loses every\nmeaning, and consequently perishes. It is true that by conjectures we\ninterpret even very small fragments of ancient poems. But we do so only\nin so far as we claim the possibility of restoring approximately the\nentire poem in which the given fragment may live, by which it may be\nrestored to life. Likewise all the words lined up in dictionaries are as\nso many bleeding limbs of living discourses, to which they must somehow\nor other be ideally reconnected, if we are to understand what they\nreally were and what functions they had. Multiplicity of parts in things\nof the spirit is only apparent: it must be reduced to indivisible unity,\nfrom which every element of the multiplicity derives its origin, its\nsubstance, and its life, so that we may give to it a real meaning and a\nfoundation.\n\nNor is this the only unity possessed by the things that are assumed to\nbe spiritual. We have already considered the unity whereby, for example,\nthe words of a poem cannot be separated from the poem itself, in which\neach of them acquires a particular accent, a particular expression, and\ntherefore a particular individuality. We shall now consider another\nunity. He who really perceives a poem is not confronted by an observable\nthing, compact if you will, unseverable and united, but none the less\nindependent of human personality. Poetry is only understood when in the\nflowing unity of its verses and in the continuous rhythm of its words we\ngrasp a sentiment in its development, a soul's throb in a moment of its\nlife, a man, a personality. The poetry of Dante is very different from\nthat of Petrarch, because each is the expression of a powerfully\ndistinct personality. Any composition of these poets is understood and\nenjoyed only when we feel in it the personal accent which distinguishes\none poetical personality from the other. A poet without individuality\nhas no significance whatsoever, and therefore no existence as a poet.\nBut the real artist leaves his imprint more or less markedly in all his\nproductions, so that in every given instance, over and beyond the\nvariety of the subject matter, we feel the living soul of the poet. A\npoem then is the poet; it is a person and not a thing. And the same can\nbe said, as we can easily see, of all things that are commonly called\nspiritual.\n\nBut in addition to things material, it seems that there are immaterial\nones which do not pertain as one's own to any particular person. The\nideas of which we had occasion to speak before,--immaterial entities,\nnot perceptible by the senses, but thinkable by the intellect, and\nwhich severally correspond to all sorts or species of the various\nmaterial things,--were once conceived as things by philosophers, and\nthey are still so conceived to-day by the majority of men. It is\nnot requisite that one actually think them; it is sufficient that they\nbe in themselves thinkable. As a matter of fact, they may or may not\nbe thought, no differently therefore from any of the material objects\nwhich are not created by our senses, but must already exist in order\nthat our senses may perceive them. These ideas are many, in a manner\ncorresponding to the material objects; and they are all different.\nThey mirror, so to speak, the multiplicity of material things in\nwhose semblance and likeness they were devised. There are horses in\nnature, and there is the idea of the horse by which we are able to\nrecognise all the animals that belong to that species. There are\ndogs, and there is the dog which we rediscover in every one of them.\nAnd there are flowers and the flower; and pinks, roses, and lilies,\nas well as the pink, the rose, and the lily; and likewise iron,\ncopper, silver, gold, lime, water, and so on, to infinity. It is\nimpossible to set a limit to ideas, because it is not possible ever to\nstop dividing, distinguishing, subdividing that nature which unfolds\nitself throughout space.\n\nThis boundless multitude of ideas, through which our mind can rove,\nsurely has no spatial extension. But because of the necessity of\nconceiving any multitude as existing in some kind of space, it was\nthought proper to posit an ideal space in addition to the physical one.\nIn other words, metaphorical dimensions were added to dimensions\nproperly so called. But whether spatially or not, we strive to conceive\nideas as many, each one of them existing by itself, and susceptible of\nbeing thought independently of the others. In reality however we never\nsucceed in thinking them except as bound together and forming a system,\nin such a way that no single one of them can be thought except by\nthinking the others with it. Take man as an instance: each one of us has\nintuitively the idea of man, but this idea is not possessed like a word\nof which we may not even know the meaning. In thinking the idea we must\nthink something which is its content. If we know what man is, we must be\nable to attribute a content to the idea of man. We may say, as the\nancients did, that man is the laughing animal, or the speaking animal,\nbecause he is the only animal capable of expressing the emotions of his\nsoul by laughter or by the inflection of his voice; because, in other\nwords, he is the only animal who is conscious of what goes on within\nhim. Or perhaps we might say that man is the reasoning animal, and we\nthink this idea when we have thought the idea of _animal_ and the idea\nof _reason_. But can the idea of animal be thought by itself alone? It,\nas well as the idea of reason, must have a content; that is, each must\nbe connected with other ideas, without which it would be deprived of all\nconsistency.\n\nAnd so the mind that begins to think one single idea is compelled,\nalmost dragged, to pass on to another, then to a third, and so on\nindefinitely. It finds itself in the condition of the man who tried to\ngrasp a single link of a chain, just one, and found that he could not\nhave it except on condition of taking the whole chain. So it is with\nideas. We may not be capable of encompassing all of them in one single\nthought; but whenever we try to fix any one of them in our mind, it\npresents itself to us as a knot in which many other ideas are\ninterlaced, twisted, and entangled. They form an infinite chain, in\nwhich it is not possible to think the first link or the last one,\nbecause the beginning is welded to the end, and we turn and turn and\nnever reach the last. Is not this the nature of the ideas as we see\nthem, as they constitute the field from which we must harvest all our\npossible thoughts?\n\nIdeas are not, therefore, a true multiplicity, because they are not\nthings, either material or ideal, and because they do not occupy any\nspace whatsoever. Our imagination may present them to us as so many\nlights of an ideal sky; but our intelligence warns us that they cannot\nbe separated one from the other and placed side by side. As I have\nalready said: when we think one, we think them all. Or in any event we\nshould, if we had mastered all that there is to be known. So that to our\nthought ideas appear as constituting one unique whole, a unity, that\nsomething which we call science, truth, knowledge. They are not a\nmultitude, for the simple reason that in multiplicity they would be\nunthinkable. Their connection with and participation in an absolute\nunity come from the fact that they are the object of thought, and are\ntherefore submitted to its activity, whereby they are ordered,\ncorrelated, organised, unified. In order that we may say that one idea\ncontains another, or many others, we must analyse this first idea and\ndefine it. This first idea must be distinguished from the others, and\nthey likewise among themselves. It is not therefore sufficient to say\nthat there are these ideas, motionless, inert, lifeless, as they\nnecessarily would be if they existed _per se_, as objects of mere\npossible contemplation. There must also be some one to analyse them,\ndefine them, and distinguish them. It is not enough to have the material\nof thought, we need thought also to mould and fashion this material,\nturn it effectively into thought stuff, reduce it to something\nsusceptible of being thought. Ideas as things would in no way be related\namong themselves. But they do have that relationship which is generated\nby thought as it thinks them. Thought generates this relationship not as\na fixed one, as would be the case if it were inherent in the things\nthemselves; but as a relationship which is being formed by degrees, and\nwhich is continuously changing and developing. No ideal, abiding\nscience, existing only as the object of a vague phantasy, can therefore\nresult from this relationship. It constitutes instead a science which is\never re-formed and is never formed; it gives to the ideas an ever\nrenewed aspect: it matures them, elaborates them, perfects them, by\nconcentrating on each one of them the constantly increasing light of the\nsystem into which it closely binds them.\n\nIdeas, then, as we really think them, are not a minutely fractioned and\nscattered multiplicity. Nor are they a mass of concurrent elements. They\nare Thought as it becomes articulate, and gains distinctness by these\nmany Limbs, by these ideas, which exist, all of them, in the process by\nwhich they are gradually formed, developed, and complicated, and arrayed\nin an order which is constantly being renewed and which is never\ndefinitely perfected.\n\nThere are not then many ideas; there is one Idea, which is Thought. Only\nin a metaphorical sense can we consider them as things; and, properly\nspeaking, they are the human person itself as actualised in thought,\nwhich is busily occupied in the construction of knowledge. They are an\nindivisible unity, in which each idea is found collaborating with every\nother one so as to answer the questions which Thought constantly\npropounds. They are the human person, not the persons; for we have\nalready concluded that only in an abstract sense is it possible to speak\nof many persons; concretely there is but one universal Person which is\nnot multiplicable.\n\nThere are not, then, going back to our original division, persons and\nthings, material and spiritual. At the most there is one person, Man,\nand there are the material things which constitute this nature, as it\noccupies space, and in which we too believe we have a place, in as much\nas we consider ourselves beings of nature. Nothing beyond this can be\nconceived: on one side a sole immultiplicable reality, on the other a\nmanifold reality, indefinitely divisible.\n\nHere we might perhaps stop considering the special interest that called\nforth this inquiry. For no one could possibly suppose for a moment that\nculture could be placed in the midst of material things rather than in\nthe spiritual reality which is a person. However, since the intimate\nnature of this spiritual reality which we call culture is not yet\nclearly revealed, we must continue our investigations, and give more\nattention to this division which for a moment we thought might be final.\nI mean the division of the world into persons and things: the equipoise\nof spirit and matter.\n\nDo we really _think_ this matter as we say we do, and which we believe\nwe are justified in opposing to the spirit, in as much as the spirit is\nunity or universality, and matter, in its entirety, in every one of its\nparts, in everything, is an indefinite multiplicity? Matter can in truth\nbe thought only on condition that it be possible to think multiplicity,\nthat pure multiplicity which is the characteristic quality of matter.\n\nWhat then is the meaning of multiplicity? In absolute terms we call\nmultiple that which consists of elements each one of which is quite\nindependent of all the others, and absolutely devoid of any and every\nrelationship with them. The materialist conceived the world as an\naggregate of atoms, separated one from the other and having no\nreciprocal relevance of any sort whatsoever. In the world of pure\nquantity, which is the same as absolute multiplicity, mathematical\nscience claims the knowledge of units indifferent to their nexus, and\ntherefore susceptible of being united and separated, of being summed up\nand divided, without any alteration taking place within the individual\nunit itself. Numerical units are therefore pre-eminently irrelative.\n\nBut the concept itself of the multiplicity of irrelative elements is an\nabsurd one. In order that we may conceive many unrelated elements we\nmust, to start with, be able to conceive a couple of such elements. Let\nus take A and B, absolutely unrelated, and such that the concept of one\nwill contain nothing of the other's, and will therefore exclude it from\nitself. If A did not so exclude B, something of B would be found in A,\nand we could no longer speak of the two elements as irrelative.\nIrrelativity means reciprocal exclusion, a capacity by which each term\nis opposed to the other, and prevents the other from having anything in\ncommon with it. Without this reciprocal action whereby each term turns\nto the other and excludes it from itself, establishing itself as a\nnegation of it, there would be no irrelativity. But this action by which\neach term is referred to the other so as to deny it, what is it but a\nrelationship? Every effort therefore tending to break up reality into\nparts completely repugnant amongst themselves, mutually excluding one\nanother, and therefore reciprocally indifferent, results in the very\nopposite of what was intended, viz.: the relative in place of the\nirrelative, unity instead of multiplicity.\n\nNeither duality nor multiplicity is conceivable without that unity\nwhereby the two engender that whole in which the two units are\nconnected, even though they mutually exclude one another: without that\nunity which fuses and unifies every multiplicity determined in a number,\nwhich correlates among themselves the units which constitute the number.\nWe could strip multiplicity of all unity only by not thinking it. But\nthen in the gloom of what is not thought, multiplicity truly enough\nwould not be unity, but it would not even be multiplicity, because it\ncould not be anything at all. Or, if we prefer, it would be absolutely\nunthinkable.\n\nThought then establishes relationships among the units of the multiple,\nand thus constitutes them as the units of the manifold, and as forming\nmultiplicity. It adds and divides, composes and decomposes, and\nvariously distributes, materialising and dematerialising, so to speak,\nthe reality which it thinks. For it materialises the reality when it\nconceives it as manifold: but it can conceive it as such only by\nunifying it, and therefore by dematerialising it and reabsorbing it into\nits own spiritual substance.\n\nMatter is a manifold reality, without unity. What it is we already have\nseen: a material reality, and as such divisible into parts, placed in\nthe world in the midst of a congeneric multitude. Now, since pure\nmultiplicity is not conceivable except on condition that we abstract\nfrom that relationship to which the reciprocal exclusiveness of manifold\nelements is reduced, it is evident that matter and things are abstract\nentities. Thought stops to consider them, and regards them as existent,\nonly because it withdraws the attention from that part of itself which\nit contributes to the making of the object represented. Thought\ntherefore prescinds from that unity which material things could not by\nthemselves contain, but from which it is impossible to prescind\nabsolutely unless we wish to be reduced to an absurd conception.\n\nObjective things then, the world of matter itself which we are wont to\noppose in equipoise to the person, are in truth not separable from it.\nFor matter has its foundation in thought by which the personality is\nactualised. Things are what we in our own thought counterpose to\nourselves who think them. Outside of our thought they are absolutely\nnothing. Their material hardness itself has to be lent to them by us,\nfor it ultimately is to be resolved into multiplicity, and multiplicity\nimplies spiritual unity.\n\nThis then is the world: an infinity of things all of which have however\ntheir root in us. Not in \"us\" as we are represented ordinarily in the\nmidst of things; not in the empirical and abstract \"us\" which feeds the\nvanity of the empty-headed egoist, of him who has not the faintest\nnotion of what he really is, who can therefore think of himself only as\nenclosed within the tight husk of his own flesh and of his particular\npassions. No! they are rooted in that true \"us\" by which we think, and\nagree in one same thought, while thinking all things, including\nourselves as opposed to things. And he who fails to reach this profound\nsource, this root from which all reality receives its vitalising sap,\nmay indeed get a blurred glimpse of a blind, inert, material mechanism,\nbut he cannot even fix and determine this mechanism. He cannot upon\nfurther reflection stop at the conviction that it is in truth, as it\nappears in semblance, something real, for it reveals itself to him as so\nabsurd as to become unthinkable. The world then is in us; it is our\nworld, and it lives in the spirit. It lives the very life of that person\nwhich we strive to realise, sometimes satisfied with our work, but\noftener unsatisfied and restless. And there is the life of culture.\n\nIt is not possible to conceive knowledge otherwise than as living\nknowledge, and as the extolment of our own personality. This is our\nconclusion. We shall, later on, derive from it two corollaries that are\nvery important for teachers, in as much as they bear directly on the\nproblems of education.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n  [2] _I Promessi Sposi_ (\"The Betrothed\").\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nTHE ATTRIBUTES OF CULTURE\n\n\nFrom the concept of the spirituality of culture, we derive all the\nfundamental propositions of pedagogy. But in as much as this conception\nof culture coincides with that of personality, or of the spirit, it is\nevident that all the fundamental propositions of the philosophy of the\nspirit are also derived from it. In fact, we separate pedagogy from the\nphilosophy of the spirit only because of didactic convenience. To\ndetermine, then, the attributes of culture, by which education becomes\nactual, we have but to consider the nature of the spirit and endeavour\nto define its attributes. This way we must follow if we are ever to\nacquire a thorough comprehension of the principles of the several\ntheories of education, principles which are but the laws immanent to the\nlife of education itself in its effective development.\n\nThe assertion that \"culture is the human spirit\" means nothing unless we\nfirst define this spirit and understand its attributes. We cannot\npossess a concept which is not determined; and the determinations of a\nconcept are the constituent attributes of the reality which we strive to\nconceive, and which is not thinkable if deprived of any of these\nattributes. The following example, appropriate even though trite, will\nmake my meaning clearer. Physical bodies cannot be conceived without\nalso conceiving gravity. Gravity is then an attribute of the physical\nbody, and as such it determines the concept of it. In the same way, to\nconceive the spirit is to embrace with thought the concepts which are\nabsolutely inseparable from the concept of the spirit.\n\nThis inquiry into the nature of the attributes of culture, though it\nconstantly progresses towards a satisfactory solution, yet seems at\ntimes to be losing ground on account of the ever-increasing difficulties\nthat beset its advance. It is true, no doubt, that human thought, driven\nby the irresistible desire to know itself, has made some headway towards\nmastering the concept of itself. Philosophy has indeed progressed, and\nthe modern world can proudly point to truths unsuspected by the thinkers\nof antiquity. But the assiduous and prolonged toil of thought engaged in\nthis task has at all moments disclosed new difficulties; it has ever\nbeen busy sketching new concepts which subsequently prove immature and\nin need of further elaboration, and has been pushing its investigations\nto such depths as to make it difficult to follow its lead without\nsometimes going astray, without frequently stopping in utter weariness\nat the roadside.\n\nMen talk learnedly nowadays of the human spirit, but with a doctrine\nwhich is often insufficient or, as we say, not up to date. They have\nstopped at one of those wayside concepts where thought no doubt passed\nand temporarily halted, but from which it moved on towards a more\ndistant goal. For while this long history of the endeavours by which man\nstruggles onward towards the understanding of his own nature is the\nbasis on which modern philosophy builds its firm concept of the spirit,\nyet for those who have not attained the vantage ground of this modern\nphilosophy, this history is unfortunately a very intricate maze; it is\nthe bewildering\n\n  \"selva selvaggia ed aspra e forte\"[3]\n\nfrom which it is difficult ever to issue. And therefore it is much\neasier, as Dante once remarked, to teach those who are completely\nignorant than those who have a smattering of philosophy. But to-day\nculture is so intimately connected with philosophical speculation that\nthe greater part of educated men profess this or that system without\nbeing aware of it. And when such men do take up the study of philosophy\n_per se_, they no longer possess the mental ingenuousness, the\nspeculative candour, which would enable them to grasp the obvious,\nevident, incontrovertible truth of the most profound philosophical\nproposition.\n\nThis inquiry then is difficult. It demands either a long, methodic,\nlaborious study of the history of philosophy conducted with critical\nvigour, or that unyielding tenacity of the mind which is the surest sign\nof sound spiritual character; that steadfast firmness by which man, once\nin possession of a clearly irrefutable, truly fundamental truth,\nrigorously excludes from his soul all the allurements of prejudice, all\nconvictions formerly entertained, even though extremely plausible, if\nthey contradict his Truth. For he trusts that these perplexities, these\ndifficulties which he is not now in condition to explain, will be\nremoved in virtue of that very thought to which he has confidently\ncommitted himself.\n\nThis unflinching resolve is the courage of the philosopher, who has\nnever feared to brave common sense, and single-handed to marshal against\nthe multitude the array of his seemingly absurd assertions, which\nhowever, in the progress of their reciprocal integrations, have\nsubsequently contributed to redeem this very multitude from error,--from\nthat error which is intellectual misery, social wretchedness, economic,\npolitical, and moral destitution. Because of this inflexible firmness\nthe philosopher has never dreaded that boundless solitude, that thin\natmosphere to which he is uplifted by thought, and where at first he has\nthe sensation of fainting away into the rarefied air.\n\nWe must then muster up courage and relinquish all the ideas which we\nonce accepted, even though they still tempt us with superficial\nglitterings of truth, when once they have proved themselves to be in\ncontradiction with experience. For I too hold experience to be the\ntouchstone of all our thoughts, philosophy not excluded. But I insist\nthat we be careful lest we confound the mockery of the first puppet that\ndupes our imagination with genuine experience; that in as much as every\nman speaks of experience in exclusive accordance with whatever concept\nhe has been able to form of it, we too determine beforehand what our\nconception of it is. Now I say that no concept of experience can be\nvalidly entertained which does not take into account that truth which\npresents itself to us as truly fundamental and therefore to be used as\nan indispensable basis for all subsequent conceptual constructions.\n\nSuch fundamental truth we have previously attained when we established\nthat \"We\" are not what we seem to be in the dim empirical representation\nof our personality, a thing among things. Our \"Self\" is the deeper one\nby means of which we see all things in whose midst our other self too is\ndiscernible. The reality of this, our deeper \"self\" which cannot be\nconceived as a thing, without which nothing can be conceived, in the\nsame way that the trunk, the branches, and the boughs are not possible\nwithout the root from which the tree issues, is a truth which we may\nnever grasp, but if we do, we shall forever be compelled to see in it\nthe source of all other possible truths, including the concept of\nexperience. For once we have securely mastered it, we will be convinced\nthat it is impossible to conceive whatever is considered and thought of\nas constituting this world otherwise than as this world which _we_ see,\nwhich _we_ touch, and which, in short, we look upon as the contents of\n_our_ experience: and that it is also impossible to conceive this\nexperience without referring it to _us_ who have it not as an object of\npossession but as an activity which we exercise. So that nothing,\nabsolutely nothing, can be thought when the relationship between things\nand experience, and again the rapport between experience and ourselves\nis obtained, without thinking the deep reality of this our \"self.\" We\nmay again close our eyes to this reality or hold it in abeyance, but we\ncan do so only after we have effaced every notion of the two\nrelationships just mentioned, and when we again have immersed ourselves\nin the mystery of things, in the gloom of their apparent independent\nexistence, of their ever self-defeating multiplicity.\n\nAgainst this reality of the profound \"us\" which is the genuine spiritual\nreality, there are innumerable and awe-inspiring difficulties. They are\ndifficulties that so violently oppress our minds and our hearts as to\ndismay us, and almost force us to give up this concept of a reality on\nwhich all other realities depend, and which cannot but be one alone, and\ninfinite, and really universal.[4] Alone, because in it all opposites\nmust coincide: the good and the evil, what is true and what is false,\nlife and death, peace and war, pleasure and pain, yours and mine,--all\nthings, in short, that we have been obliged to sunder and distinguish in\norder to take our bearings and meet the exigencies of life. Formidable\ndifficulties indeed! And they are the problems of philosophy. It would\nbe childish and senseless to dispose of them by ignoring that concept\nfrom which they derive. It is the philosopher's task, it is the strict\nduty of human thought to face the problems as they rise out of the\npositions which it has captured in its onward march. For to yield\nground, to turn the back to a truth which has been demonstrated to be\nindispensable, that is impossible.\n\nThose who wish to orient themselves in the world to-day must, before\nall, cling to this: that the basis of every thinkable reality is our\nspiritual reality, one, infinite, universal,--the reality which unites\nus all in one sole spiritual life; the reality in which teacher and\npupils meet when by their reciprocal comprehensions they constitute a\nreal school.\n\nWhat then is this one, infinite, universal reality? Is this question\ntruly unanswerable as it seems to be, as it has often in the past\nbeen declared to be? For, it has been argued, in order to give an\nanswer, whether here or elsewhere, we must somehow think the reality\nto which the answer is referred. We must think it and therefore\ndistinguish it from all the others, and so presuppose it as one\nexisting among many and as forming with them a multiplicity; and this is\nthe very opposite of that reality which we are striving to think.\nOr, in other words, when we try to say what the subject is, we must,\nsomehow, set it as the object, and thus convert it into what is the\nopposite of the subject. Or again: the subject cannot think itself,\nbecause if it did, it would split into the duality of itself as\nthinking and itself as thought, and what is thinking is not what is\nthought. But all these objections together with many others of the\nsame force that are ordinarily raised against radical idealism have but\none single defect; which is such, however, as to make it hopeless for\nthe idealist ever to succeed in being understood by those that resort\nto this kind of argument. These opponents, strangely enough, miss the\nmost elementary meaning of the terms with which they claim to be\nfamiliar. They fail to see that when the idealist says \"subject,\" he\ncannot possibly mean by it one abstract term of the relationship\n_subject-object_, which, because of this very abstractness, is\ndevoid of all consistency. The _ego_ is called \"subject,\" because it\ncontains within itself an object which is not diverse but identical\nwith it. As a pure subject it is already a relationship; it is\nself-affirmation and therefore affirmation of an object, but of an\nobject, be it remembered, in which the subject is not alienated from\nitself; by which, rather, it truly returns to itself, embraces itself,\nand thus originatively realises itself. In order to be _I_, I must\nknow myself, I must set my own self in front of myself. Only thus I am\nI, a personality, and \"subject,\" the centre of my world or of my\nthought. For if I should not objectify myself to myself, if in the\nendeavour to free myself completely from all objectivity, I were to\nretreat into the first term,--a purely abstract one,--of this\nrelationship by which I posit myself, I should remain on the hither side\nof this relationship, that is of that very reality in which I am to\nrealise myself. So then by this inner objectification the subject\ndoes not at all depart from itself. It rather enters into its own\nsubjectivity, and constitutes it. Surely man may, Narcissus-like,\nmake an idol of his own self: he may worship himself in a fixed\nsemblance already determined and crystallised. But in so doing, he\nmaterialises himself, makes his person into a thing, looks away from\nhis true spiritual life, misses self-consciousness, averts his thought\nfrom his own intimate being. This self-conversion from person into\nthing takes place, not when we think of ourselves, but rather when we\nfail to do so.\n\nPhilosophy then, as the thinking of the Spirit in its absolute\nsubjectivity, is the Spirit's own life. For the spirit lives by\nconstituting itself as the ego, and it does this by thinking itself, by\nacquiring consciousness of itself. And while philosophising then, we\ncannot but ask what is this one infinite universal reality which is our\n_Self_ and is called the spirit. We cannot dispense with this inquiry\ninto the attributes of the spirit, which is at the same time the inquiry\ninto the attributes of culture.\n\nThe examination of the possibility of this investigation has carried us,\nwithout our being aware of it, into the very midst of the inquiry\nitself. For what we considered as an elementary meaning of the word\n\"spirit,\" the _ego_, which is not something in unrelated immediacy, but\nwhich constitutes itself, posits itself, realises itself in that it\nthinks itself and becomes self-consciousness,--this is also the ultimate\ncharacteristic which can be assigned to the spirit, or to man himself,\nthat is, to what in man is essentially human. If we examine all the\nother differences that have been assigned or could be found by which the\nspirit is distinguishable from things, we shall find, after due\nreflection, that they all cease to have a real meaning as soon as we\nneglect the most profound characteristic of spiritual reality, viz.,\nthat this reality is generated by virtue of consciousness. Every form of\nreality other than spiritual, not only is presented to thought as not\nconditioned by consciousness, but seems to afford no possibility of\nbeing thought (in relation to consciousness) otherwise than as\nconditioning this very consciousness. And when we say of the spiritual\nbeing that it does not know what it is, that it is not acquainted with\nitself, that it therefore remains concealed from itself, we conceive\nthen its spiritual being in a manner analogous to that by which we\nconceive material or bodily being,--externally visible, but internally\nunknown. And we say that the individual fails to grasp his own moral\nnature, because in fact we make this moral being into something natural,\nsimilar to that which is attributed to each one of the things that the\nspirit sets in opposition to itself.\n\nBut the spirit has no nature of its own, no destiny to direct its\ncourse, no predetermined inevitable lot. It has no fixed qualities, no\nset mode of being, such as constitute, from the birth to the death of an\nindividual, the species to which it belongs, to whose law it is\ncompelled by nature to submit, whose tyrannical limits and bounds he can\nnever trespass. The spirit, we have seen, cannot but be conceived as\nfree, and its freedom is this privileged attitude to be what it wants\nto,--angel or beast, as the ancients said; good or evil, true or false,\nor, generally speaking, to be or not to be. To be or not to be\nman,--the spirit, that which he is, and which he would not be if he did\nnot _become_.\n\nMan is not man by virtue of natural laws. He _becomes_ man. By man I do\nnot mean an animal among animals, held to no accounting of his deeds,\nwho comes into the world, grows, lives, and dies, unaware. Man from the\ntime he considers himself such, and in so far as he considers himself\nsuch, _becomes_ through his own efforts. He makes himself what he is the\nfirst time he opens his eyes on his inner consciousness and says\n\"_I_,\"--the \"I\" which never would have been uttered, had he not been\naroused from the sluggish torpor of natural beings (such as our phantasy\nrepresents them) and had not started thinking under his own power and\nthrough his own determination.\n\nThis freedom which is man's prerogative offers merely an external view,\nhas a very hazy consistency, and appears as something illusory, only\nbecause we do not define it exclusively as autonomous becoming or\nself-making. For in fact \"becoming\" is ordinarily understood in a way\nwhich does not admit of being considered as man's prerogative. Does not\nevery living being _become_? The plant vegetates only because it too has\nan inborn potency by which it is forced from one stage of development to\nthe next, from which in this process it acquires the mode of being which\nis peculiarly its own, which it did not have before, which no other\nbeing could from the outside have conferred upon it. And yet the plant\nis not a person but a thing: it is not spirit, but a simple object, and\nas such it is endowed with a definite nature and moved by a definite\nlaw, which is the very antithesis of the freedom which is peculiar to\nthe spirit.\n\nI might without further thought say that this conception of becoming,\nreferred to the plant as a plant, is improper, that in reality the plant\ndoes not _become_ for the very reason that we deny it its freedom. But I\nshall begin by stating that the becoming which we attribute to the\nspiritual reality must be specified and determined with greater\naccuracy, if we are to consider it as the characteristic of this\nreality. When so specified and determined, it will be found to coincide\nwith the conception of freedom. Becoming, then, can be taken in two\nways, which for brevity's sake we shall call the _autonomous_ and the\n_heteronomous_. That is, the being which becomes may have the law of its\nbecoming either in itself or outside of itself. Becoming covers such\ncases as, for example, the filling of a vessel into which a liquid is\npoured. But this becoming takes place in a manner which has its law in\nthe person that fills the vessel; and the filling therefore may be\nconsidered not so much a becoming as the effect of a becoming, that is,\nas the result of that act which is being performed by man. An\nheteronomous becoming is to be traced back to the becoming of the cause\nwhich produces it. The plant vegetates, and its vegetation is a\ndevelopment, a becoming. But could it grow without the rays of the sun,\nthe moisture of the soil? The plant vegetates in consequence of its\nnature, that nature which in accord with our ordinary way of considering\nplant life it possessed from the time it was a green blade just\nsprouting; nay, from the time it was a seed in the ground, or rather\nwhen it was as yet in the plant that produced the seed, or better still\nwhen it was in its infinitely remote origin. It is evident therefore\nthat we cannot think of the law of becoming as residing, so to speak,\nwithin a given plant. Whether we call it nature or name it God, this law\ntranscends the becoming of the plant, its heteronomous becoming as we\ncalled it, and is properly the becoming of something else. But the\nbecoming of man is autonomous. If he _becomes_ intelligent, that is, if\nhe understands, he does so through a principle which is intrinsically\nhis own; for no man can be made to comprehend what he himself will not\ngrasp. If he becomes good, his perfected will can in no manner\nwhatsoever be considered as determined by an outside cause, without at\nthe same time being thereby deprived of all that is characteristic of\ngoodness.\n\nBut in stating that man's becoming is autonomous (or true) we have\nsimply formulated a problem without giving it a solution. What does this\nautonomous becoming consist in? Simply to notice its existence would\nnever help us to understand it. Every fact is intelligible only as an\neffect of a cause. And a cause is a cause on condition that it be a\nthing other than the effect. In order to understand the autonomous\nbecoming or freedom of the spirit, we must not consider it as a fact,\nthat is, as something done. A thing made presupposes the making; and\nfrom the deed we must rise to the doing, but to a doing which shall not\nitself be a thing done, a fact, and similar therefore to the doings\nwhich we witness as mere spectators. The doing in which our autonomous\nbecoming is detected is that one of which _We_ are not spectators but\nactors, we the spectators of every other doing, we as the thinking\nActivity.\n\nThis then is the becoming which rigorously may be called autonomous: the\none which we know not as spectators but as actors, which comes forth as\nthat reality which is produced by the act of knowing, and therefore is\nnot known because it exists, but exists because it is known,--our\nexistence. It is the existence of us who know, for example, that a==b,\nand who are such only in so far as we know and are conscious of knowing\nthat a==b,--of us who suffer or rejoice, and who cannot be in this or\nthat state except by knowing it, so that no cause could reduce us to\nsuch a state, unless we were conscious of such a cause and felt its\nvalid application to us,--of us, above all, who are not ourselves unless\nwe apperceive ourselves, by reflecting upon ourselves, and thus\nacquiring existence as a personality, as human self-consciousness, as\nthought. Thought in opposition to nature, with which it is constantly\ncontrasted, is nothing but this self-reflection which establishes the\npersonality, and that reality which, absolutely, is not, but becomes.\nEvery reality other than thought _becomes_ relatively; and its becoming\nis intelligible simply as the effect of another becoming. Only thought,\nonly the Spirit, is absolute becoming, and its becoming is its liberty.\n\nBut whether it be called \"freedom\" or \"becoming,\" the important thing is\nto avoid the mistake, which was general in the past and is still very\ncommon to-day, of separating this attribute of the spirit from the\nspirit itself, thus failing to understand exactly what is properly\ncalled the attribute. For example, we say that the triangle is a\nthree-sided plane figure, and we seem to be able to distinguish and\ntherefore to separate logically the idea of _triangle_ from the idea of\n_three-sided plane figure_. But a little reflection will make it evident\nthat in thinking the idea of triangle, we think nothing unless we at\nleast think the plane trilateral figure. So that we do not really have\ntwo ideas, which however closely connected may yet be separated to be\nconjoined again: what we have is one single idea. And such is the\nagreement of the becoming and of the spirit, and in general of every\nattribute and of the reality to which it belongs. When we begin\ninquiring whether the spirit is free or not, we set out on an erroneous\ntrack which will take us into a blind alley with no possibility of exit.\nAll the unsurmountable difficulties encountered at all times by the\nadvocates of the doctrine of freedom arise in fact from the error of\nfirst thinking the spirit (or whatsoever that reality may be for which\nfreedom is claimed) and of subsequently propounding the question of its\nproperties. For the spirit is _free_ in as much as it is nothing else\nthan _freedom_; and the spirit \"becomes\" in as much as it is nothing\nelse than \"becoming,\" and this becoming cannot therefore be considered\nas the husk enveloping the kernel--the spirit. There is no kernel to the\nspirit: it is in no manner comparable to a moving body in which the body\nitself could be distinguished from motion, and would admit therefore of\nbeing thought as in a state of rest even though rest is considered\nimpossible. The spirit, continuing our simile and correcting it, is\nmotion without a mass,--a motion surely that cannot be represented to\nour imagination, for the very reason that motion is peculiar to the body\nand does not belong to the spirit; and imagination is the thought of\nbodies, and not of the thought which thinks the bodies. This idea of\nmotion without a mass, baffling as it is to our imagination, is perhaps\nthe most effective warning that can be given to those who wish to fix in\ntheir minds the exact concept of the nature of the spirit. In order to\navoid new terminology not sufficiently intelligible and therefore\nunpractical, we may resort to material expressions, and speak of the\nnature of the spirit as of a \"thing\" which becomes, and use such words\nas \"kernel\" and \"husk.\" But we must never lose sight of the fact that\nthis manner of speaking, which is appropriate for things, is not\nsuitable for the spirit, and can be resorted to only with the\nunderstanding that the spirit is not a thing, and that therefore its\nwhole being consists solely in its becoming.\n\nWe are now in a position to understand the meaning of the spirituality\nof culture, that is, of the reduction of culture to the human\npersonality obtained in the preceding chapter, as well as the\npedagogical interest of this reduction. Culture, as the entire content\nof education, because it must be sought within the personality, and\nbecause it resolves itself into the life of the spirit, is not a thing,\nand does not admit of being conceived statically either in books or in\nthe mind: not before nor after it is apprehended. It does not exist in\nlibraries or in schools, or in us before we go to school, or while we\nstill remain within its walls, or after our nourished minds have taken\nleave of it. It is in no place, at no time, in no person. Culture _is\nnot_, because if it _were_, it would have to be some \"thing,\" whereas by\ndefinition it is the negation of that which is capable of being anything\nwhatever. It is culture in so far as it _becomes_. Culture exists as it\ndevelops, and in no other manner. It is always in the course of being\nformed, it _lives_.\n\nBut to understand this _life_, and in order to grasp more firmly this\n\"idea\" of culture which is a spiritual banner to rally educators, I\nmust again bring up a certain distinction. Culture, I said, lives\n(that is, it is culture) when it is endowed with a life that is\nentirely different from the life which biologically animates all\nliving beings, ourselves included. The difference can be stated as\nfollows: in the case of every other life, we can assert its existence\nin so far as we have knowledge of it either directly or indirectly. It\nis always, however, different from us and from our knowing it; so\nmuch so that the possibilities of going astray are very great. But\nfor the life of culture, which is the life of our spirit, we have no\nneed of being informed by the experience of others, or even of\nourselves. We live it. It is our very thought,--this thought which\nmay indeed err in respect to what is different from itself, as not\ntallying with it; but which cannot possibly deceive us in regard to\nitself, since it is unable not to be itself. The life of culture is\nnot a spectacle but an activity. Nor is it activity for some and a\nspectacle for others. Culture is never a show for any one. No person can\never know for his fellow being. What, for me, Aristotle knows, is\nwhat I know of Aristotle.\n\nCulture,--this untiring activity which never for a moment turns into a\nspectacle for any of us, which ever therefore demands effort and\ntoil,--could not avoid becoming a show and being made up into a\n\"thing,\" could not escape the danger of dying as culture by degenerating\ninto something anti-spiritual, fruitless, and material, if, while yet\nbeing activity, it were not at the same time in some way a spectacle to\nitself. This point demands careful consideration. It is not sufficient\nto say that culture, that thought is life, and not the thought of life.\nWe will not attain the conception of culture by merely contrasting, as\nwe have done, our life, the life we lead as actors, with the life of\nothers which we behold as spectators, or by opposing the life of\nourselves as thinking beings to the life we possess as organic beings,\nto the life of our senses by which we are on a par with the other\nanimals. The life of thought, in its peculiar inwardness and\nsubjectivity, is still conceived to-day by powerful thinkers, by analogy\nwith life in a biological sense, as irreflective and instinctive, or, as\nthey say, as simple intuition. But thought which though living is\nirreflective becomes indeed an active performance, a drama without\nspectators, but it also remains as a drama represented for spectators\nwho are absent, and who should be informed of those things which direct\nexperience had not placed before their eyes. And it is difficult to\nsurmise who would impart to them this information if the house were\nempty.\n\nIn other words, I mean to say that this would-be intuitive life of\nthought, fading away into the subconscious, melting into the naturality\nof the unconscious, is, like every form of natural life effectually a\nstranger to thought (that is _conceived_ as a stranger to thought), an\nobject and nothing more than an object of thought, and therefore\nincapable of ever being a subject, of ever having value as subject, that\nis, as thought itself. For that reason we can never effectively think\nit; for never can we truly think any thing which is natural and thought\nof as natural. Who can say what the life of the plant is? To posit\nnature by thought is to posit something irreducible to thought and\ntherefore unthinkable. This perhaps would not necessarily be a serious\ndrawback for the life itself of thought if we lived it. For would it not\nbe sufficient to live it? Why insist on _thinking_ its life? Why demand\na head, so to speak, as a hood for the head? But there is a drawback,\nand a serious one, as a result of the fact that this life itself of\nthought does not now, never will in the future, come before us as that\nirreflective life which it is claimed to be: it comes to us as a\nphilosophy which recommends it and advocates it as the only possible\nlife of thought. In fact, in order to be able to speak of this life, we\nmust first think it. But how could we think it, if the only possible\nlife was that one which we intend to think, and not the one with which\nwe think this irreflective life?\n\nSo then, in order that this life of ours (truly, intimately, spiritually\nours) may not be confounded with the life of natural things, with that\npseudo-life which is only an apparent becoming, an effect of another\nbecoming by which it is transcended, it is not sufficient, as I started\nout to say, to call it a drama and not a spectacle. As a result of more\ncareful determinations we may now say that it is not another man's\nspectacle, but our drama which is at the same time our spectacle too. In\nit the actors play to themselves. It is self-conscious activity. It is\nactivity perpetually watching over itself.\n\nAnd again: Just as the becoming of the spirit would cease to be that one\nsole becoming which it actually is, were we to distinguish the spirit\nfrom its becoming, so the consciousness of spiritual activity would also\nbecome unintelligible if we were to distinguish, as philosophers\ninsistently do, between activity and awareness, between the performance\nand the show. The distinction here too arises from referring to the\nspirit, the mode of thinking which is suited for the thinking of things.\nIn the sphere of things, doing is one thing, watching the thing as it is\ndone is another. But to us the spirit's becoming has shown itself to be\nthe very negation of this distinction between actor and spectacle, so\nthat in saying that the actor is his own spectator we cannot introduce,\nwithin the unity in which we had taken refuge, the dualism which is\nexcluded from the concept of the spirit. I have spoken of \"motion\nwithout mass,\" turning a deaf ear to the claims of our imagination. Now\nI shall add something that clashes even more violently against the laws\nwhich govern our image-making; and I shall do so in order to make it\nvery clear that the spirit does not live in the world of things which is\nswept over by our imagination. I shall now call the spirit a gazing\nmotion. The spirit's acting--its eternal process, its immanent\nbecoming--is not an escort to thinking, but the very thinking itself,\nwhich is neither cause nor effect: neither the antecedent nor the\nconsequent, nor yet the concomitant of the action by which the spirit\ngoes on constantly impersonating itself. _It is this very acting._\n\nIn accordance with the popular point of view which, as I have said, is\nshared by great philosophers, a distinction is made between the spirit\nconsidered as will and the spirit regarded as intellect, or as\nconsciousness, or as thought, or whatever term may be used to indicate\nthe becoming aware of this spiritual activity. But if the spirit in that\nit wills did not also think, we should be thrust back to the position\nwhich we have shown above to be untenable, and be forced to admit that\nthe irreflective life of the spirit cannot be fused with the reflective\nlife, and is therefore unaccountable and unthinkable. The will which\n_qua_ will is not also thought, is in respect to thought which knows it\na simple object, a spectacle and not a drama. It is nature and not\nspirit. And a thought which _qua_ thought is not will, is, in respect\nto the will which integrates it, a spectator without a spectacle. If\nthere is to be a drama, and a drama which is the spirit, it is\ninevitable that the will be the thought, and that the thought be the\nwill, over and beyond that distinction which serves if anything to\ncharacterise the opposition between nature and spirit.\n\nShould we, returning to our comparison, demand of that motion which is\nspirit a moving mass; should we, grounded on the naive and primitive\nconception which identifies knowing with the seeing of external things,\ndemand within the sphere of the spiritual activity itself a doing in\nwhich knowing should find its object all ready made, we should continue\nto wander helplessly in the maze of things, and to grope in the mystery\nof the multiplicity of things, which are many and yet are not many. We\nwould be turning our eyes away from the lode star which is the supreme\nconcept of the spirit, and thereby show ourselves incapable of rising to\nthat point of view which is the peculiar one of culture.\n\nCulture, as the spirit's life, which is a drama and self-awareness, is\nnot simply effort and uneasy toil, it is not a tormenting restlessness\nwhich we may sometimes shake off, from which we would gladly be rescued.\nNor is it a feverish excitement that consumes our life-blood and tosses\nus restlessly on a sick-bed. The spirit's life is not vexation but\nliberation from care. For the greatest of sorrows, Leopardi tells us,\nis _ennui_, the inert tedious weariness of those who find nothing to do,\nand pine away in a wasting repose which is the very antithesis of the\nlife of the spirit. The negation of this life,--the obstacles, the\nhindrances, the halts it encounters,--that is the source of woe. But\nlife with its energy is joy; it is joy because it is activity, our\nactivity. Another man's activity as the negation of our own is\ntroublesome and exasperating. The music which we enjoy (and we are able\nto enjoy it by being active) is our enjoyment. But the musical\nentertainment in which we have no part disturbs us, interferes with our\nwork, irritates us. Our neighbour's joys in which for some reason we are\nunable to participate awaken envy in us, gall us, bring some manner of\ndispleasure to our hearts.\n\nCulture, then, as life of the spirit, is effort, and work, but never a\ndrudgery. It would be toilsome labour if the spirit had lived its life\nbefore we began to work; if this life had blossomed forth, and had\nrealised itself without our efforts. But our effort, our work is this\nvery life of the spirit, its nature, in which culture develops. Work is\nnot a burdensome yoke on our will and on our personality. It is\nliberation, freedom, the act by which liberty asserts its being. Work\nmay sometimes appear irksome because the freedom of its movement is\nchecked by certain resistances which have to be overcome and removed.\nBut in such cases it is not work which vexes us, but rather its\nopposite, sloth, against which it must combat. It follows then that the\nmore intensely we occupy ourselves, the less heavily we are burdened by\npain. For as our efforts redouble and the resistance is proportionately\nreduced, the spirit, which perishes in enthralment, is enabled to live a\nricher life.\n\nCulture then is the extolment of our being, the formation of our spirit,\nor better, its liberation and its beatification. As the realisation of\nthe spirit's own nature, it is opposed to all suffering and is the\nsource of blissfulness. But it must not be regarded as the fated,\ninevitable working out of an instinctive principle, or a natural law.\nThe building of a bird's nest, which is the necessary antecedent to\ngeneration and reproduction, cannot be looked upon as work; and it is\nfruitless to try to guess whether this act is a cause of pleasure to the\nbird or a source of suffering. Instinct leads the individual to\nself-sacrifice on behalf of the species. But not even this fact, vouched\nfor solely by external inferences, authorises us to conclude that the\nfulfilment of an instinctive impulse is actually accompanied by pain. So\nthat it seems wiser to keep off this slippery surface of conjecture. It\nwill be sufficient to note here that an action prompted by instinct,\nconceived as merely instinctive and thoroughly unconscious of the end to\nwhich it is subservient, is in no way to be compared with man's work.\nHuman occupation is personality, will, consciousness. The animal does\nnot work. But culture we have said is work. For it is liberty,\nself-formation, with no existence previous to the process; whereas the\nlaws which govern the development of natural being pre-exist before the\ndevelopment itself. Culture exists only in so far as it is formed, and\nit is constituted solely by being developed. And what is more, as we\nshall see in the next chapter, culture does not even count on a\npre-existing external matter ready to receive its informing imprint.\n\nTo conclude then: culture _is_ (in its becoming) only to the extent that\nthe cultivated man feels its worth, desires it, and realises it. It is a\nvalue, but not in the sense that man first appreciates it and\nsubsequently looks for it and strives to actualise it. The value which\nman assigns to culture is that which he gradually goes on ascribing to\n_his_ own culture, and whose development coincides with the development\nof his own personality. What we ought to want is exactly what we do\nwant; but we want just that which we ought to. The ideal, not the\nabstract, inadequate, and false one, but the true ideal of our\npersonality, is that one toward whose realisation we are actually\nworking. And the ideal of our culture is that self-same one towards\nwhich our busy person remains turned in the actuality of its becoming.\nBut work implies a programme, and spirit means \"ideal;\" and when we\nspeak of culture we signify thereby the value of culture, of a culture\nwhich as yet is not but which must be. Life is the life of the spirit as\na duty,--as a life which we live, feeling all along that it is our duty\nto live it, and that it depends on us whether it exists or not. And\nculture could not re-enter as it does in the life of the spirit, if it\ntoo were not a duty, that is, if it were not this culture to whose\ndevelopment our personality is pledged. So interpreted, culture, far\nfrom being a destiny to which we are bound, is the progressive triumph\nof our very freedom. On these terms only, culture is a growth, and the\nspirit a becoming.\n\nThis attribute, which is an ethical one, is not added to the attribute\nof Becoming any more than \"becoming\" was superadded to \"freedom.\" For\njust as Becoming develops the concept of freedom, so does the ethical\ndevelop and accomplish the concept of becoming. Freedom is never true\nliberty unless it is a process, an absolute Becoming; but Becoming can\nonly be absolute by being moral. And it is therefore impossible to speak\nof learning which is not ethical.\n\nIt has often been repeated for thousands and thousands of years that\nknowledge is neither good nor bad; that it is either true or false. But\nis the True a different category from the Good? Are they not rather one\nsole identical category? Truth could be maintained in a place quite\ndistinct from the grounds of morality, only so long as the world clung\nto that conception of truth which was the agreement of the subject with\nan assumed external object. But now by truth we understand the value of\nthought in which the subject becomes an object to itself and thus\nrealises itself; and in clarifying this new conception of truth, we\ndiscover that morality is identical with it. For knowing is acting, but\nan acting which being untrammelled conforms with an ideal--Duty. And in\nthis manner we explain to ourselves why the mysterious and inspired\nvoice of conscience has at all times admonished man to worship Truth\nwith that same intense earnestness, with those same scruples, with that\nidentical personal energy, which we devote to every phase of our moral\nmission. The cult of truth is in fact what we otherwise call and\nunderstand to be morality, namely, the formation of our personality,\nwhich can be ours only by belonging to all men, and which, whether or\nnot ours, is not immediate, not a given personality, but rather one\nwhich is intent on self-realisation, on that sacred and eternal task\nwhich is the Good.\n\nIf we now feel culture to be free, to be a process, and an ethical one\nat that, we have succeeded in grasping its spirituality, and we are in a\nposition therefore to proceed with security on that way which opens\nbefore the educator's eyes, as he intently goes about his work of\ncreation, or, if you so wish to call it, his task as a promoter of\nculture.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n  [3] \"Forest savage, rough, and stern.\"--Dante, _Inferno_, i. 5.\n\n  [4] Many speak of the universal and say that they conceive this\n      universal as concrete and immanent. Few, however, effectively fix\n      their thought on that universality which alone is such, which\n      alone can be such, which has nothing outside of itself, not even\n      the particular, and which is ideal on condition that the idea to\n      which it belongs be reality itself in all its determinateness. And\n      so in speaking of \"universal\" and of \"individual\" we must remember\n      that the latter cannot be anything without being the former, since\n      indeed the universal is not a merely abstract idea, but reality,\n      the reality of thought. Therefore I have here used the expression\n      \"really universal\".--G. G.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nTHE BIAS OF REALISM\n\n\nEducators of the modern school are bent on transforming its methods and\ninstitutions on the basis of the conception set forth in the previous\nchapters. The subtle discussions required to make this conception clear\nmust have convinced the reader that this work of educational reform\ncould only succeed if preceded by such philosophical doctrines as have\nrecently been evolved in Italy and are now becoming the accepted faith\nof the newer generation. To this new belief the school must be\nconverted, if it is ever going to conquer that freedom which has been\nits constant aspiration, and which seems to be an indispensable\ncondition for its further growth.\n\nThe faith of the modern man cleaves to a life conceived and directed\nidealistically. He believes that life--true life--is man's free\ncreation; that in it, therefore, human aims should gain an ever fuller\nrealisation; and that these aims, these ends will not be attained unless\nthought, which is man's specific force, extends its sway so as to\nembrace nature, penetrate it, and resolve it into its own substance. He\nbelieves that nature, thus turned into an instrument of thought, yields\nreadily to its will, not being _per se_ opposed or repugnant to the life\nand activity of the spirit, but rather homogeneous and identical with\nit. He believes, moreover, that this sway can only be obtained by\namplifying, strengthening, and constantly potentiating our human energy,\nwhich means thinking, knowing, self-realising; and that self-realisation\nis not possible unless it is free, unless it be rescued from the\nprejudice of dependence upon external principles, and unless it affirms\nitself as absolute infinite activity. This is the _Kingdom of Man_\nprophesied at the dawn of modern thought. This is the work which\nscience, art, religion, not less than political revolutions and social\nreforms, have gradually been accomplishing and perfecting in the last\nthree hundred years. This new spiritual orientation has to a certain\nextent influenced teaching; and though without a general programme of\nsubstantial reforms, the ideal of education has been transformed along\nidealistic lines. This transformation, strange to say, has been effected\nin part by means of institutions which have arisen as a result of the\nrecent development of industrial life and of the corresponding\ncomplexity in economic and social relations. These schools, because of\ntheir names, seem to be quite removed from the idealistic tendencies of\nmodern civilisations. Whether they be called technical, business, or\nindustrial schools, they seem to be and are in fact the result of a\nrealistic conception of life. But such realism, we must remember, is\nfar from being opposed to our idealism, and should not be compared with\nthe realism which we have objected to. We should rather consider it as\nthe most effective demonstration of the idealistic trend of our times.\nFor these institutions are founded on the theory that knowledge\nincreases man's power in the world by enabling him to overcome the\nobstacles by which nature, if ignored and unknown, would hinder the free\ndevelopment of civilisation in general, and of those individuals in\nparticular in whom and through whom civilisation becomes actual.\n\nRealism, on the other hand, as the opposite of the idealistic conception\nof life and culture, was shown to be based on a conception of reality\nwhich exists totally outside of human thought and of the civilisation\nwhich is produced by it,--of a reality existing _per se_ in such a way\nthat no end peculiar to man, no free human life, can be conceived which\nwill have the power of bending this reality toward itself, of resolving\nit within itself. This realistic point of view is not different from the\noutlook of the primitive man who, awed by the might of nature, kneels\nsubmissively before its invisible power, which, he thinks, controls\nthese forces. It is the accepted belief of the naive and dreamy\nconsciousness of child-like humanity; but it is none the less a\nconception which is opposed to the course constantly followed by\ncivilisation. Its dangers must be made very clear and its menace removed\nfrom the path of its triumphant enemy. To overcome this realistic point\nof view in the field of education is the duty of teachers, who must be\nin a position to recognise it, and to track it into whatever hiding\nplaces it may lurk. I intend therefore in this chapter to point out some\nof the most notable realistic prejudices which, though still tolerated\nby contemporary thought, ought to be definitely stamped out, if we are\nreally convinced of the spiritual character of culture and of its\nessential attributes.\n\nI shall here bring up again a consideration which I touched upon in the\nfirst chapter,--an idea which is the fundamental prejudice of the\nrealistic theory of education in its antagonism to the profound\nexigencies of the free spiritual life which education should promote. I\nmean the idea of Science (with a capital S),--that Science which is\nimagined as towering over and above the men who toil and suffer, think\nand struggle in quest of its light and of its force; that Science which\nwould be so beautiful, and majestic, and impressive, were it not for the\nfact that it does not exist. This Science is looked upon as infallible,\nwithout crises, without reverses, without vicissitudes of doctrines,\nwithout parties, and without nationality,--without history in short; for\nhistory is full of these baser occurrences; and men, without a single\nexception, even the greatest of scientists, even the lofty geniuses that\nhave transformed or systematised knowledge, are all in some measure\nprone to err. The exceptions which are adduced to contradict this\nstatement are so few, so limited by restrictions and by hair-splitting\ndistinctions, that we can hardly allow them; especially when we consider\nthat even granting the infallible oracular character of some men's\nutterances, the fact remains that his listeners must undergo the process\nof understanding him, and in so doing they may go astray. So that from\nsuperhuman unfailing verities, we slip back instantly to human\nfallibility. Infallible Science, then, is not known, cannot be known to\nmankind; for the simple reason that we who constitute it are subject to\nerror, and being ourselves prone to fail, we expose science to the same\ndanger. If it does exist somewhere it surely is not in this world in\nwhich we live, thinking, knowing, and--creating science.\n\nThis mythical science, unsullied and incorruptible, segregated from all\npossible intercourse with thought, ever soaring in the pure air of\ndivine essences, is yet the mother of a numerous offspring, the parent\nof countless daughters as virginal and as infallible as the mother\nherself. These are the particular sciences, bearing various names, but\nall of them equally worthy of the distinction of the capital S in the\neyes of their realistic worshippers.\n\nThis mythology is taught in the schools which too often are called, and\nwithout any figurative meaning, the shrines of learning. Conceived as\ndivinely superlative, as something which, though revealed historically\nby the successive discoveries of privileged minds, is none the less\nsharply distinct from the history of humanity, science descends into the\nschool. There it manifests itself as human knowledge, and is\ncommunicated to the youthful minds eager to ascend to the heaven of\ntruth. And so the school comes to be looked upon as a kind of temple, as\nthe Church where the inspired Word of the Sacred Books is read and\nexplained by those who have been chosen by the Divinity to act as its\ninterpreters, as preachers of the Faith. With this religious conception\nof the school we connect the \"mission\" of the educator, whose task, when\nnot ridiculed and lampooned by the same scoffers who at all times have\njeered at the teachers of divinity, has been surrounded by a glamour of\nreligiosity. We see them encircled by that halo of distant respect which\nwe naturally connect with those who, acting as intermediaries between us\nand the deity, are themselves transfigured and deified.\n\nThe school then is looked upon as a temple in which the pupil receives\nhis spiritual bread. But not so the home which the boy must leave, that\nhe may satisfy his mysteriously innate craving for knowledge. Not so the\nstreet, where the small boys gather, drawn together by the irresistible\nneed of pastime, by the sweet desire of frolicsome companionship, by the\nunconscious yearning after spiritual communion with the world which\nthere makes its way into the child's mind far off from the classroom,\nand lavishes upon it its own light, its portion of thought, its share of\nnew experiences, and the joy of an ever renewed outpouring of\nsympathetic spirituality.\n\nThe custodian of this temple, the schoolmaster, is regarded as a divine,\nas the minister who imparts the consecrated elements of Science, who\nleads the pupil to the \"panem angelorum,\" as Dante calls it. But our\nfathers and mothers are not so regarded,--they who were the first\ncustodians of a greater temple, the world, to whose marvels they\ngradually initiated our growing minds; they who by the use of speech\ntaught us, without being aware of it, infinitely more than the best of\nschools will ever be able to teach us in the future; not our elder\nbrothers to whom we always looked up in emulation, and from whom, even\nmore than from our parents, we learned the thoughts and the words suited\nto our needs; not our grandmother, who long before our eager phantasy\nmight roam through the printed pages, gently led us into Fairyland, and\nthere, in the enchantments of a magic world, disclosed to us that\nhumanity which books and teachers later in life were to re-evoke for us.\nNo! There are no altars to Science except in the Schoolhouse, and none\nbut educators may minister to its cult.\n\nThis mythological lore is not merely a harmless form of imagery, against\nwhich it might be pedantic to rebel. It is a real superstition, which\nhas its roots deep down in the personality of the educator; it adheres\nparasitically to culture, climbs over its sturdy trunk, drains its sap,\nweakens it, deadens it. For when we have stripped this conception of\neducation of its mythological exterior, there yet remains a clearly\nreligious and realistic thought, which is professed with firm adhesion\nof the mind and complete devotion of the soul, as the inviolable norm of\nthe whole activity which pertains to the object of this norm itself. Let\nus, for example, consider what is presupposed by the doctrine of\nmethods, the so-called methodology, which is an important part of\ndidactics, and a very considerable section in the whole field of\npedagogics. The doctrine of methods comprises a general treatment, which\ncorresponds to what we called the Mother-Science, and a particular\ntreatment for the individual sciences. There is methodology of learning\nin general, and there are methodics for the several disciplines, or at\nleast for each group of disciplines, into which learning is divided and\nsubdivided in accordance with the logical processes adopted in any\nparticular case, or in accordance with the objects of these disciplines.\nTo each method of knowing, considered in itself, corresponds a teaching\nmethod, so that there is one general didactic method, and many special\nones by which the general method is to be applied.\n\nBut what is the method of a science if not the logical scheme or the\nform of a certain scientific knowledge? And, on the other hand,\nwhat can be known as to the form of anything, unless we have the thing\nitself before us in its form and with its contents? In order to define\nthe form of a science, and say, for example, that it is deductive in\nmathematics and inductive in chemistry, we must first presuppose the\nexistence of these sciences themselves. But in them form is never\nanything indifferent to content; it is the form of that content. This is\nmade clear if we consider the methodologies which logicians presume to\ndefine in the abstract, and with no regard to the determined content of\nthe corresponding sciences. We notice that they are able to present a\nsuccessful exposition and formulation only by fixing the meaning of\neach formula by the use of examples, thereby passing from the\nabstract to the concrete, and showing the method to be within the\nconcrete knowing out of which logic presumes to extract it. In the same\nway every philosophical system has its method; but whenever criticism\nhas endeavoured to fix abstractly the method of a system, in order\nthen to show how it has been applied in the construction of the\nsystem itself, it has been forced in every case to admit that the\nmethod already contained the system within itself, that it was the\nsystem itself. So that it would have no value whatsoever, it could\nnot even be grasped by thought in its particular determinateness, if\nit were not presented as the natural form of that precise thought.\n\nNo harmful results would follow, if this assumption merely implied the\naccepting of science and methods as existing by themselves previous to\nthe learning of science by means of its respective method; if it\nresulted merely in the failure to recognise the impossibility of\nconceiving science and methods as existing outside of the human mind\nwhere they actually do live and exist. If this were all, we should\nmerely take notice of it as a speculative error which affected only the\nsolution of the particular problem in which it appeared. But in the life\nof thought, where everything is united and connected in an organic\nsystem, every point of which is in relation to every other point, there\nis no error limited to a single problem; its effects are felt in the\nwhole system, and they react on thought as a whole. And since thought is\nactivity itself,--life's drama, as we called it,--every error infects\nthe entire life. Let us then consider the consequences of this realistic\nconception of methodology.\n\nScience, we are told, in its abstract objectivity is one, immutable,\nunaltered: it is removed from the danger of error and of human\nfallibility, and protected from the alternate succession of ignorance\nand discovery; incapable therefore of progressing and of developing\nbecause it was complete from the very beginning, and is eternally\nperfect. But such a Science is quite different from the one which\ngrows in the life of culture, and is the free formation of the human\npersonality. This one is ever changing, always admitting all\npossible transformations, different from individual to individual, and\ndifferent also in the mind of the same person. It lives only on\ncondition that it never fix itself, that it never crystallise, that\nit place no limits to its development; it continues to be in virtue\nof its power to grow, to modify itself, to integrate itself and\nincessantly to develop. Science as culture, as personality, is free,\nperennially becoming, stirred by ethical impulses, multiple, varied.\nIf we fix the method, it indicates that we are dealing with science\nrealistically considered as pre-existing, and we can therefore have only\none sole, definite, immutable method,--one for everybody, and devoid of\nfreedom, not susceptible of development, refractory to all moral\nevaluation. We should have then a rigid law of the spirit, as\ncompelling as the laws of nature. But by obedience to such a principle,\nthe spirit could not affirm itself: such compliance is surrender and\nabdication, not the realisation of some good. The most that could be\nsaid of it is that perhaps it prevents or annuls an evil which alienates\nus from a primitive good which is not ours, and not being ours cannot\ntruly be good.\n\nA fixed method forces the spirit into this hopeless dilemma: (1) Either\nrefuse to submit, and thus save life at the cost of all that makes life\nworth living--_propter vitam vivendi perdere causas_ (which evidently\nwould be the case, if we consider that the spirit lives solely on\ncondition that it recognise no pre-established laws, that it be free\nfrom the bondage of nature, that it create its own law, its own world,\nfreely; and that, on the other hand, the _cause_ of living, what\nconstitutes the worth of life, is that enhancement of the spirit's\nreality which realises itself in science, and therefore in the method of\nscience).\n\n(2) Or else submit, and kill life in the effort to save its\nworth--_propter causas vivendi perdere vitam_ (which is absurd; for what\nis the worth of life if there is no life?).\n\nHowever that may be, the type of education that presupposes a certain\nideal of knowledge previously constituted and ready to be imparted by\nthe teacher to the pupil in conformity with some suitable method, must\nfollow a method, a unique one--the method of science, and therefore of\nthe teacher, and therefore also of the pupil, whether the latter is\ncapable of it or not. For it is tacitly assumed that science==method;\nscience==teacher; science==pupil. On the strength of these equations the\ncommon term \"science\" should suffice to identify the first method, which\nis the one of science in itself, with the last, which is the method of\nscience to be mastered by the pupil. But the above series of equations\nis false, because, admitting the first, the one namely on the basis of\nwhich we are now discussing, neither the second nor the third is\npossible without passing from realistic to idealistic science,--two\nvery different things, as I have shown. Even if we leave the teacher out\nof consideration, we shall have to remember that the pupil learns a\nscience by making it his own,--a fallible science, which he may\nunderstand up to a certain point and no further. It will be one of the\nmany sciences which have no one given method, but many of them, and the\npupil can only avoid appropriating, individualising, subjectivising\nscience by following that way which is very broad, very easy, and, alas,\nonly too well beaten,--the royal road of non-learning, which is\ndiligently upkept by all the schools which have to teach precise,\nwell-defined science, and have a pre-established method by which to\nteach it.\n\nBut, it might be objected, if science, realistically conceived, is a\nfictitious entity in no way corresponding to reality, how is it possible\nto have a method which by its uniqueness and definiteness effectively\ncorresponds to the unalterable unity of this non-existent science? And\nwhat teacher would ever arbitrarily impose on his students such an\nabstract and mechanical method? This is true enough; but man learns to\ncompromise with all deities, Science included. This divinity, in order\nsomehow to exist, must assume a few human traits without however\nrenouncing her divine prerogatives. The fact that Apollo held no\ncommunion with the Pythian priestess did not remove the oracular\nsanctity from the Delphic response. For man knows no deity other than\nthe one which he is capable of conceiving with his soul, just as he\nknows no other red besides the one which he sees with his own eyes.\n\nScience, which he considers as an object existing in itself, outside of\nhis and other human minds, and therefore endowed with absolute validity\nin all its branches and in the articulations of these branches, is\nnothing but the science which _he_ knows. And he knows it because he has\nconstructed it in the form in which he knows it: _fingit creditique_.\nBut this absence of consciousness from the constructing, and the\nconsequent faith in the realistic value of science, determine the\npositions and the doctrines which produce the consequences I have\ndeplored. For he who establishes a school and enacts its regulations\ntakes as a model his own science, without at all being aware that it is\nonly his own. It becomes therefore the content of the institution and\ndetermines its method. But a teacher who does not feel inclined to\nteach that given science and to adopt that special method creates his\nown ideal, which is but the projection of his personal culture; and\nunable to account critically for the intrinsic connection existing\nbetween his ideal and his personality, he too _fingit creditique_. He\nbelieves that the school authority has erred, and that Science, as\nhe understands it, must be kept distinct from the official doctrines.\nBut in his mind his science is not his own. It is, he is confident,\nthat Sovereign Science which by his method and through his cult must\nenlighten the school over which he rules. And so at the point of\narrival where the realistic conception of methods must work, it is found\nto be effective notwithstanding the rebuffs of reality, and it works. It\nworks and it acts in the only way that it is possible for it to act,\nnamely, by going amiss. It fails and will always continue to fail, not\nso much because every pupil has his own personality and will have his\nown particular culture with its corresponding method, but especially\nbecause whatever the number of the pupils in a school, the human mind\nknows of no culture which is not also its own free development, its\nautonomous ethical becoming. A science, which is supposed to exist\nbefore the spirit, becomes a thing, and will never again be able to\ntrace its way back to the spirit. By presupposing science, teachers\nmaterialise the culture in whose development education consists; and\nthis materiality of a culture known to teachers renders impossible\nthat other culture which is unknown to teachers, which is going to\nbe not theirs, but the pupils', for whom they work and in whose behalf\nthe school was instituted.\n\nMethods, programmes, and manuals most conspicuously reveal the realistic\nprejudices of school technique; and against these educators should\nconstantly be on their guard. For these prejudices have, as Vico would\nput it, an eternal motive, which at times seems to be definitely\nuprooted and completely done away with, only to reappear, alas! in a\ndifferent form and with an ever renewed lease of life. The motive is the\nfollowing: The school is created when people are conscious of a certain\namount of knowledge already attained, well defined, and recognised as\nvaluable. Likewise man's value socially is estimated on the work done,\nand it is on the basis of this finished work that he is credited with\nthe acquisition of a certain personality. This is assuredly no longer a\nbecoming but a being; an existent thing, already realised, which, though\na contradiction in terms for those of us who have mastered the concept\nof the attributes of the spirit, is not thereby condemned as accidental\nand disposed of once for all. For it is also true that culture,\npersonality, science,--spiritual reality in short,--is a reality, and\ntrue it is that when we know it, we know it as already realised. We may\nindeed have a very keen and lively sentiment of the subjectivity, and\ninwardness, and newness or originality of our culture, in which, for\nexample, Dante, Dante himself, is _our_ Dante, is \"We.\" But yet this\n\"We\" looms before us as a truth which transcends our particular \"we.\" It\nis truth; it is science. And before this divine Truth, before this\nScience, we too fall on our knees, because it is no longer a mythology,\nbut--our experience, our life.\n\nThus we think; thus, spiritually, we live. I meditate and inquire into\nthe mystery of the universe unceasingly; but in the background of my\ninquiry, from time to time a solution appears, a discovery which urges\nmy exploring mind onward. Mystery itself is not mystery unless it be\nknown as such, and then it becomes knowledge. Inquiry is therefore at\nonce a research and a discovery. And this untiring activity, which knows\nneither sleep nor rest, is mirrored before its own eyes and lives in the\nfond contemplation of its reflected image, which image in its\nobjectivity appears to it as fixed as it, the activity, is mobile. And\nno man ever felt so keenly the humility and meanness of his powers, no\none ever presumed so little of himself, that he could not yet be drawn\nby his own nature to idolise himself, to see himself before himself,\nexactly as he is, as what he cannot but be. And on the other hand we\ncannot but affirm our immortal faith in the absolute truth of the ideals\nwhich impose upon us sentiments of humility.\n\nThe error which we must victoriously contend against is not this\ningenuous and unconquered faith in the objectivity of thought (which is\nalso the objectivity of all things). What we must fight against is\nmental torpor and the sloth of the heart, which induce us to stop in\nfront of the object as soon as we get it. A deplorable failing indeed,\nsince the object is lost in the very act by which we grasp it, and we\nmust again resume our work and toil some more in order to attain it\nagain. For the object, in short, does exist, but in the subject; and in\norder to be a living and real object it must live on the life itself of\nthe subject.\n\nA textbook is a textbook: when it was written, and if its author was\ncapable of thinking and of living in his thought, it too was a living\nthing; and a living thing, that is, _spirit_, it will continue to be for\nthe instructor who does not through indolence allow himself to believe\nthat all the thinking demanded by the subject was done once for all by\nthe author of the manual. For the manual, as a book intended for the\nteacher, meant to be constantly awakened by teachers to an ever\nquickened life, the life of the spirit, can only be what the instructor\nmakes it. He, therefore, must have culture enough to read it as _his_\nbook; he must be able to restore it to life, to re-create it by the\nliving process of his personal thought. This done, he will have done but\none-half of the work needed to transform himself from a reader into a\nteacher. For his reading must lead up to the reading of the pupils; and\nthey ought not to be confronted with the finished product of a culture\nturned out, all ready-made by the mechanism of the handbook. So that we\nshould now complete our previous statement, and say that the teacher\nre-creates the book when he revives it in the mind of the one for whom\nthe book was written; when author, teacher, and pupil constitute but one\nsingle spirit, whose life animates and inwardly vivifies the manual,\nwhich therefore ought not to be called, as it is, a _hand_-book, but a\nspiritual guide for the _mind_. Unfortunately the oft-deplored indolence\nwhich freezes and stiffens spiritual life fastens the books to the hands\nof the teacher first, and then to those of the pupils.\n\nTeachers should carefully watch themselves. If the book begins to feel\nheavy in their hands, it is a sign that it is becoming a burden on the\npupils' minds. It will end by stifling their mental life, unless its\noppressive dulness is dispelled by the reawakened consciousness of the\ninstructor. Teachers should never for an instant become remiss in their\nloving solicitude for their school. When their book, the book they\nselected for their pupils, as the means of imparting the culture for\nwhich the school stands, ceases to be the pupils' book, cherished by\nthem as a thing of their own, intimately bound up with their persons,\nthen it is high time to throw it away. For the moment a book loses its\npower to attract it instantly begins to repel. It then becomes an\ninstrument of torture and a menace for the life of the youthful minds\nentrusted to the teachers' care.\n\nDictionaries and grammars go side by side with handbooks,--instruments\nof culture that are only too often converted into engines of torture.\nThe abuse of these books, especially noticeable in the secondary\nschools, is not limited to them, but is infecting primary instruction\ntoo, and teachers should know what such books are, and be enlightened as\nto their limitations. Otherwise the dictionary becomes the cemetery of\nspeech, and grammar the annexed dissecting room. A lexicon is a burial\nground for the mortal remains of those living beings which we call human\nwords, each one of which always lives in a context, not because it is\nthere in bodily company, in the society of other words, but because in\nevery context it has a special signification, being the form of a\nprecise thought or state of mind, as we may wish to call it. A word need\nnot be joined to other words to form that complex which grammarians call\na sentence. It may stand alone, all by itself, and constitute a\ndiscourse, and express a thought, even a very great thought. The\n\"_fiat_\" of the book of Genesis is an example. What is requisite is that\nthe word, whether by itself or with others, should adhere to the\npersonality, to the spiritual situation, and be the actual expression of\na soul. When joined to the soul a word, which materially is identical\nwith countless other words uttered by other souls, and with the peculiar\naccents of the respective personalities, reveals its particular\nexpression, is a particular word not to be ever compared with any of\nthose countless ones materially identical with it. The biblical\n\"_fiat_,\" repeated by men who feel within them the almighty Word of the\nCreator, is constantly taking on new shades of meaning, is always\nreinforced by richer tones, and will always continue to do so, as a\nresult of the numerous ways that men have of picturing to themselves the\ndeity, and in accordance with the variety of doctrines, phantasies, and\nsentiments, or whatever other forms of activity may converge into the\nexpression of a person's spiritual life. So that if, abstractly\nconsidered, it is the word that we read, always the same, in the sublime\npassage of Genesis, in reality it lives in an infinite number of forms,\nas though an infinite number of words.\n\nBut in dictionaries, words are sundered from the minds, detached from\nthe context, soulless and dead. A good lexicon--and those that are\nput in the hands of pupils are seldom satisfactory--should always in\nsome way restore the word to the natural context, enchase it, so to\nspeak, in the jewel from which it was torn. It should never presume\nto give meanings of abstracted words, but ought to point them out as\nthey exist historically in the authors who are deemed worthy\nrepresentatives of the language or of the literature. Dictionaries so\ncompiled do away partly with the objectionable abstractness, but are yet\nunable to conjure the dead from their tombs. Their weakness and\ninsufficiency lie first of all in the fact that the true context of a\nword, in which it lives concretely, and from which therefore it draws\nits meaning, is in reality not the brief phrase, which is all that\nhistorical dictionaries can quote, but rather the entire work of the\nauthor from which the quoted phrase derives whatever colours it may\npossess and its own peculiar shade. And the whole work in turn can be\nunderstood only in connection with the boundless historical\nenvironments out of which it emerges, in which it lives, and where\nits thoughts receive their peculiar colouring and their special\nsignificance. The insufficiency of the dictionary comes out even more\nclearly from another and more important consideration. An historical\ndictionary of the Italian language will, for example, tell us how\nMachiavelli used the word \"virtue\" (_virtu_), and by the examples\nadduced we should see or perhaps surmise the meaning of that word,\nthe knowledge of which is not just mere erudition, in as much as in the\nmind of the cultured reader the thought of Machiavelli is restored to\nlife, and with it the concept which he was wont to express by the term\n\"virtue.\" But idealistically speaking, is this word Machiavelli's or is\nit ours,--a word belonging to us who are inquiring into his thoughts?\nIt is ours, by all means, and for the reason that it belongs to _our_\nMachiavelli. Unless we have then within us this our Machiavelli, it is\nuseless for us to search for the meaning of the word in the dictionary.\nIn it surely we may find it, but as a dead body to be resurrected only\nby remembering that its life is not in the printed page but in _us_, and\nonly in us. In our life everything will have to be resuscitated that is\nto become part of our culture.\n\nAnd the same applies to grammars. As people conceive them and use them,\nwhat are they if not a schematic arrangement of the forms by which\nwords are joined so as to constitute speech? And how can we cut the\ndiscourse to the quick and extract these schemes, without at the same\ntime destroying its life? The scheme is a \"part of speech,\" and it is a\nrule. Grammar is a series of rules regarding the parts of speech,\nconsidered singly and collectively. But the grammatical scheme--part of\nspeech or rule--abstracts a generic form from the particular expression\nin such a way that the paradigm of a conjugation, for example, shall be\nthe conjugation of many verbs but not of any determined one. The rule\ngoverning the use of the conditional is in the same way referred to\nevery verb which expresses a conditional act or occurrence, but to no\none verb in a peculiar manner. But since no speech contains a verb which\nmight present to us a verbal form which is not also the form of a\ndetermined verb, nor a conditional which does not point with precision\nto the action or occurrence subordinated to a condition, it is evident\nthat the scheme places before us, not the living and concrete body of\nthe speech, but a dissected and dead part of this body.\n\nI shall not here recall the controversies occasioned by the difficulties\ninherent in the normative character ordinarily attributed to grammatical\nschemes. I shall simply note that a scheme becomes intelligible only if\nthe example accompanies it; and the example always turns out to be a\nliving discourse, within which therefore we meet again the scheme, but\nliberated from the presumed abstractness to which it had been confined\nby the grammarian. And I shall merely add that the grammatical norm,\nwhich in the realistic conception of grammar is presented as a rule,\nanteceding actual speech both in time and ideally, has in reality no\nvalidity whatsoever excepting as a law internal to the speaking itself,\nwhich brings out its normative force only in the act itself of speaking.\nIn spite of this, however, the majority of people consider grammar as an\nantecedent to speech and to thought, and therefore to the life of the\nspirit. It appears to them as a reef on which the freedom of the\npersonality must be driven in the course of its becoming, bearing down\nas it does on a past which is believed to exist beneath the horizon of\nactuality and beyond the present life of the spirit. To them grammar is\nlegislation passed by former writers and speakers, prescribing norms for\nthose who intend to use the same language in the future. Against this\nmyth, and the consequent idol of grammar worshipped as a thing which has\nnot only the right, but the means also, of controlling and oppressing\nthe creative spontaneity of speech, teachers should be constantly on\ntheir guard, if they feel bound to respect and protect the spirituality\nof culture.\n\nNeither grammar then, nor rhetoric, nor any kind of misguided preceptive\nteaching should be allowed to introduce into the school the menace of\nrealism which lurks naturally in the shadow of all prescriptive\nsystems. A precept is a mere historical indication, a sign which points\nto something that was done as to something that had to be done then and\nis to be done now. It was done and it was thought that it had to be\ndone. But what was done cannot be done over again, and what was thought\ncannot again be thought. Life knows no past other than the one which it\ncontains within its living present. The precept has no value excepting\nas that precept which we in every single instance intuit, and which we\nmust intuit, being spiritually alive and free, as the peculiar form of\n_our_ thought, of our speaking, of our doing, of our being, in short,\nwhich is our becoming. If we look upon a precept as transcending this\nbecoming, and as an antecedent to it, we misapprehend and therefore\nimperil our indwelling freedom, which for us now ought to mean not\nsimply the failure to foster the growth of the spirit, but a deliberate\nattempt to hinder and thwart its development and to blight the function\nof culture.\n\nOne more prejudice of those imputed to realistic instruction must still\nbe pointed out, and it will be the last. It is one of those time-worn\ndevices whose history, extending over a thousand years, reflects the\nentire life of the school--the composition. Teachers expect and demand\nthat a predetermined and definite theme, as a nucleus of a thought\norganism, as _leit-motif_, so to speak, of a work of art, as a ruling\nprinciple for moral or speculative reflections, be developed by pupils\nwho may yet have never given the topic a single thought, who may\npossibly be not at all attuned to that definite spiritual vibration, who\nmay in short be quite removed from the line along which the theme should\nbe developed. In the lower grades the line itself is marked, the entire\ncontour is given, and the pupil's mind is arbitrarily encompassed within\nthis fixed outline. These methods are now fortunately applied with\ndiminished rigour and less crudely than before. But the fact remains\nthat in all classes the teacher either assigns a theme at random,\npicking a topic from a casual reading or from among the whims of his\nrambling fancy, or else he conscientiously and carefully studies the\npossibilities of a subject, and develops it to a certain extent before\nhe assigns it; so that he naturally expects the pupil's treatment to\nconform to his own delineation; and he values the composition in\nproportion as it approaches the rough draft which he had previously\nsketched in his mind.\n\nHere too, as elsewhere, we encounter the difficulty of a thought which\nis presupposed to thinking, which therefore binds it, strains it and\nracks it out of its healthy and fruitful growth; for thought cannot live\nwithout freedom. The dangers are many that beset us in the practice of\ntheme-composition, and not all of them of a merely intellectual\ncharacter. There is no intellectual deficiency which is not also at the\nsame time a moral blemish; and a course of exercises, such as we have\nconsidered, not only jeopardises the formation of the intelligence by\nurging it along a line of false and empty artificiality to the postiche\nand the applique, but it also, and far more seriously, threatens the\nmoral character of the pupils in that it beguiles them into a sinful\nfamiliarity with insincerity, which might perhaps become downright\ncheating.\n\nComposition however in itself is not taboo for the idealist. Like\ngrammar and every other instrument of the teaching profession it must be\nconverted from the abstract to the concrete. We should never demand of\nthe pupil an inventiveness beyond his powers, never unfairly expect of\nhis mind what it cannot yet give. The boy must not be given a subject\ndrawn from a world with which he is unfamiliar. But when the subject\nsprings naturally from the pupil's own soul, in the atmosphere of the\nschool, and as a part of the spiritual life which unites him to his\nteacher and to his classmates, then composition, like every other\nelement of a freely developing culture, is a creation and an unfailing\nprogress. For whatever has been frozen by the chill of realism, and has\nbeen consequently made unfit for the life of the spirit, may again be\nrevived in the warmth of the living intelligence of the concrete, and be\nthence idealistically fused with the spontaneous and vigorous current of\nspiritual reality.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nTHE UNITY OF EDUCATION\n\n\nHaving exemplified the prejudices of realism in the phases that are most\nharmful to education, I shall now proceed to discuss the fundamental\ncorollary of the idealistic thesis as an effective remedy against the\nravages of realism. For, as I have already shown, the realistic\nconception of life and culture is by no means a minor error which could\nbe corrected as soon as discovered. Originating in a primitive tendency\nwhich impels the human spirit on through a realistic phase before it can\nfreely emerge into the loftier consciousness of self and power (which is\nthe conquest of idealism), this error again and again crops out of even\nthe most convinced anti-realistic consciousness. So that if at any\nmoment our higher reflection slackens its vigilance, the error creeps\nback into the midst of our ideas, gains control of our intelligence, and\nresumes its former sway over thought. It is not sufficient then to\nbecome aware of the faults of realism and of the prejudices in which it\nis mirrored; we must, in addition to all this, strengthen in our minds\nthe intuition of the spirituality of culture, render it more subtle,\nmore accurate, more certain, and bring to it the energy of a faith\nwhich, after taking possession of our souls, shall become our life's\ncharacter.\n\nWe must therefore look intently at the significance of that principle\nwhich identifies culture with man's personality, notice its most\nimportant consequences, and set these up as the laws of education,\nsince by education we mean the creation of a living culture which\nshall be the life of the human mind. The first and foremost of these\nconsequences, the direct corollary of our proposition, is the\nconcept of the _Unity of Education_. Though often referred to, it has\nnot yet been attained by pedagogical doctrines, nor has it been the aim\nof the work of teachers. Neither theory nor practice--more intimately\nconnected than is ordinarily supposed--shows as yet that this concept\nis understood and adequately appreciated. It is opposed with full\nforce by the realistic conception which, keeping man distinct from\nhis culture, and materialising this culture, naturally attributes to\nit, and to education in which it is reflected, that multiplicity and\nfragmentariness which is the characteristic of things material.\n\nThis scrappiness of culture and of education is the error on which all\nthe prejudices of realistic pedagogy are grounded. It is the enemy that\nmust be vanquished in the course of the crusade that has been preached\nby idealism in its endeavour to liberate instruction from the deadly\noppression of mechanism. But in order to combat this foe we must first\nknow it: and we must gain a clear understanding of that unity of\neducation which it antagonises with uncompromising opposition.\n\nIf we open a treatise on pedagogy or examine a schedule of courses,\nif we look through a programme or stop to consider our every-day\ntechnical terminology, we cannot help noticing that education is\nbroken up by divisions and subdivisions _ad infinitum_, exactly as\nthough it were a material object, which because material possesses\ninfinite divisibility. Textbooks tell us that education is (1)\nphysical, (2) intellectual, (3) moral. Then narrowing the subject\ndown to one section, the intellectual, which for good reasons has\nbeen treated more carefully and sympathetically by traditional\npedagogy, we find some such subdivisions: artistic, scientific,\nliterary, philosophical, religious, etc. Again, artistic education will\nbe split up into as many sections as there are arts, and scientific\ninstruction in the same way; for pedagogy assigns to each branch of\nthe classification its corresponding method of teaching. It goes without\nsaying that the sciences of any given branch are different among\nthemselves, and the study of botany, for example, is not the study\nof zoology. And there are as many forms of culture to be promoted by\neducation as there are sciences; which is clearly shown by school\nannouncements assigning to certain years, and for definite days and\nhours, the several courses of the curriculum, that is, the several\neducations.\n\nIt is taken for granted that Education, properly so called, will\nresult from the ensemble of these particular educations--physical,\nintellectual, moral, etc.,--each one of which contributes its share to\nthe final result, and is therefore a part of the entire education. And\neach field produces certain peculiar results which it would be idle\nto demand of another section, just as we never expect an olive grove\nto yield a crop of peaches. Every part, self-contained and quite\ndistinct from the rest, absolutely excludes all other parts from\nitself. Therefore the subjects taught in a school are numerous, and\nthere must accordingly be specialised teachers. And again each\ninstructor must be careful not to mix up the several parts which\ncompose his subject. The teacher of history, for example, when he takes\nup the French Revolution, must forget the unification of Italy, and\ntreat each event in order and in turn; and the instructor of Italian\nwill take up the history of literature on a certain day of the week,\nand devote some other hour to the study of the individual works\nthemselves.\n\nSo also we never fail to distinguish and carefully separate the two\nparts of the teacher's work, his ability as a disciplinarian and his\nskill in imparting information, for it is an accepted commonplace of\nschool technique that ability to teach is one thing, and the power to\nmaintain discipline is another. It is one thing to be able to keep the\nclass attentive to the discussion of a given subject, and quite another\nto treat this subject suitably for the needs and attainments of the\npupils. Discipline is considered thus as a mere threshold; the real\nteaching comes after. For, it is argued, discipline has no cultural\ncontent; it is nothing more than the spiritual disposition and\nadaptation which should precede the acquisition, or if we so wish to\ncall it, the development of real culture,--a disposition which is\nobtained when respect for the authority of the teacher is ensured.\n\nThe recognition of that authority simply means the establishment of a\nnecessary condition; as for the real work of education, that is yet to\ncome. And if we should stop at what we have called the threshold, we\nshould have no school at all. There are teachers, in fact, who keep good\ndiscipline, but who are yet unable to teach, either through lack of\nculture or because they are deficient in methods.\n\nAll these are commonplaces to which we often resort without stopping to\nconsider their validity. And, in truth, it is because of this lack of\nconsideration that we are able to use them without noticing their\nabsurdities and without therefore feeling the necessity of emending our\nways. This lack of reflection resolves itself into a lack of precision\nin the handling of these concepts. They are formulated without much\nrigour with a great deal of elasticity, and in the spirit of\ncompromising with that truth against which they would otherwise too\njarringly clash.\n\nFirst of all, no one has ever conceived the possibility of separating\ndiscipline from education. What is often done is to distinguish\ndiscipline from that part of education which is called instruction, and\nto consider the two as integrating the total concept of education.\nMention is often made of the educational value of discipline. But this\nkind of co-ordination of the two forms of education--discipline and\ninstruction--and their subordination to the generic concept of education\nare more easily formulated than comprehended. For if we should\ndistinguish them simply on the grounds that one is the necessary\nantecedent of the other, we should have a relationship similar to that\nwhich connects any part of instruction with the part which must be\npresupposed before it as an antecedent moment in the same process of\ndevelopment. But the relationship which exists between any two parts of\ninstruction cannot serve to distinguish from instruction a thing which\nis different from it.\n\nWe might wish, perhaps, to consider as characteristic of this absolute\nantecedence the establishment of the authority without which teaching,\nproperly so called, cannot begin. But the objection to this would be\nthat every moment of the teaching process presupposes a new authority,\nwhich can never be considered as definitely acquired, which is\nconstantly being imposed anew, and which must proceed at every given\ninstance from the effective spiritual action exercised by the teacher\nupon the pupil. In other words, I mean to say that no teacher is able\nindependently of the merits of his teaching to maintain discipline\nsimply and solely on the strength of his personal prestige, of his force\nof character, or any other suitable qualification. For whoever he may\nbe, and whatever the power by which at the start he is able to attract\nthe attention of his pupils and to keep it riveted on his words, the\nteacher as he begins to impart information ceases to be what he was\nimmediately before, and becomes to the eyes of his pupils an ever\nchanging individual,--bigger or smaller, stronger or weaker, and\ntherefore more or less worthy of that attention and that respect of\nwhich boys are capable in their expectance of spiritual light and joy.\nThe initial presentation is nothing more than a promise and an\nanticipation. In the course of teaching this anticipation must not be\ndisappointed, this promise must be constantly fulfilled and more than\nfulfilled by the subsequent developments. The teacher's personality as\nrevealed at the beginning must be borne out by all that he does in the\ncourse of the lesson. Experience confirms this view, and the reason of\nit is to be found in the doctrine now familiar to us of the spirit that\nnever _is_ definitely, but is always constituting itself, always\n_becoming_. And every man is esteemed and appreciated on the strength\nof what he shows himself to be at any given moment, and in virtue of the\nexperience which we continue to have of his being,--a being which is the\ndevelopment in which he realises himself.\n\nSo, then, discipline is never enforced definitely and in such a way that\nthe teacher may proceed to build on it as on a firm basis without any\nfurther concern. And it is therefore difficult to see how we could\npossibly sever with a clean cut the task of keeping discipline from the\nduty of imparting instruction.\n\nNor is it any more plausible to maintain that discipline, though it may\nnot chronologically precede instruction, is its logical antecedent, in\nthe sense that there are at every instant of the life of the school both\ndiscipline and instruction, the former as a condition of the latter. The\ndifficulty here is that if we assumed this, we ought to be able to\nindicate the difference between the condition and the conditioned; which\ndifference, unless we rest content with vague words, is not forthcoming,\nand cannot be found. I maintain that were it possible for the teacher\ndefinitely to enthrone, so to speak, discipline in his school, all his\nwork were done. He would have fulfilled his entire duty, acquitted his\nobligation, and achieved the results of his mission, whether we look\nupon this mission in the complex of its development, or whether we\nconsider it ideally in the instant of its determined act, which is yet\na process and therefore a development. For what, in fact, is discipline?\nIs it established authority? But this authority is the whole of\neducation. For authority cannot be, as I have explained before, a mere\nclaim: it must become actual in the effective action performed by the\neducating personality, and this action _is_ education. And when this\neducation consists, for example, in the imparting of a rule of syntax,\neducation becomes actual when the pupil really apprehends that rule from\nhis instructor exactly as it is taught to him, and thus appropriates the\nteacher's manner of thinking and his intellectual behaviour on that\nspecial subject, and acts and does as the teacher wants him to. And from\nthe point of view of discipline, this is all we want at that moment.\n\nIf in the course of education, considered as a whole or at any\nparticular moment of it, we should separate discipline from instruction,\nnow turning our attention to the one and now to the other, we know from\nexperience that we should never get anywhere. As a matter of fact, the\ndistinction thrusts itself to the fore only when the problem of\ndiscipline is erroneously formulated by treating it abstractly. For who\nis it that worries over discipline as such, and as though it were a\nthing different from teaching? Who is it that looks upon this problem as\nan insoluble one? Only the teacher who, unable to maintain discipline,\nfrets over it and failing to discover it where it is naturally to be\nfound, desperately looks for it where it is not, where it could not\npossibly be. And so he is helplessly perturbed, like the man who,\nfeeling upon himself the concentrated gaze of all the guests seated in a\nparlour, is no longer able to walk across the floor; it is the same\ndifficulty and impediment we encounter every time we try to watch and\nstudy our movements. In the same way the spontaneous outburst of\neloquent sentiments that flow from the fulness of our hearts is checked\nby the endeavour to analyse them, to study the words--to substitute art\nfor nature.\n\nThe real teacher, the naturally gifted teacher, never bothers about\nthese puzzling questions of pedagogical discipline. He teaches with such\ndevotion; he is so close spiritually to his pupils, so sympathetic with\ntheir views; his work is so serious, so sincere, so eager, so full of\nlife, that he is never compelled to face a recalcitrant, rebellious\npersonality that could only be reduced by resorting to the peculiar\nmeans of discipline. The docility of the pupils in the eyes of the able\nteacher is neither an antecedent nor a consequent of his teachings; it\nis an aspect of it. It originates with the very act by which he begins\nto teach, and ceases with the end of his teaching. Concretely, the\ndiscipline which good teachers enforce in the classroom is the natural\nbehaviour of the spirit which adheres to itself in the seriousness and\ninwardness of its own work. Discipline, authority, and respect for\nauthority are absent whenever it is impossible to establish that unique\nsuperior personality, in which the spiritual life of the pupils and of\nthe teachers are together fused and united. Whenever the students fail\nto find their ideal in the teacher; when they are disappointed by his\naspect, his gaze, his words, in the complex concreteness of his\nspiritual personality, which does not rise to the ideal which at every\nmoment is present in their expectations, then the order of discipline is\nlacking. But when this actual unity obtains--this unity which is the\ntask of the teacher, and the aim of all education--then discipline,\nauthority, and respect are present as never failing elements.\n\nThis pedagogical problem of discipline would never have arisen if\nimmature reflection had not distinguished two empirically different\naspects of human personality, the practical and the theoretical, whereby\nit would appear that man, when he does things, should not be considered\nin the same light as when he thinks and understands, knows and learns.\nFrom this point of view, discipline of deportment is to be referred to\nthe pupil as practical spiritual activity, while teaching aims at his\ntheoretic activity. The former should guide the pupil, regulate his\nconduct as a member of that special community which we call the school,\nand facilitate the fulfilment of the obligations which he has toward the\ninstitution, toward his fellow-pupils, and toward himself. The latter,\non the other hand, assuming the completion of this practical\nedification, proceeds to the mental formation of the personality,\nconsidered as progressive acquirement of culture. Discipline in this\nsystem appears to be the morals of the school. I use the word morals in\na very broad sense--just as morality might be considered as the\ndiscipline of society and of life in general. For everybody, it is\nargued, distinguishes between the character of man and his intelligence,\nbetween his conduct and his knowledge. The two terms may indeed be drawn\ntogether, but they also exist quite apart. So that a man devoid of\ncharacter, or possessed with an indomitable will for evil, may\nnevertheless be extremely learned and shrewd, or as subtle as the\nserpent; whereas a moral man, through lack of understanding, may become\nthe sport of rogues, and remain illiterate, devoid of all, even of the\nslightest accomplishments. For will is one thing, they say, and the\nintellect is another.\n\nThe question of the abstractness of discipline impels us now to examine\nthe legitimacy of this broader distinction, which does not simply\nconcern the problems of the school, but extends to the fundamental\nprinciples of the philosophy of the spirit. Under its influence,\ncontemporary thought attacks all the surviving forms of this ancient\ndistinction between will and intellect, which rested on a frankly\nrealistic intuition of the world. The philosopher who crystallised this\ndistinction, and fastened it so hard that it could not be broken up\ncompletely in the course of all subsequent speculation, was Aristotle. A\nthoroughgoing realist, like all Greek philosophers, he conceived reality\nas something external and antecedent to the mind which thinks it and\nstrives to know it. When thought, whose function is the knowing of\nreality, is thus placed outside of this reality, it is evident that the\nknowledge to which it aspired never could have been an activity which\nproduces reality. It was accordingly maintained that knowledge could not\nbe more than a mere survey, a view of reality (intuition, theory),\nalmost like a reflected image, totally extrinsic to the essence of the\nreal. But since it was evident that man as spiritual activity does\nproduce a world of his own, for which he is praised if it is deemed\ngood, but blamed if it is judged bad, it had to follow that there were\ntwo distinct aspects in human life: one by which man contemplates\nreality, the other by which he creates his own world,--a world, however,\nwhich is but a transformation of the true and original reality. These\ntwo aspects are the will and the intellect.\n\nIt should not now be necessary to criticise this concept of a reality\nassumed to exist, in antecedence to the activity of the spirit, and\nwhich is the sole support of this distinction between will and\nintellect. We might say perhaps that though everything does indeed\ndepend from the spirit, and though all is spirit, yet this completely\nspiritual reality is on one hand what is produced, the realisation of\nnew realities (will), but on the other hand it is but the knowledge of\nits own reality, and by this knowledge gives no increment to its being.\nHowever, if we adopted this view, we would slip back to the position we\nabandoned as untenable, since a thought which propounds the problem of\nits essence and of the essence of the reality which it cognises can be\nbut mere knowing. For it is again faced by a reality--even though it has\nin this case been arbitrarily presumed identical with it--a reality\nwhich is as an antecedent to it, and leaves to it only the task of\nlooking on. So we must conclude that the life of the spirit is never\nmere contemplation. What seems to be contemplation--that consciousness\nwhich the spirit acquires of itself, and, acquiring which, realises\nitself--is a creation: a creation not of things but of its own self. For\nwhat are things but the spirit as it is looked at abstractly in the\nmultiplicity of its manifestations?\n\nWe shall more easily understand that our knowing and our doing are\nindiscernible, if we recall that our doing is not what is also perceived\nexternally, a motion in space caused by us. This external manifestation\nis quite subordinate and adventitious. The essential character of our\ndoing is the internal will, which does not, properly speaking, modify\nthings, but does modify us, by bringing out in us a personality which\notherwise would not have been. This is the substance of the will, which\nwe cannot deny to thought, if thought is, as I have shown, development,\nand therefore continuous self-creation of the personality.\n\nIf intellect then and will are one and the same thing, to such an extent\nthat there is no intellect which in its development is not development\nof personality, formation of character, realisation of a spiritual\nreality, we shall be able to understand that the ideas of two distinct\nspiritual activities, as the basis of the ordinary distinction between\nmoral and intellectual training, are mere abstractions that tend to lead\nus away from the comprehension of the living reality of the spirit. This\ndistinction appears to me exceedingly harmful, nothing being more\ndeplorable, from the moral point of view, than to consider any part of\nthe life we have to live as morally indifferent; and nothing being more\nharmful to the school than the conviction that the moral formation of\nman is not the entire purpose of education, but only a part of its\ncontent. It is indispensable, I maintain, that the educator have the\nreverent consciousness of the extremely delicate moral value of every\nsingle word which he addresses to his pupils and of the profoundly\nethical essence of the instruction which he imparts to them. For the\nschool which gives instruction with no moral training in reality gives\nno instruction at all. All the objections voiced on this score against\neducation, which we try to meet by adding on to instruction all that\nought to integrate the truly educational function, are the result of\nthis abstract way of looking upon instruction solely as the culture of\nan intellect which in some way differs from the will, from character,\nand from moral personality.\n\nI wish here to call attention to one of the most controverted questions\nconnected with popular education, because it brings out very clearly the\nimpossibility of keeping moral education distinct from intellectual\ninstruction. It is constantly asserted that the instruction of the\ncommon people, that real education which is the main purpose of the\nmodern state, is not a question of mere reading and spelling; that\nthese do not constitute culture, but are as means to an end, and\nought never to be allowed to take the place of the end to which they\nare subservient. The school therefore, if it cannot shape men, should\nat least rough-hew them and give them a conscience, whereas now, it\nteaches but often does not educate: it gives to the learner the means of\nculture, and then abandons him to his own resources. The optimism of\neducators in the eighteenth century, their promise that marvels would\ncome out of elementary instruction propagated and spread by popular\nschools devised for this purpose, was constantly met in the course\nof the last century by an ever-growing mistrust of instruction generally\nrestricted to the notion of mere instrumentality. For in addition to\nother shortcomings it was felt that this instrument might be put to a\nvery bad use; that elementary learning might be a dangerous thing if\nit were not accompanied by something that instruction pure and simple\ncannot give, namely, soundness of heart, strength of mind, and\nconscience strong enough to uphold intelligence by the vigorous and\nuncompromising principles of moral rectitude. The hopefulness of that\npast optimism is fast yielding ground to the pessimistic denunciation\nof the insufficiency of mere instruction for the moral ends of life.\n\nThere is a serious error in this frequent indictment brought against\nmere instruction as a means of attaining what is called culture. It\nproceeds from the attempt to separate something that was not meant to be\nseparated. \"What God hath united together, man shall not put asunder.\"\nAnd, in any event, a separation as illegitimate as this is not possible.\nSuperficially we may distinguish and apparently sunder instruction from\nmoral training, cut off the means from the end, and separate the ability\nto read and write from what we are thereby enabled to read and write. In\nfact the letters of the alphabet are taught without teaching the\nsyllables which they compose, and without the words that are made up of\nthese syllables, and the thoughts that are expressed by these words, and\nman's life which becomes manifest and real in these thoughts. The\nelementary school is in fact, as it is in name, the teaching of the\nelements. Reading, writing, arithmetic, all subjects called for by the\nschool programme are taken up as mere elements with which the pupil is\nexpected, later on, to compose his Book of Life, complete in all its\nsections. But in the meantime it is thought unwise to burden his\nyouthful mind with the weighty and complicated problems that can be\nsolved only by the experience of a more mature life. Of course after he\nhas gone forth from the school into the outer world the young man will\nlook upon this elementary knowledge as the raw material of his future\nmentality. As he carves out his path to this or that goal, in accordance\nwith his spiritual interests and in compliance with the contingencies of\nlife, he will avail himself of this initial instruction, use it to\nfurther his progress towards this or that end, good or evil as the case\nmay be. For intellectual instruction, it is argued, can be made\nsubservient either to noble impulses or to base motives.\n\nCareful consideration, however, will show that the responsibility of a\nschool for what is called moral insufficiency, but is in reality\neducational defectiveness, cannot be removed by this kind of\nconsiderations. The alphabet begins to be such when it ceases to be a\nseries of physical marks corresponding to the sounds into which all the\nwords of a language may be decomposed. The alphabetic symbol is\neffectively such when it is a sound, and it is sound when it is an\nimage, or rather a concrete form of an internal vibration of the mind.\nThe child begins to see the alphabet when he reads with it. Up to that\ntime he simply draws images or inwardly gazes at the semblance of\nthe picture he intends to draw, but he does not read. As soon as the\nsymbol is read, it becomes a word. That is why every spelling book\npresents the letters in the syllables and the syllables in the words. In\nthis way they cease to be mere scrawls drawn on the paper, and become\nthoughts. They may be dim, vague, and mysterious; they may be sharply\ndefined or they may blend and fuse into a suggestive haze; but they are\nin every given instance thoughts that are being awakened in the mind\nof the child. These thoughts have in them the power to develop, to\norganise themselves and become a discourse. From the simple sentences\nand the nursery rhymes of the primer, they grow into an ever-richer\nsignificance. From the sowing to the harvesting, from the green stalk to\nthe sturdy trunk, it is _one_ life and one sole process. The mind that\nwill soar over the dizzy heights of thought begins its flight in the\nhumble lowlands. And it first becomes conscious of its power to rise,\nwhen the life of thought is awakened by the words of the spelling book.\n\nThe moment the child begins reading, he must of necessity read\n_something_. There is no mere instrument without the material to which\nit is to be applied. The infant who opens his eyes and strives to look\ncannot but see something. The \"picture,\" insignificant for the teacher,\nhas its own special colouring for the child's mind. He fixes his gaze on\nit; he draws it within himself, cherishes it, and fosters it with his\nfancies. Such is the law of the spirit! It may be violated, but the\nconsequences of transgression are commensurate with the majesty of this\nlaw.\n\nGrammars too, like spelling primers and rhetorics and logic and every\nkind of preceptive teaching, may be assumed as a form separated from its\ncontents, as something empty and abstract. The child is taught for\ninstance that the letter _m_ in _mamma_ does not belong to that word (we\ncall it a \"word,\" and forget that to him at least it is not a word but\nhis own mother). That letter _m_, we tell him, is found in other words,\n_mat_, _meat_, etc. We show him that it is in all of them, and yet in\nnone of them. We therefore can and must abstract it from all concrete\nconnections, isolate and fix it as that something which it is in\nitself--the letter _m_. In the same manner we abstract the rule of\ngrammar from a number of individual examples. We exalt it over them, and\ngive it an existence which is higher, and independent of theirs. And so\nfor rhetoric, and so for logic.\n\nBut in this process of progressive abstraction, in this practice of\nconsidering the abstract as something substantial, and of reducing\nthe concrete and the particular to the subordinate position of the\naccessory, life recedes and ebbs away. The differences between this and\nthat word, between two images, two thoughts, two modes of thinking, of\nexpressing, of behaving, at first become slight, then negligible,\nthen quite inexistent, and the soul becomes accustomed to the generic,\nto the empty, to the indifferent. It knows no longer how to fix the\npeculiarities of things, how to notice the different traits of men's\ncharacters, their interests, their diverse values, until finally it\nbecomes indifferent and sceptical. Words lose their meaning; they no\nlonger smack of what they used to; their value is gone. Things lose\ntheir individuality, and men their physiognomies. This scepticism\nrobs man of his own faith, of his character and personality. The\nfundamental aim of education ceases to exist. Abstract education is\nno education at all. It is not even instruction. For it does not teach\nthe alphabet as it really exists, as something inseparable from the\nsound, and from the word, and from the human soul! All it gives is a new\nmaterialised and detached abstraction.\n\nThe alphabet is real and concrete, not abstract; it is not a means\nbut an end; it is not mere form but also content. It is not a weapon\nwhich man may wield indifferently either for good purposes or for\nevil motives. It is man himself. It is the human soul, which should\nalready flash in the very first word that is spelled, if it is read\nintelligently. And it ought to be a good word, worthy of the child and\nof the future man, a word in which the youthful pupil ought already to\nbe able to discover himself,--not himself in general, but that better\nself which the school gradually and progressively will teach him to\nfind within himself. So considered, the alphabet is a powerful\ninstrument of human formation and of moral shaping. It is education.\n\nFor this reason the school must have a library, and should adopt all\npossible means to encourage the habit and develop the taste of reading,\nsince the word which truly expresses the soul of man is not _that_ one\nword, nor the word of _that_ one book. A word or a book will always be a\nmere fragment of life, and many of them therefore will be needed. Many,\nvery many books, to satisfy the ever-growing needs of the child's mind!\nBooks that will spur his thought constantly towards more distant goals,\nand his heart and imagination with it. Thus the child grows to be a\nman.\n\nInstruction then which is not education is not even instruction. It\nis a denuded abstraction, violently thrust like other abstractions\ninto the life of the spirit where it generates that monstrosity\nwhich we have described as material culture, mechanical and devoid of\nspiritual vitality. That culture, being material, has no unity, is\nfragmentary, inorganic, capable of growing indefinitely without in any\nway transforming the recipient mind or becoming assimilated to the\nprocess of the personality to which it simply adheres extrinsically.\nThis mechanical teaching is commensurate with things, and grows\nproportionately with them; but it has no intimate relation with the\nspirit. He who knows one hundred things has not a greater nor a\ndifferent intellectual value from him who knows ten, since the hundred\nand the ten are locked up in both in exactly the same way that two\ndifferent sums of money are deposited in two different vaults. What\nmerit is there in the safe which contains the greater sum? The merit\nwould belong to the man who had accumulated the greater amount by a\ngreater sum of labour, for it would then be commensurate with work,\nwhich is the developing process itself and the life of the human\npersonality to which we must always have recourse when we endeavour\nto establish values. For as we have seen, nothing is, properly\nspeaking, thinkable except in relation to the human spirit.\n\nWhether one reads a single book or an entire library, the result is the\nsame, if what is read fails to become the life of the reader--his\nfeelings and his thoughts, his passions and his meditation, his\nexperience and the extolment of his personality. The poet Giusti has\nsaid: \"Writing a book is worse than useless, unless it is going to\nchange people.\" Reading a book with no effect is infinitely worse. Of\ncourse the people that have to be transformed, both for the writer and\nfor the reader (who are not two very different persons after all), are\nnot the others, but first of all the author himself. The mere reading of\na page or even a word inwardly reconstitutes us, if it does consist in a\nnew throb of our personality, which continuously renews itself through\nthe incessant vibrations of its becoming. This then is the all-important\nsolution,--that the book or the word of a teacher arouse our souls and\nset them in motion; that it transform itself into our inner life; that\nit cease to be a thing, special and determinate, one of the many, and\nbecome transfused into our personality. And our personality in its act,\nin the act, I say, and not in the abstract concept which we may somehow\nform of it,--is absolute unity: that moving unity to which education can\nin no wise be referred, unless it is made identical with its movement,\nand therefore entirely conformant to its unity.\n\nThe man whose culture is limited, or, rather, entirely estranged from\nthe understanding of life, is called _homo unius libri_. We might just\nas well call him _homo omnium librorum_. For he who would read all books\nneed have a leaking brain like the perforated vessel of the daughters of\nDanaus,--a leak through which all ideas, all joys, all sorrows, and all\nhopes, everything that man may find in books, would have to flow\nunceasingly, without leaving any traces of their passage, without ever\nforming that personality which, having acquired a certain form or\nphysiognomy, reacts and becomes selective, picks what it wants out of\nthe congeries, and chooses, out of all possible experiences, only what\nit requires for the life that is suited to it. We should never add books\nupon books _ad infinitum_! It is not a question of quantity. What we\nneed is the ability to discover our world in books,--that sum total of\ninterests which respond to all the vibrations of our spirit, which\nassuredly, as Herbart claimed, has a multiplicity of interests, but all\nof them radiating from a vital centre. And everything is in the centre,\nsince everything originates there.\n\nEducation which strives to get at the centre of the personality, the\nsole spot whence it is possible to derive the spiritual value of a\nliving culture, is essentially moral, and may never be hemmed in within\nthe restricted bounds of an abstract intellectual training. There is in\ntruth a kind of instruction which is not education; not because it is in\nno way educative, but because it gives a bad education and trains for\nevil. This realistic education, which is substantially materialistic,\nextinguishes the sentiment of freedom in man, debases his personality,\nand stifles in him the living consciousness of the spirituality of the\nworld, and consequently of man's responsibility.\n\nThe antithesis between instruction and education is the antithesis\nbetween realistic and idealistic culture, or again, that existing\nbetween a material and a spiritual conception of life. If the school\nmeans conquest of freedom, we must learn to loathe the scrappiness of\neducation, the fractioning tendency which presumes to cut off one part\nfrom the rest of the body, as if education, that is, personality, could\nhave many parts. We must learn to react against a system of education\nwhich, conceiving its role to be merely intellectualistic, and such as\nto make of the human spirit a clear mirror of things, proceeds to an\ninfinite subdivision to match the infinite multiplicity of things. Unity\nought to be our constant aim. We should never look away from the living,\nthat is, the person, the pupil into whose soul our loving solicitude\nshould strive to gain access in order to help him create his own\nworld.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nCHARACTER AND PHYSICAL EDUCATION\n\n\nThe principle of educational unity which I have briefly tried to\nillustrate demands a further development in connection with the claims\nof physical culture. For after we have unified moral and intellectual\ndiscipline in the one concrete concept of the education of the spirit,\nwhose activity cannot be cognitive without also being practical, and\ncannot realise any moral values except through cognition, it might yet\nseem that a complete and perfect system of education should aim at the\nphysical development as well as at the spiritual. For the pupil is not\nsolely mind. He has a body also; and these two terms, body and spirit,\nmust be conceived in such close connection and in such intimate\nconjunction that the health of the one be dependent on the soundness of\nthe other.\n\nBefore elucidating this argument, we must voice our appreciation of the\npedagogical principle by virtue of which the ancient Greeks developed\ntheir athletic education, and which since the Renaissance has for a\ndifferent motive been reintroduced into the theory of physical\nculture,--a theory which I do not at all oppose, but rather intend to\nreaffirm on the grounds of educational unity. This pedagogical\nprinciple evidently originated in the mode of considering the function\nof the bodily organism in respect to the human mind, since every time we\nscrutinise the interest that has always guided men in the field of\neducation, we find that at all times the aim of education has been the\ndevelopment of the mind. Nor could it have been otherwise; for whether\nor not in possession of a clear understanding of his spiritual essence,\nman spontaneously presents himself and is valued as a personality, which\naffirms itself, speaks even though dumb, and says \"I.\" Education begins\nas a relation between master and slave, between parent and children. The\nslave and the son are not supported and cared for--educated--as simple\nbrutes, but as beings endowed with the same attributes as the master or\nthe parent, beings who are therefore able to receive orders or\ninstructions and build their will out of these,--the will which those in\nauthority wish to be identical with their own. The superior commands and\ntherefore demands; the inferior obeys by replying, and he replies in so\nfar as he is a spiritual subject; and this reply will become gradually\nbetter in proportion as he more fully actualises that spiritual nature\nwhich the master wishes to be closely corresponding to his own.\nPhilosophy, as well as naive and primitive mentality, considers man to\nbe such in so far as he is conscious of what he does, of what he says,\nof what he thinks; and also in that he is able to present himself to\nothers, because he has first been present to himself.\n\nMan is man in that he is self-consciousness. Even the despicable tyrant\nwho brutally domineers over the wretch who is forced to submit to his\noverbearing arrogance, even he wants his slave to be intelligent,\ncapable of guessing his thoughts, and refuses to consider him as an\nunconscious tool of his whims. The mother who tenderly nurses her sick\nchild is indeed anxious for the health of the body over which she\nworries, and she would like to see it vigorous and strong. But that body\nis so endeared to her, because by means of it the child is enabled to\nlive happily with her; through it his fond soul can requite maternal\nlove by filial devotion; or in it he may develop a powerful and\nbeautiful personality worthy to be adored as the ideal creature of\nmaternal affection. If in the bloom of physical health he were to reveal\nhimself stupid and insensate, endowed with mere instinctive sensuality\nand bestial appetites, this son would cease to be the object of his\nmother's fondness, nay, he would arouse in her a feeling of loathing and\nrevulsion. It is this sense of loathing that we feel towards the brutes,\nto the extent that we never can be sympathetically drawn to them, and\nthat we also feel for the human corpse from which life has departed; for\nlife is the basis of every psychological relation, and therefore of\nevery possible sympathy.\n\nEducation is union, communion, inter-individual unification; and unity\nis possible only because men spiritually convene. Matter, we have seen,\nnature, things, the non-spirit is multiplicity. As soon as the\nmultiplicity of natural elements begins to be organised, already in\ntheir organism spiritual activity shines forth. In the spirit is the\nroot and possibility of every unification. It is spirit that unites men.\nEducation therefore cannot be a social relationship and a link between\nmen except by being a spiritual tie among human minds. Therefore it is\nnow, and has at all times been, what it naturally ought to be, education\nof the spirit.\n\nBut as we aim at the education of the spirit, we may or we may not take\ncare of the body; or again we may take care of it in this or that way.\nIt all depends on what conception we have of the spirit. The ancients\nmade a great deal of physical culture, and the Greek philosophers of\nantiquity considered gymnastics to be the essential complement of music,\nincluding in music all forms of spiritual cultivation. The ancients\nnever divided the spirit from the physical reality of man: man as a\nwhole (body and psychic activity) was conceived by them as a natural\nbeing subject to the mechanism which regulates and controls nature. When\nGreek psychology fell under the influence of that mystic outlook which\nis peculiar to religious belief, the soul, which was opposed to the\nbody, and which was looked upon as chained and emprisoned in the body,\nwas sharply distinguished from another soul. That other soul was kept\nin contact with the materiality of all natural things, and together with\nthem was governed by the law of mechanical becoming, that is, of the\ntransformations caused by motion by which all the parts of matter are\nbestirred. This natural soul, susceptible of development, and capable of\ngradually rising to the height of the other, of the pure bodiless mind\nwhose act is the contemplation of truth; this soul imbedded in the body,\nwhich does not therefore give to man a supernatural being, but like all\nthings of nature comes into the world, grows and dies, incessantly\npassing from one mode of being to another, this soul is the one that can\nand ought to be educated. The soul which results from the organic\nprocess of the physical body, and which in its development proceeds side\nby side with the transformations of the latter, could not be educated\nexcept in connection with the development and improvement of the body.\nHuman thought, which then had not yet secured the consciousness of its\nown irreducible opposition to nature,--the consciousness, in other\nwords, of its own essential freedom,--seeing itself immersed even as\nspiritual substance in the indistinctness of nature, could not look upon\neducation as upon a problem of freedom which can not admit of nature as\nlimiting spiritual activity. It was accordingly reduced to conceive this\nactivity, displayed in dealing with man, as being on the same plane with\nthe other forms of activity which propose to deal with things of\nnature. In a pedagogical naturalism of this sort, the mind could not be\nthe mind without also being body, and therefore had to include physical\ndevelopment in its own process.\n\nBut with the advent of Christianity the spirit was sharply dissociated\nfrom nature. The original dualism of law of the spirit and law of the\nflesh, of grace and nature, rescued man at the very beginning from the\ntyranny of merely natural things, and announced a kingdom of the spirit\nwhich \"is not of this world.\" And it is not in fact \"of this world,\" if\nby world we mean what the word ordinarily implies,--the world which\nconfronts us, and which we can point out to ourselves and to others; the\nworld which, being the object of our experience, is the direct\nantithesis of what we are, subject of experience, free personality,\nspirit, Christian humanity. Man, in this Christian conception, in this\nopposition to nature and to the experimental world, overcomes what\nwithin his own self still belongs to nature, subdues that part of him\nwhich because natural appears as the enemy of freedom and of the\nfinality of the spirit; as the seducer and the source of guilty wiles\nwhich clip the wing of man's loftier aspirations and weigh him down into\na beast-like subjection to instinct. He therefore tends to underrate\nphysical education, and sacrifices it to the demands of the spirit. He\ndoes not completely neglect the question of the behaviour of man\ntowards physical nature; he could not, since his very dualism is\npossible only on condition that he correlate the two terms of the\nopposition. But finding that his attempt to attain freedom and realise\nhis spiritual destiny is thwarted by the natural impulses of the senses,\nin which the life of the body is made manifest, he decides to remove\nthese hindrances and to clear the way which leads to spiritual\nsalvation. He does then take the body into consideration, but simply to\ncheck its instincts and control its sensuous appetites. By the\ndiscipline of self-mortification, under the guidance of an unbending\nwill, he subdues the flesh, and subjects it to the exigencies of the\nspirit.\n\nEvidently this subduing discipline is still physical exercise, but in\nits own way. The haircloth of St. Francis corresponds in fact to the\nclub of Hercules, and serves the same purpose. The monsters which are\nknocked down by the weapon which Hercules alone could wield torment the\nsaint of Assisi also; only, they are within him. He even tames the wolf,\nbut without club or chains, by the mere exercise of his gentle meekness.\nThese internal monsters are not, properly speaking, in the material\nbody. If they were, the Saint would not need to worry about them any\nmore than about the earth under his feet or the sack on his shoulder.\nBut they are in that body which he feels; they are in that soul which,\nwith the violence of its desires, the din of its harsh and fiercely\ndiscordant voices, distracts him from the ideal where his life is. They\nare in that soul which thrusts so many claims on him, that were he to\nsatisfy them he would have to part company with his Lady Poverty, and\nbecome once more the slave of things which are not in his power,--of\nwealth, which heaps up and blows away; of Fortune, which comes as a\nfriend and departs as an enemy. He would, in other words, return to a\nmaterialistic conception of life. His Lernaean hydra is in the depths of\nhis heart, where hundred-headed instinct, with its hundred mouths, tears\nthe roots of his holy and magnanimous will, eager to resemble the\nSaviour in love and self-sacrifice.\n\nThis monster is strangled with the haircloth, when the body is hardened\nand trained to self-denial, to suffering, to the repression of all\nanimal passions which would keep man away from his goal. This\ndiscipline, far from debilitating the body, gives it a new strength, an\nendurance which enables man to live on a higher plane than he would if\nhe followed natural impulses. For this more difficult manner of living,\na robustness and a hardihood are requisite which are beyond the natural\nmeans of the body. The system of physical culture which gives this\nstupendous endurance is called asceticism.\n\nBut this system is an abstract one. Man's life is not poverty, since it\nis work and therefore wealth. And the mind with its freedom cannot be\nconceived of as antagonistic to nature. For as body and as sense, in so\nfar as we exist and know of our existence, we belong to this nature.\nAntagonism and duality import the limitation of each of the opposed\nterms and exclude freedom which is not to be found within fixed limits;\nfor freedom, as we have said, means infinitude.\n\nThe spirit is free only if infinite. It cannot have any obstructing\nbarrier in its path. It can be conceived as freedom only after it has\novercome dualism, and when in nature itself and in the body we see the\neffect of the activity of the spirit. It has no need therefore of walls\nwithin which it might feel the necessity of cloistering itself in the\neffort to renounce the outer world. This is not the way to conquer\nfreedom. A liberty won under such conditions would always be insecure,\nconstantly threatened, always beleaguered, and therefore a mere shadow\nof freedom. The spirit, if it is free, that is, if it is spirit, must be\nconterminous with thought, it must extend its sway as far as there is\nany sign of life to the last point where a vestige of being can be\nrevealed to it. Nothing thinkable can be external to it. Whatever\npresents itself to it, whether in the garb of an enemy or under the\ncloak of friendship, can only be one of its creatures, which it has\nplaced at its own side, or in front of itself, or against itself.\n\nThis new pedagogical and philosophical view, first disclosed to\nHumanism, then enlightened by the genius of the Italian Renaissance,\nappears now to us in the full light of modern thought. Superficially it\nmight seem identical with the classical and naturalistic outlook. In\nreality, however, it has made its way back to it only in order to\nconfirm and integrate the concept of Christian spiritualism and to bring\nout its truth. Greek athletics is the training of the body as an end in\nitself: it surely serves the cause of the spirit, but only in so far as\nthe spirit is grafted on the trunk of the physical personality, and to\nthe extent that it is able to absorb all its vital sap, thereby\nsubjecting itself to generation and decay, the common destiny of all\nnatural beings. The physical culture of the ancients is spiritual\ndiscipline, only to the extent that for them the mind too is essentially\nbody. Modern physical education, at least from the time of Vittorino da\nFeltre, is spiritual formation of the body: it is bodily training for\nthe benefit of the spirit, just as the mediaeval ascetic would have it;\nbut of a spirit which does not intend to bury itself in abstract\nself-seclusion away from the existential world, of a spirit which\npassing beyond the cloister walls soars over the realm of nature,\ninduing it and subduing it instrumentally to its ends and as a mirror of\nits will. So that for moderns, too, physical culture is spiritual\neducation, but for the reason that to us the body itself is spirit. Our\nscience is not merely a speculation of ultra-mundane truths, but rather\na science of man and of man in the Universe, and therefore also of this\nnature which is dominated and spiritualised by becoming known, in the\nsame way that every book that is read is spiritualised.\n\nThis concrete notion of a spirit which excludes nothing from itself\ngives concreteness to the Christian conception of physical discipline.\nFor it aims to turn the body into an obedient tool of the will, not\nhowever of that will which renounces the world, but of that will which\nturns to the world as to the field where its battles are fought and won;\nto the world which it transforms by its work, constantly re-creating it,\nnow modifying one part and now another, but always acting on the entire\nsystem, and renewing it as a whole in the intimate organic connection\nand interdependence of these parts; to the world which forever confronts\nit in a rebellious and challenging attitude, and which it laboriously\nsubdues and turns into a mirror of its own becoming.\n\nModern idealism and ancient naturalism both emphasise, though for\nopposite motives, the importance of a positive education in distinction\nto the negative discipline inculcated by mediaeval asceticism. We said\nthat to-day we develop the body because the body is spirit. This\nproposition runs counter to common sense. But common sense as such\ncannot be respected by the thinker unless he first transforms its\ncontent. Our body, we must remember, is not one body out of many. If it\nwere actually mixed with and lost in the multitude of material things\nwhich surround it, we could no longer speak of any bodies. For all\nbodies, as psychologists say, are perceived in so far as they modify\nours and are somehow related to it. Or to put it in a different and\nperhaps better way, all other bodies, which we possess as contents of\nour experience, form a system, a circle, which has its centre; and this\ncentre is our body. These first of all occupy space, but a space which\nno one of us can think of or intuit otherwise than as a radiating\ninfinity, the centre of which we occupy with our body. So that before we\ncan speak of bodies, we must first cognise our own. It is the foundation\nand groundwork of all bodies. Justly, therefore, the immanent sense,\nprofound and continuous, which we have of our body, and whose\nmodifications constitute all our particular sensations, was called the\n_fundamental sentiment_ by our Italian philosopher Rosmini. For our body\nis ours only in so far as we feel it; and we feel it, at first,\nconfusedly or rather indistinctly, without discerning any differentiated\npart. We feel it as the limit, the other, the opposite, the object of\nour consciousness, which, were it not conscious of something (of itself\nas of something), would not be consciousness, would not realise itself.\nAnd it realises itself, in the first place, as consciousness of this\nobject which is the body. Accurately, therefore, was the body defined\nby Spinoza as _objectum mentis_, as object of consciousness. Objectless\nconsciousness is not consciousness; and it is likewise obvious that the\nobject of consciousness cannot be such without consciousness.\n\nThe two terms are inseparable, for the reason that they are produced\nsimultaneously by one and the same act, from which they cannot be\ndetached and this act is the free becoming of the spirit.\n\nOur body, this first object of consciousness, as yet indistinct and\ntherefore one and infinite, is not really in space, the realm of the\ndistinct, of the multiple, of the finite. It is within our own\nconsciousness. And it is only by recalling this inwardness that we are\nable to understand how it happens that we (\"We\"--spiritual activity) act\nupon our body, animating it, sustaining it, endowing it with our\nvigorous and buoyant vitality; constantly transforming it, in very much\nthe same way that we act on what we easily conceive to be our moral\npersonality. As we direct our thoughts, and bringing them out of the\ndark into the luminous setting of our consciousness, submit them to\nscrutiny and correction, to elimination and selection; when we stifle or\nfeed the fire of our passions; when we cherish ideals, nourish them with\nour own life's blood, and sustain them with our unbending resolve; and\nagain when we quench them in the fickleness of our whims, are we not\nconstantly creating and variously reshaping our spiritual life, making\nit good or bad, that is, eagerly and scrupulously intent on the quest of\nTruth or slothfully plunged in ignorance and forgetfulness?\n\nBut our body, this inseparable companion, which is our own self, is no\nparticular limb, which as such might be removed from us. We remain what\nwe are, even though mutilated. Each part of our organism is ours, in\nthat it is fused in the sole and indistinguishable totality of our\nliving being,--our heart and our brain, as well as the phalanx of a\nfinger, if perchance we should be unable to live without it, and it\ntherefore effectively constituted our being. The distinction between\norgans that are vital and organs that are not is an empirical one, and\nrelative to an observation which is true within the limits of ordinary\noccurrence.\n\nIf our body is the body which we perceive as ours, it is this one or\nthat one in accordance with our perception; and this perception\ncertainly is not arbitrary, but our own, subjective, to the point that,\nin an abnormal way, one may cease to be in possession of his body and\nthus to be no longer able to live in consequence of the loss of a\nfinger, or even of a hair. This hair then is a vital part, not because\nit is a hair, but because it has been, insanely if you will, assumed and\nabsorbed in the distinct unity of our body.\n\nI shall try to make my thought clearer by the use of an example. The\norgan of organs, as a great writer once said, is the hand, and we can\nlook at it from two quite distinct points of view. We may place our hand\non a table by the side of other hands, the hands of persons sitting\naround us. We see its shape, its colour, its size, etc.; we compare it\nwith the others, and we almost forget it is ours, because then we do\nnot, in act, distinguish it from the remaining ones. In these\ncircumstances, it is evident that our hand is in our consciousness as a\nmaterial object, separated from every essential relationship with\nus--with us as we are in the act of looking and comparing. This is the\nexternal point from which we may view our hand. But there is another\none: the hand that picks up the pen as we are about to write is truly\nour hand, the instrument of which we avail ourselves in order to ply\nanother tool which is needed for our work. In these circumstances our\nright hand, instead of being for us one in the midst of many, as it was\nin the case previously considered, is ours, the only one which we can\npossibly use, as we endeavour to carry out our intention of writing,\nwhich intention is our will to realise our personality in that\ndetermined way, since doing a thing always means realising that\npersonality of ours which does that thing. Our hand in this case\ncoalesces so completely with our being that without it--the hand already\ntrained to write--we could not be ourselves. Abstractly, to be sure, we\nshould be ourselves. But it is the same story over again. What exists is\nnot the abstract but the concrete. And in the concrete, we, who are\nabout to write, are this determined personality, in which our will flows\ninto the hand; and just as we could not in truth distinguish our Self\nfrom our will (we being nothing more and nothing less than this will of\nours), in the same way it would be impossible to distinguish between\n\"us\" and our hand, between our will and our hand. Since the hand now\nwields the pen, having perfected its instrumentality by means of this\nlatter, our will no longer leans upon and terminates in the hand, but it\nflows on and presses into the point of the pen itself, through which, if\nneither ink nor paper offers resistance, it empties into the stream of\nwriting. This writing which is read is Thought, whereby the writer finds\nhimself at the end in front of his own thinking, that is, in front of\nhimself; that self, which, considering the act materially, he seemed to\nbe leaving further and further behind, whereas in reality he was\npenetrating into it more and more deeply. But in such a case and by the\nact itself, can we effectively distinguish between thought, arm, hand,\nwriting material, the written page, that same page when read, and the\nnew thought? It is a circle made up of contiguous points, without gaps\nor interruptions. It is one sole process, wherein in consequence of a\nparticular organisation of our personality, we place ourselves in front\nof ourselves, and thus realise ourselves. The hand is ours because it is\nnot distinguished from us, nor, consequently, from the remaining limbs\nof our body nor from its material surroundings.\n\nThis, our hand, knows how to write because we have learned how to write:\nin exactly the same way that our heart knows how to love, to dare and\nrenounce, by striving earnestly to see ourselves in others, to repress\nthe instinctive timidity of excessive prudence, and to break the force\nof desire prompted by natural egoism. We are then what we want to be;\nnot merely in our passions and ideas, but in our limbs too, to the\nextent that their being depends from their functions, and their\nfunctions can be regulated by hygiene and exercise, which are our action\nand our will.\n\nThere is, of course, a natural datum which we cannot modify, which we\nhave to accept as a basis for further construction. But this limitation,\nimposed on the truths I mentioned above, must be accepted without in any\nway renouncing the truth itself, and should be understood by virtue of\nboth its scientific and moral values. This warning is not merely helpful\nin connection with the question now before us, but will always prove\nuseful on account of its bearing on the many problems which arise from a\nspiritualistic conception of life and cause shiftless philosophasters to\nshy and balk. It is true that there is a body which we did not give to\nourselves, which therefore is not a product of our spirit, nor part of\nits life and substance, but only if we think of the body of the\nindividual, empirically considered as such. In this sense I am not\nself-produced. The son can ascribe to his parents the imperfection that\nmars his whole existence, whatever kind of life he may decide to lead.\nThe man who was born blind may blame his affliction upon cruel nature.\nBut the child who calls his parents to account, and the man who\ncomplains of nature, is man as a particular; he is one of many men, one\nof the animals, one of the beings, one of the infinite things wielded by\n_Man_ (that man to whom we must always refer, when we wish to recall\nthat even if the world is not all spirit, there is at least a little\ncorner therein set aside for it); he is one of the infinite things which\nMan gathers and unifies in his own thought because he is thought. The\nparticular man is man as he is being _thought_, who refers us to the\n_thinking_ man as to the true man. This true man is also an individual,\nnot as a part but as the whole, and comprehends all within itself. And\nin this man, parents and children are the same man. In it men and nature\nare, likewise, one and the same, man or spirit in its universality. We\n(each one of us) are one and the other of these men; but we are one of\nthem, the smaller one, only in that we are the other one, the larger\none, and we ought not to expect the small to take the place of the large\nand to act in his stead. All our errors and all our sins are caused by\nsubstituting one in place of the other.\n\nAnd what is more, the large, the all embracing, the infinite, is\npresent in the small with all his infinitude. Personality as such, in\nits actuality, does not shrink and restrict itself to the singular and\nparticular man. Within those boundaries which are only visible from\nthe outside, it internally expatiates to infinity, absorbing in\nitself and surmounting all limitations. The man born blind does not\nknow the marvels and the wondrous beauties of nature which gladden the\neyes and the soul of the seeing man. But his soul pours out none the\nless over the infinity of harmonies and of thought. And the blind man\nwho once saw, in the consciousness of his sightlessness, cherishes the\nboundless image of the world once seen, and magnifies it indefinitely\nby the aid of the imagination. He even heals the wounds and soothes\nthe pain of blindness by making it objective through reflection; and\nthe personality, at any event, always victoriously breaks out of the\nnarrow cell in which it might seem to be confined. So that in the\ndepths of even the gloomiest dungeon a ray of light always peers\nthrough, to lighten and comfort the soul of man in misery, and to\nrestore to him the entire and therefore infinite liberty of creating\nfor himself a world of his own.\n\nWe can therefore say that man, he that lives--not the one which is seen\nfrom the outside, but the thinking and the willing man, who is a\npersonality in the act--never submits to a nature which is not his own.\nHe shapes his own nature, beginning with his body, and gradually from\nit magnifying the effect of his power, and crowding the environing\nspace, which is his, with the creatures he gives life to. We must not\nconsider the smaller man whom we see confined to a few square feet and\nat the mercy of the passing instant. We must intently look upon that\nother one who has done and still continues to do all the beautiful\nthings on which we thrive, on that one who is humanity, the spirit. We\nmust consider his power, which is thought and work (work, that is, as\nthought); and ponder over this material world in which we live, all\nblocked out, as it is, measured, and traversed by forces which we\nbridle, accumulate and release, at pleasure,--this world which has been\naltered from its former state, and has been made as we now see it fit\nfor human habitation, which has been joined to us, assimilated to our\nlife, spiritualised. When we have done all this we shall see how\nimpossible it is to disconnect nature from the spirit, and to think the\nformer without the latter. Nature may be dissociated from the natural\nman, that is, one of its parts may be isolated from the remainder. But\nsuch man of nature is not the one who rules over nature: he is not Volta\nwho clutches the electric current and transforms the earth; he is not\nMichel Angelo who transfigures marble and creates the Moses.\n\nPhysical education, then, is not superadded to the education of the\nspirit, but is itself education of the spirit. It is the fundamental\npart of this education, in as much as the body is, in the sense we have\nused the words, the seat of our spiritual personality. Living means\nconstructing one's own body, because living is thinking, and thinking is\nself-consciousness; but this consciousness is possible only if we make\nit objective, and the object as such is the body (our body). For as\nconsciousness is, so is the body. There is no thinking which is not also\ndoing. Thinking not only builds up the brain, but the rest of the body\nbesides. We may call it will, but then there is not one single act of\nthought which is not the mental activity indicated by this word \"will.\"\nWithout will we should have no bodily substance, in as much as the body\nis always and primarily life, and living is impossible without willing.\nWhat are called involuntary movements are not really such; they differ\nfrom the so-called voluntary in that they are constant, immanent, so\nmuch so that we can after all interrupt them. Without the exercise of\nour will we could never hold ourselves erect and keep our feet, but\nwould forever be stumbling and falling; unless we willed it, the power\nwhich keeps every organ in its place, and maintains all the organs in\nthe circle of life, would be annihilated. Therefore _morale_, as they\nsay, is a very considerable aid in curing the diseases of the body. It\nis on this account that societies and religious sects have arisen which\nmake of moral faith an instrument of physical well-being. For the same\nreason, also, it is impossible for the psychiatrists to draw a line\nseparating mental troubles from bodily ailments. The force of the will,\nthe vigour of the personality, the impulse of the spirit in its\nbecoming, this is the wondrous power which galvanises matter and\norganically quickens it; which sustains life, equips it, and fits it for\nits march towards ever renewed, ever improved finalities. It is not\ntemperament which is the basis of character, but character which is the\nbasis of temperament. If we reverse this proposition, every moral\nconception of life becomes absurd, and every spiritual value appears\nineffectual. Don Abbondio then ceases to be wrong, and Cardinal Federico\nBorromeo is no longer right.\n\nCharacter too is an empirical concept, and like all such concepts, it\nhas a truthfulness which is not clearly discernible, but dimly visible.\nCharacter signifies rational personality, using the term rationality to\nmean, not the movement or the becoming which belongs peculiarly to\nreason as the form of spiritual activity, but the coherence of the\nobject on which this activity is fixed, which coherence in turn consists\nin the harmony whereby it is possible to think all the parts of\nobjective thought as forming a single whole, in that there is no\nconflict or contradiction among them, and in as much as the object\nremains always the same throughout all these particulars. If in the\ncourse of reasoning we introduce conflicting statements which cannot\npossibly be referred to the same thing, we cannot be said to reason.\nRationality is the permanence of the being of which we think: it is\nfirmness of conception, stability of a law which we apply to all\nparticulars that come under its sway. For the object of consciousness is\ncharacterised, in respect to the act which constitutes it, by this\nstability and immutability. What we think is _that_ and no other,\nwhereas thought, by which we think it, is a becoming and a continuous\nchange.\n\nBut the character of man is in the object, in the contents of his\nthought, in what he gradually builds himself up to, in the determined\npersonality which he constitutes by thinking, or, in other words, _in\nhis body_. But body, be it remembered, in an idealistic sense, body as a\nsystem, forming, with its law and its configuration, the solid basis of\nevery ulterior development. This truth, vaguely accepted by common\nsense, which looks upon a strong constitution as a preliminary to a\nsound character, will appear in its full light only after it has been\nstripped of the fantastic and material attributes which it receives from\na realistically vulgar way of conceiving the body materially. For it is\nevident that a feeble and sickly man may yet have a steel-like\ncharacter. Farinata, who stands \"erect with breast and brow,\" as though\nhe held Hell in contempt: Giordano Bruno, who amidst the flames that\nalready consume his flesh disdainfully turns his eyes from the symbol of\nthe religion which had thrust him on the stake, are evident examples of\na strength of mind with no relation to their physical powers, which were\nalready destroyed or about to be scattered by an irresistible might.\nLeopardi is right when he scornfully protests that his ill health is not\nthe cause of that sad pessimism which in his mind solemnly challenges\n\"the unseemly hidden Power.\"\n\nCharacter is physical robustness to the extent that this latter is\nspiritual haleness, and in so far as it is compact, firm, steadfast\nthought. Thought in this respect appears externally as body, not subject\nto the hostile forces that perpetually beset it from without and from\nwithin; and on account of the intrinsic spirituality of its substance,\nit is a law rather than a fact, and a process or a tendency rather than\na fixed and established manner of being. For organic endurance, which is\nreally what we mean by health, does not consist in muscular development\nor in the bloom of an exuberant constitution, but rather in an\nindwelling power, in dynamically persistent and tenacious struggle and\nadaptation, in the capacity of self-preservation, of self-affirmation,\nwhich is the specific essence of spiritual being.\n\nThis body, in which thought organises and consolidates itself; this\nbody, by means of which thought is enabled to press on its vigorous\ndevelopment, reabsorbing in its actual present the past accomplishment,\nand to proceed on its ascent, scaling the height step by step, never\nsliding downward, because every grade it builds remains as a firm\nsupport of the next one;--this is man's character, which is not an\nattribute of the will considered as practical activity in\ncontra-distinction to theoretic activity. Character is an attribute of\nthe spirit _qua_ spirit, without any adjectives. We may, if we will,\ndistinguish the practical from the theoretical man, the soundness of the\nwill from intellectual originality. But just as it is not possible to\nconceive of a really fruitful and constructive practical activity\nwithout that coherence of design and self-supporting volitional\ncontinuity which constitute character, in the same way intelligence and\ningenuity will not become manifest without firmness of purpose, without\npersevering reflection and study of the object, and without stability of\nthis object of intellectual activity, which again constitute character.\nIf character is set as the basis of morality, then every science and\nevery form of culture, even those which aim at evil, considered in\nthemselves, as the life of the intelligence must have a moral value,\nmust be governed by an inviolable law. By spiritual steadfastness, which\nis the condition of spiritual productivity, man sacrifices himself to an\nideal and constitutes his moral personality, whether he die for his\ncountry or whether he labour to bring light amid his thoughts. Life in\nall its phases is the untiring fulfilment of duty.\n\nTo conclude then, physical education must be encouraged, but as\nspiritual training and as formation of character. Gymnastic exercise,\ntherefore, far from being the only way to this end, may even lead in the\nopposite direction; and it will do so as long as it is considered apart\nfrom the remainder of education, with a particular scope of its own, and\nwith heterogeneous contents in respect to spiritual education properly\nso-called. The teacher of physical education must always bear in mind\nthat he is not dealing with _bodies_, bodies to be moved around, to be\nlined up, or rushed around a track. He too is training souls, and\ncollaborates with all the other teachers in the moral preparation and\nadvancement of mankind. If, in addition to his special qualifications,\nhe does not possess culture enough to enable him to discern the spirit\nbeyond the body, and to understand therefore the moral value of order,\nof precision, of gracefulness, of agility, by which man externally\nrealises his personality, he will no doubt fulfil the ordinary demands\nof physical culture, but he will just as certainly antagonise and\ndisgust those of his pupils who are most highly gifted and otherwise\nbetter trained, and he can therefore lay no claim to the title of\neducator.\n\nEducation then is either one or not effective. The assumption that there\nare many kinds of education leads to very disastrous results. Education\nis one; and as a whole it appears unchanged in each one of the parts\nthat we ordinarily distinguish in it, according as we approach the human\nspirit now from one side and now from the other.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nTHE IDEAL OF EDUCATION\n\nART AND RELIGION\n\n\nWe have shown in the previous chapters the necessity of rigorously\nmaintaining the unity of education, of resisting every attempt at\nseparation, of opposing all systems which treat the various parts of\neducation as though they could be kept distinct in practice and theory.\nThere still remains a question which naturally arises at this juncture,\nand which we must try to answer. For true it is, some one might say,\nthat moral and intellectual education are one and the same thing, and\ntrue it may be that education of the mind and culture of the body work\nfor the same results; and it may also be admitted that education being\nformation, or development, that is, the becoming of the spirit, and the\nspirit consisting in its becoming or rather in becoming pure and simple,\nit follows that education means spirit and nothing more. But granting\nall this, was it really worth while? When we have attained this notion\nof the unity which is always the same, no matter under how many aspects\nit may present itself, what have we gained? Have we here anything more\nthan a word? One says \"spirit,\" another might say \"God,\" or \"nature,\"\nor \"matter,\" or some such thing, and there would not be much difference.\nIt might well be that in the course of the inquiry into the attributes\nof the spirit, a way was found to invest our word with quite a different\nmeaning; but still, after we have defined and distinguished the concept\nof the spirit from all the others, we have not progressed much. We may\nhave the satisfaction of continuing to see before us this concept, with\nno possibility of ever ridding ourselves of its presence, but how much\nwill we know of the contents that this spirit is supposed to have? What\nare the principles that should govern this education, which has been\nclearly stated to be not a natural fact, but a free action, and\ntherefore a selection enlightened by consciousness, by reflection, and\nby reason?\n\nThis suggested objection is not a purely imaginary one. Very often\nsuperficial critics, forgetting that pedagogical problems pertain to\nphilosophy and are therefore problems of the spirit, awkwardly try to\nsolve them by the insufficient light of common sense. In so doing they\nwarn us that in idealistic pedagogics all particular and definite\nconcepts vanish, and what remains is a vague confused indistinctness of\nno practical utility to the teacher.\n\nAnd truly, if the only result obtained by idealistic pedagogics were the\ndemonstration that many concepts, ordinarily considered to be\nsubstantially different, are in reality identical, we should not\nhesitate to call such philosophical knowledge useless and ridiculous.\nBut in the first place we must notice that this assumed deficiency\ncharged against us has partially been shown to be non-existent by the\nexposition of our doctrine, which reduces education to free spiritual\nbecoming, and resolves the apparent multiplicity of educational forms in\nthe immultiplicable unity of this becoming, outside of which nothing is\ntruly conceivable.\n\nFor the defect of our system was assumed in connection with an exigency\nwhich divides itself into two parts, respectively corresponding to the\nform and to the matter of education. For many of the pedagogical errors\nwhich we have pointed out were seen to be imputable, not to the choice\nof an unsuitable content of education, but to the criterion adopted in\ntreating this content. I have already spoken of my disinclination to\naccomplish a mere negative task; and in the last chapter, while\ndenouncing the materialistic conception of physical education, I\ncertainly did not spare the ascetic view which knows of no body other\nthan the one which harasses the spirit and hinders its progress toward\nthe ultimate good; and thereupon I tried to show that physical culture\nis spiritual education endowed with that self-same nature which belongs\nto education when considered as formation of the will and of the\nintellect. But this does not mean that our thesis reduces itself to a\nmere theoretic transvaluation or to a new abstract interpretation of\nour present educative system, which however in practice could not be\naffected by this purely theoretical difference of interpretation. I\ntried to make it clear that our conception is not devoid of practical\nimport, and that it does lead to a reform in education and to a new\norientation of the school. This was especially brought out in connection\nwith physical culture in the preceding chapter, when I insisted on the\nnecessity that physical instructors be trained in such a way that their\nmental equipment shall not be limited to notions that refer exclusively\nto the body in its physical limitations: but that in addition to\nphysiology, anatomy, and hygiene, they be made familiar also with those\nstudies and disciplines that are more intimately connected with\ncharacter, with the soul, and with the mind.\n\nBut besides this, our entire investigation dealing with the reasons for\nan absolutely spiritualistic conception of education should have made it\nvery clear that it is not possible to entertain these new conceptions\nwithout introducing in the school a new spirit, which will not yield to\nthe realistic vogue and to the materialistic, pedantic, old-fashioned\neducation,--a spirit which will bring before us a new duty in every\ninstant of our teaching life and in every word we utter, and which will\nimpress us with the necessity of acting differently from what has been\ntaught by the followers of traditional pedagogical routine. Whatever\nthe subject may be, the form of education has to be in accord with\nsomething that should by now be the common possession of us all, namely,\nthe consciousness of the intimate spirituality and of the sacred freedom\nof our work, which operates not in the material schools but within the\nsouls of our pupils. There it gives rise not to incidents that are\nunessential to that greater world which is the aim of our religiously,\nserious outlook on life, but to a process in which All is involved. The\nspeculative side then of this form of education is not a useless and\nabstract theory, but a necessary moment of the moral improvement, of the\nspiritual enhancement, and of the general regeneration of teaching.\nIndifference to this reform, and the belief that men may continue to\neducate without bothering with the subtle problems of philosophy, mean a\nfailure to understand the precise nature of education.\n\nBut the question of the content of education is a different one. Having\nidentified education with spiritual reality itself, it follows that the\ntwo determinations of the content of the latter belong to the content of\nthe former. One of these determinations is historical in character; it\nadvances as the history of the human mind progresses, assuming now this\nand now that aspect in accordance with the prevailing spiritual\ninterests. We who have censured the conception of pre-established\nprogrammes, as being most dangerous prejudices of pedagogical realism,\ncould not very well presume to determine here in the abstract, the\ncontent of every possible form of education for all places and all\ntimes. The school, like every other form of education, develops; and as\nit grows, it constantly changes its content, which again is nothing else\nthan the content that the spirit gives to itself at every moment of its\nconcrete development.\n\nIt would be just as irrational to expect a school to map out with\nprecision the limits and the scope of a pupil's culture. Of all the\nculture carved out for him at school, a boy will absorb only that much\nwhich is taken up by the autonomous growth of his personality. This will\nbe supplemented and integrated by the culture which he gets outside of\nthe classroom, in all possible walks of life, and will be so personal\nand of such a character as to admit of no prevision or pre-determination\neven on the part of the learner himself. Away with pre-established\nprogrammes then of any description! Spiritual activity works only in the\nplenitude of freedom. Horace asks: _Currente rota cur urceus exit?_ We\nanswer: Whether an _urceus_ or not, what always comes from the _rota_ is\nsomething which cannot be foreseen, for the very simple reason that what\nis foreseen is not the future but the past, which we (as in the case of\nexperimental sciences) project into the future, whereas the spirit is a\ncreation which occurs not in time but in a never-setting present.\n\nSo every abstract discussion of the possible content of education in\ngeneral, or of any given particular school, must appear crude and\nabsurd, if we recall that education reflects the historical development\nof the spirit. What we need to do is to wait, observe, and have faith.\nFor God will reveal himself to us; and God is the very Spirit of ours\nwhich at every moment prescribes its law to itself and thus determines\nits own content.\n\nThe other of the two determinations mentioned above is the _ideal_, or,\nas we perhaps might more precisely call it, the _transcendental_. It\npertains to that spiritual content which never changes as it passes\nthrough the various historical determinations, and which might therefore\nbe styled the \"determiner of the intrinsic and absolute essence of the\nspirit.\" This content upon careful consideration reveals itself as form,\nand more precisely as the form of the historically determined content of\nthe spirit; or again as the concreteness of that form which has been\nattributed to the spirit considered in itself, which is a becoming. But\n_qua_ becoming, and irrespective of all special aspects with which it\nhistorically configures itself, the spirit has already a content of its\nown, which cannot be absent from any of its historical configurations.\nIn them this content will manifest itself over and over again, but\nconstantly modified by the changes that are being historically produced.\nUnder these varying modes and presentations it permanently abides as\nthe indefectible substance of the spirit. This substance, this ideal\nspirit which becomes actual in history, cannot be ignored by any kind of\npedagogics which aspires to a thorough knowledge of the essence of\neducation.\n\nHaving thus formulated the problem, and clinging firmly to the principle\nof educational unity, we may distinguish the forms of education which\nproceed from the ideal content of the spirit. But we must always\nkeep in mind that, as these forms are only distinguishable ideally,\nthey can in no way be effectively separated, and must be found in\nevery concrete educative act. So that their synthesis and their\ncomplete immanence is the concreteness of educational unity in its\nopposition to what I have called fragmentary education. Our distinction\nthen will turn out to be an exact logical analysis, which analyses only\nthe terms of a synthesis and cannot therefore be dissociated from the\nsynthesis. By analysing and by synthesising, by determining the\nspiritual unity without disconnecting or in any way dissociating its\nintrinsic ideal determinations, we strive to represent the ideal of\neducation.\n\nIn making a rapid survey of this analysis, I must refer back to what was\nsaid of the attributes of the spirit,--that the spirit _is_ in that it\n_becomes_, that it becomes in so far as it acquires self-consciousness,\nthat its being therefore is consciousness in the act of being acquired.\nThis act is surely self-consciousness, and it does mean cognition, but\na cognition which differs from all others in that it has for its object\nthat very one who cognises. And this is the meaning of \"I,\" identity of\nsubject and object,--an identity, however, that because of its curious\nnature needs to be carefully examined. It was shown in a preceding\nchapter that two things, to be thought as two, must yet be thought as\none by virtue of the unique relationship which makes their duality\npossible. Here we observe the inverse: identity of subject and object\nmeans that in addition to the subject there is--nothing; it means\ntherefore unity. And yet this unity would in no manner be intelligible\nif it were not also a duality, if, in other words, the identity of\nsubject and object were not also the difference between them.\n\nTo distinguish A from B, an initial, elementary minimum difference is\nrequired. It is the difference, called _otherness_, by which B is other\nthan A. Without this otherness there would not be A and B, but either A\nalone or B alone. The subject as it knows itself is certainly not\nanother from the subject alone. But if it did not become _other_ to\nitself, if it were not object also, as well as subject, it would never\nknow itself. To be object as well as subject implies the necessity of\ndistinguishing these two terms, and shows that there is otherness\nbetween them. If it sounds harsh to speak of something that first is\n\"_one_\" and then is \"_two_,\" we might state the situation in a\ndifferent and perhaps simpler way. We might say that the subject would\nnot know itself, if remaining always that one and self-same subject, it\nwere not both subject and object to itself.\n\nConsciousness implies this self-alteration of the subject, which by\nplacing itself as an object in front of itself realises itself, it being\nreal only as self-consciousness. This is the import of the identity of\nthe two terms, subject and object; or of the difference intrinsic to the\none, which is but another way of stating it. We may insist as much as we\nwant on the identity of the \"I,\" but it will always be true that this\n\"I\" is real only in virtue of its intrinsic difference. And conversely\nwe may insist, as it is more often done, on the difference between the\nsubjective moment of the \"I,\" whereby the \"I\" is set in opposition to\nall its objects, and the objective moment in which the ego vanishes. But\nbehind the difference, identity is always to be found. Man, the more he\nthinks, the more he alters himself, the more objective that reality\nbecomes which he realises by self-consciousness, the more fully he sees\nthe variation, the development, the growth, the enhancement of the\nobject--the world he knows.\n\nThe spirit's being is its alteration. The more it _is_,--that is, the\nmore it becomes, the more it lives,--the more difficult it is for it to\nrecognise itself in the object. It might therefore be said that he who\nincreases his knowledge also increases his ignorance, if he is unable\nto trace this knowledge back to its origin, and if the spirit's rally\ndoes not induce him to rediscover himself at the bottom of the object,\nwhich has been allowed to alter and alienate itself more and more from\nthe secret source of its own becoming. Thus it happens, as was said of\nold, that \"He that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.\" All human\nsorrow proceeds from our incapacity to recognise ourselves in the\nobject, and consequently to feel our own infinite liberty.\n\nSubject then and object, and in their synthesis, in their living unity,\nthe spirit, which therefore is neither a subject standing against an\nobject, nor its opposite. The two terms, each one for itself, isolated,\nare equivalent. But every time human thought has isolated them, whether\nstriving to conceive itself, its own spiritual substance, objectively\n(God), or as a simple subject (a particular man), it has ever reached\nmost desperate conclusions, now totally blocking its way to the\ncomprehension and justification of its own subjectivity, and now\nsecluding itself in an abstract subjectivity, removed from _all_ which\nman theoretically and practically needs in order to live. The reality of\nthe spirit is not in the subject as opposed to the object, but in the\nsubject that has in itself the object as its actuality.\n\nIt is on account of this inseverable unity, by which the subject presses\nto itself the object and becomes actual therein, that the progressive\nalteration of the object is also the progressive alteration of the\nsubject. At every given moment, the subject, altered as it is, made into\nthe \"other\" or determined, is yet pure subject, and nothing else than\nthe subject which becomes conscious of itself, and therefore actual by\ndetermining itself as subject of its object, in such a way that the\nsubject as well as the object is always new and always different. Not\nbecause it is now one subject and now another, in which case succession\nand enumeration would import multiplicity, and would therefore reduce\nthe spirit to a thing; but because it appears and cannot but appear\nthus, if observed from the point of view which distinguishes one\nindividual from another, and in the same individual one instant from the\nnext, although from a rigorously idealistic point of view the spirit is\none, and its determinateness does not detract from its absolute\noriginality.\n\nThis dialectic in which the spiritual becoming unfolds itself (subject,\nobject, and unity of subject and object), this self-objectifying or\nself-estrangement aiming at self-attainment,--this is the eternal life\nof the spirit, which creates its immortal forms, and determines the\nideal contents of culture and education. The spirit's self-realisation\nis the realisation of the subject, of the object, and of their\nrelationship. If of these three terms (the third being the synthesis of\nthe first and second) any one should fail, the spiritual reality would\ncease to be.\n\nThis threefold realisation admits empirically of a separation that makes\nit possible to have one without the others. On the strength of this\ntriple division we speak of art, of religion, and of philosophy, as\nthough each one of them could subsist by itself. So that commonly people\nbelieve that it is possible to be a poet without in any way burdening\none's mind with religion or philosophy,--especially philosophy, which\nappears to be the bugbear of most poets. In the same way many\nphilosophers, and among them one of the very greatest, held art to be\nthe negation of philosophy, to the point that it should be banished from\nthe kingdom where the latter was expected to reign. And how often has\nreligion taken up arms, now against poetry, and now against speculation!\nAll of these occurrences were possible because the three terms were\nlooked upon as separable, as though they were three material things,\neach one of which could be what it was only on condition that it\nexcluded the others.\n\nA superficial understanding of the differences intervening between these\nthree terms is the reason why they are often looked upon as separable.\nBut in reality they are so indissolubly conjoined, that separation would\ndestroy their spiritual character, and put in its place mechanism, which\nis the property of all that is not spirit.\n\nArt is the self-realisation of the spirit as subject. Man becomes\nenfolded in his subjectivity, and hears but the voice of love or other\ninward summons. Living without communication with the world, he refrains\nfrom affirming and denying what exists and what does not exist. He\nsimply spreads out over his own abstract interior world, and dreams; and\nas he dreams, he escapes from the outer bustle into the seclusion of his\nenchanted realm, which is true in itself until he issues from it and\ndiscovers it to be a figment of his phantasy. This man is the artist,\nwho, we might say, neither cognises nor acts, but sings.\n\nHis subjectivity appears empirically to us always as a determined\nsubjectivity, the determination of which proceeds from the object in\nwhich the spirit, theoretically and practically, has previously\nobjectified itself. But this priority of the act, by which the artist is\nconsidered a man of this objective world before he withdraws into\nhis dreams, is a mere empirical appearance. If we relied on it, we\ncould not preserve to the spirit in its artistic life that originality\nand autonomy, that absolute spontaneity and freedom, which is the\nessential character or, as we called it, the attribute of spiritual\nactivity. To become objective, the spirit must first be subject; and in\nfront of the object in which it objectifies itself, it again inevitably\nbecomes subject,--an ever determined one indeed, but nothing else than\na subject. That is why the contemporary theory of aesthetics holds that\nform in art absorbs in itself the content, with no residuum. It\nabsorbs it _qua_ subjectivity; for whatever the object be which this\nsubjectivity, empirically considered, has enwrapped, it draws it\nentirely over to itself, reassumes it, and as pure subjectivity it\ncannot return to its object without passing through the moment of its\nopposition to the object,--the moment in which the subject is\nnothing else than subject, and finds in itself infinite gratification.\nThis is the realm of art, a realm from which the spirit, in consequence\nof the very function of the subject, is compelled to issue; since\nthe subject is subject in that it issues from itself, becomes\nself-conscious, objectifies itself. So the poet as he dreams breathes\nlife into the personages of his dreams, builds them up, and gives\nthem reality. What is his own abstract subjectivity he chooses as a\nworld in which he himself may live absolutely; and the ideas which\nmature in that fantastic world of his--which is nothing more, as I\nhave said, than his abstract subjectivity--are affirmed by him without\nany reserves, and are opposed to the ideas of philosophers and of\nmen who prefer concrete reality to phantasy.\n\nThis lyrical bent, peculiar to the artist who enhances himself by\nexalting his own abstract individuality, is in direct contrast with the\ntendency of the Saint, who crushes and annihilates this same\nindividuality in the face of his God,--that God who infinitely occupies\nhis consciousness as the \"other\" in absolute alterity to him, so that\nthe subject is hurled into the object in a total self-abstraction. It\nsinks in the contemplation of its own self in its objective \"otherness,\"\nof itself become the other, in which it no longer recognises itself. So\nhe deifies this other self, places it on the altar, and kneels before\nit. Thus the saint's personality is nullified; or rather, it is\nactualised and realised in this self-annulment, which is the theoretical\nand practical characteristic of mysticism and the specific act of\nreligion.\n\nIt is not possible to tear art from the spirit's life, in as much as it\ncould not be the synthesis it actually is without being subjectivity. It\nis equally impossible for the spirit to be completely devoid of\nreligiosity. The mystic flower of faith grows out of the bosom of\nart,--a faith in an object which draws the soul to itself and conquers\nit. The life of the spirit is an eternal crossing from art to religion,\nfrom the subject to the object. It is impossible for the artist to\nrealise his art in unalloyed purity, since his world, the world he has\ncreated for himself, is nevertheless the bigger world, out of which,\nempirically speaking, he is driven only by the needs of practical life,\nwhich awaken him and remind him of the existence of a wider world. In\nthe same way it is impossible to realise a pure religion in which the\nsubject completely and effectually might annihilate itself. For in the\nmeasure that faith increases in intensity, and the sentiment of one's\nown nothingness grows deeper, and the idea that the object is all\nbecomes more obsessing, in that same measure the energy of the spirit\nincreases, of the spirit as the subject that has been powerful enough to\ncreate this situation. Altars must be built in order that people may\nkneel in front of them. The concept of God, it, too, has a history. And\nfrom this history no word can be taken away on the assumption that it\nwas immediately _revealed_. For there is no word which pre-exists as\nsuch before the act of him who cognises it. And to fix a dogma, that is,\nto rescue it from the flow of evolution, we should have to withdraw from\nthe course of evolution the men themselves who are to accept it.\n\nNothing therefore is more impious than the history of religion, in the\ncourse of which man, now dragging his God down to the depths of his\napparent misery, now lifting him to the heights of his real greatness,\nprogresses from station to station along the unending way of sorrows and\njoys. The process of mental development shows unwittingly, by the very\nacts of man's innocent piety, that God is _his_ God, that the life of\nthe object is the same as the life of the subject.\n\nThe nature then both of art and of religion implies a flagrant\ncontradiction which comes to this,--that the subject to be subject is\nobject, and the object to be object is subject. Hence the torments of\nthe poet and the spasms of the mystic. A perfect art and a perfect\nreligion, that is, art which is not religion, and religion which is not\nart, are two impossibilities. This does not mean that either art or\nreligion can ever be superseded and left behind as two illusions,\nancient and constant, if we will, but none the less devoid of all value.\nThe very contrary of this is true. Just because there is no pure art,\nreligion is eternal; and art is eternal, because religion cannot be\nattained in its absolute purity.\n\nThe concrete spirit is neither subject nor object. It is a\nself-objectifying subject, and an object which becomes the subject in\nvirtue of the subjectivity that alights on it as it realises it. The\nspirit is therefore a becoming. It is the synthesis, the unity of these\ntwo opposites, ever in conflict and yet always intimately joined. And\nthe spirit, as this unity, is the concreteness both of art (reality of\nthe abstract subject) and of religion (reality of the abstract object).\nIt is philosophy. Many definitions have been given of philosophy, and\nall of them true, because directly or indirectly they may, on the\nstrength of what is expressed or what is understood, be reduced to the\nfollowing definition: that philosophy is the spirit. If we say that it\nis the science of the spirit, we indulge in a useless pleonasm. For\nscience, unless we distinguish in an absolute manner (which is\nimpossible) one grade of determinateness from the other, is the same as\nconsciousness; and spirit is, as we have seen, self-consciousness. If we\nsay that philosophy is the science of reality in its universality, we\nlose sight of the fact that reality, for those who do not stray off into\nthe maze of abstractness, _is_ the spirit. A definition which has never\nlost its value is that one which makes philosophy consist in the\nelaboration of concepts, that is, in the unification of all the concepts\n(those we possess, of course) into a coherent concept. This is an\nexcellent definition, and it warns us that philosophy is not obtained by\nstopping before abstractions, no matter what these abstractions may be.\nAll particular things are abstractions, each one of which yields a\nconcept, and all of them give a number of concepts, which must be\nbrought together and unified, if we ever intend to think all things that\nare thought, and thus philosophise. The subject without the object as\nthe artist wants it is an abstraction; and similarly abstract is the\nobject which religion looks up to.\n\nWe are accustomed, not without reason, to distinguish the life of the\nspirit from philosophy. But the reason, instead of destroying, confirms\nthe identity between spirit and philosophy, and for the following cause.\nThe spirit never being what it ought to be, we live acquiring\nconsciousness of ourselves. But when we pause to ask ourselves if we\nhave really obtained this consciousness, and turn to our life as to the\nsubject-matter of this problem, which is the problem of philosophy, we\ndiscover that we cannot answer in the affirmative. For answering is\nspiritual living, a living, therefore, which consists not in having\nself-consciousness but in acquiring it. So that philosophy does not\narise from the need of understanding the life already lived, for the\npast is the realm of death; but rather from the much keener desire of\nliving, of leading a better life, a true life, and of finally realising\nthis spiritual reality which is our ideal. But when?\n\nCan we believe that there is ever going to be a philosophy which will\ndefinitely fulfil the ideal? It is obvious that a pursuit of such\nphilosophy would lead the spirit into a race to death; whereas on the\ncontrary the spirit is life; it is an impulse to ever more intense\nliving.\n\nThis philosophy, it is evident, is not the exclusive, esoteric classroom\ndiscipline, the professional privilege of a few specialists. It is\nrather the source from which this professional speculation derives its\nright to address all men who have an exalted sentiment of their human\ndignity, who hearken to the deeper utterances of their souls, who are\nable to see how much of their own self there is in this vast world which\nis being disclosed to their eyes; who, even though vaguely and timidly,\nare conscious of the divine power that resides in every human heart; who\nfeel that this human heart, prone though it be to all baseness, is also\ncapable of lifting itself to the most sublime heights, and of enjoying\nthe pure and lofty satisfactions which human phantasy ordinarily\nrelegates to heaven. In the depths of every mind there is a philosophy:\nthe mind itself is untiring speculation, which more or less successfully\nscales the height, but which is always turned upward to the summit\nwhitened by the rising sun. Life is made human by the rays of this\nphilosophy. Man is really man when he recognises an object which is the\nworld, reality, law, and when he recalls that nothing absolves him from\nthe duty of being in this world; of seriously being in it, which means\nworking and cooperating towards reality by knowing reality and\nfulfilling the law. For in his freedom and power he can never divest\nhimself of his own responsibility; he must therefore develop his\ncapacity to the utmost value, and to that end work and work, think, and\nact as the centre of his world. This philosophy does not allow him\neither to withdraw into the abstract retirement of his egoistic self, or\nto deny and sacrifice this self to an imaginary reality. This philosophy\nis never finished, never completed, for it is his own spirit, his very\nself, which to live must grow, and which must constitute itself as it\ndevelops. And therefore this philosophy cannot help being man's ideal,\nwhich is always being realised and which is never fulfilled.\n\nSo, then, education, which aims at that concrete and truly real unity\nwhich is the life of the spirit, must always be moral, always spiritual,\nalways philosophic. An invidious word, perhaps, for those who have had\nthe misfortune to fall into the mean and vulgar habit of grinning and\nscoffing in retaliation for the unsparing censure inflicted by the ideal\non sloth, presumption, and cowardice. We might perhaps replace this word\nby \"integral,\" excepting that this adjective is generic and therefore\ninappropriate.\n\nI must add, however, that in speaking of philosophic education, I do not\nmean any special course in philosophy. Though I believe that special\nphilosophical training has an essential function in the curriculum of\nsecondary schools which aim to prepare and direct towards higher studies\na matured mentality, scientifically trained and humanly inspired, I yet\nhold that this special philosophical training can be effectual only if\nall education, from its very beginning, wherever that may be, has been\nphilosophic. We must reflect that just as it is impossible for a man to\nbe moral only at certain hours of the day, and in certain particular\nplaces, morality being the atmosphere without which the spirit cannot\nlive, so that ethical teaching is distorted and deflected as soon as it\nis relegated to certain definite books, to be studied in connection with\ncertain definite courses; in the same way this philosophy which is for\nus the ideal content of education, and therefore its ideal, cannot but\nbe present in every real educative act, cannot help reflecting itself in\nevery throb it gives to the soul of the pupil. This general philosophic\neducation naturally includes art and religion, which cannot be limited\nsubject-matters of special courses of instruction, co-ordinated or\nsubordinated to the other elements of the curriculum.\n\nOnly the particular sciences, that is, the sciences properly so called,\nmay be freely moved in a student's schedule; they may be added or taken\naway, they may be grouped this or that way, and be variously distributed\nin accordance with the needs of the moment and the particular exigencies\nof the student or of man in general. For these sciences reflect in\nthemselves the fragmentary multiplicity of things which have been\nabstractly cut off from the centre of the spirit, to which however they\ntoo refer. And because they do refer to it, the teaching of them should\nbe spiritualised, moralised, humanised; it ought to acquire the\nconcreteness of philosophy, and therefore never ignore the exigencies of\nart and of religion. For otherwise it will be merely material\ninstruction, \"informative education,\" which in reality is no education\nat all.\n\nDuring the Revival of Learning education was humanistic. Its ideal was\nart. The historical life which corresponded to this ideal was the\nindividualism of our Italian Renaissance. After the Counter Reformation,\nart, which is individuality in abstract subjectivity, was abandoned to\nitself, and inevitably decayed in the cult of lifeless form; it became\nbarren in the imitations of classical art considered as final\nperfection, to which the individual might raise himself but beyond which\nhe could not possibly proceed. Art became thus the negation of\noriginality, and of that subjective autonomy of which it naturally\nshould be the most enhancing expression. So that classicism up to the\nRomantic Revolt remained the cultural form of a society submissive to\nthe principle of authority and religiously oriented. These conditions\nfavoured the study of the science of nature, which to the extent that it\nis governed by the naturalistic principle is a manifestation of\nreligiosity. The devotee of natural science speaks in fact of his Nature\nwith an agnostic reverence similar to that professed by the saint in the\nworship of God. Nature, which alone he knows, becomes the object before\nwhich the subject, Man, disappears. But as science progresses, the need\nof shaking the principle of authority makes itself felt; the accepted\ntruths of nature are subjected to criticism; the power of doubting is\nreintroduced, and the subject again reasserts itself. So the advancement\nof natural science has gradually turned humanity away from the shrines\nof naturalistic science. When naturalism opposed the claims of religion,\nit ceased to be the science of nature, and became philosophy. This\ninfluenced the scientific spirit in its clash with religious dogmas, and\nrestored to it the consciousness of the moment of subjectivity which had\nbeen forgotten. The ideal of culture, which prevailed in the nineteenth\ncentury with the triumph of positivism, was science, naturalism, and\ntherefore religion. It is now high time that the two opposed elements\nbe joined and united, and that the school be neither abstractly\nhumanistic in the pursuit of Art nor abstractly religious and\nscientific, but that it be made what it is ideally, and what it is also\nin practice when it efficaciously educates--the philosophic school.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAs each one has a different path to follow in this world, each one will\naccordingly have his own education. But all paths converge to one point,\nwhere we all gather to lead in common that universal life which alone\nmakes us men. And as we meet at this centre, we must understand each\nother, and should be able therefore to speak the same language, the\nlanguage of the spirit. We are compelled by an irresistible need to live\nthis common life, and together to constitute one sole spirit. But this\nend we shall never attain if man, who ought to be entire and complete,\nacts as a mere fragment,--such fragment, for example, as the aesthete, or\nthe superstitious worshipper, or the star gazer, always unaware of the\npit under his feet. If we continue in this state, in which one man\nclings to the superstition of mathematics, another idolises entomology,\na third worships physics, and so on indefinitely, if man insists on\nfencing off his little piece of this \"thrashing-floor that makes us\ncruel,\" knowing no other man but himself, feeling no needs other than\nhis own, then war will break out. Not a disciplined war, governed by a\nlaw, by an idea, by reason, of which it is the life; but a war of every\nman against his brother,--the anarchistic uprising, the disintegration\nof the spirit, and the stern suffering which is true misery.\n\nThe dislike for the _purus mathematicus_[5] is traditional. But whether\nhe be a mathematician, or a priest, or an economist, or a dentist, or a\npoet, or a street cleaner, man as a fragment of humanity is a nuisance.\n\nWe want mathematics, but we want it _in_ the man. And the same for\nreligion, economics, poetry, and all the rest. Otherwise we suffocate,\nand die stifled. For all these are things, but there is no life; and\nthings oppress us and kill us. Therefore let us spiritualise things by\nreviving the spirit. Let us release it, that it may freely move in the\norganic unity of nature. Let us train it so that its strength, agility,\nbalance, and all around development shall be able to control all its\ndependent functions, which can be successfully carried on only on\ncondition that they agree, and collaborate toward common life. And this\nis what I call philosophy.\n\nOr we may call it humanity, if the word philosophy suggests strangeness\nand difficulty of attainment. For our demand for an educational reform,\nin accordance with our renewed consciousness, is prompted by the old\nbut never ancient desire which put the lantern in the hand of the Greek\nphilosopher. Education is truly human when it has for its contents that\nideal which I have briefly touched upon in this chapter, the ideal of\nthe spirit, philosophy.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n  [5] Referring to the old phrase, _purus mathematicus, purus asinus_.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nCONCLUSION\n\n\nWe may look upon the preceding chapters as a kind of general examination\nto which we submitted our consciences, by reflecting on the way we have\nalways performed our duty as teachers, by considering our purposes, and\nby scrutinising the internal logic of our task. And our investigation\nhas been eminently human, since indeed man's essence, we have now come\nto understand, is to acquire self-consciousness.\n\nThe patriotic character of the event which was the immediate cause of\nthis work induced me to show that the common spirit which brought us\ntogether was not a mere political sentiment, of which we should rid\nourselves in crossing the threshold of the school. For we could not but\nbring into the classroom our own humanity and our living personality, in\nwhich the content of our teaching and of all education must live. This\npersonality, however it may be considered, from whatever point of view\nit may be regarded, has no particular substance which is not also at the\nsame time universal,--domestic as the case may be, or social, political,\nor whatever may be the phase in which it is determined in its historical\ndevelopment. And since, in this historical development of our universal\npersonality, there is Italy with her memories perpetuated by our\nimmanent sentiment, by our immanent consciousness and by our immanent\nwill, we could not possibly be ourselves were we not at the same time\nItalian educators.\n\nAnd looking attentively at this universal foundation on which our own\nhuman value is supported--call it language, logic, law,--we were led to\nstudy the relationship existing between individuality, which is the aim\nof all forms of education, and this universal spirit which here\nintervenes as it does in every moment of the human life. It intervenes\nin education, as the science and the conscience and the entire\npersonality of the teacher. This personality seems to be violently\nimposed upon the pupil in such a way as to check or hinder his\nspontaneous development; but we saw that the immediate logical\nopposition between teacher and learner gradually resolves itself into\nthe unity of the spiritual process in which education becomes actual.\n\nEducation therefore appeared to us, not as a fact which is empirically\nobservable, and which may be fixed and looked upon as subject to natural\nlaws, but rather as a mystical formation of a super-individual\nspirituality, which is the only real, concrete personality actualised by\nthe individual. In order to understand it, we had to liberate it from\nevery kind of contact with culture in its materialistic acceptance; and\nwe therefore insisted on the speculative inquiry into what we called the\nrealistic point of view. We endeavoured to explain how and why culture\nis the very process of education, and the very process of the\npersonality in which education takes place. This conception would have\nlacked the necessary support, had we not carried our investigation\nfurther, and shown that this culture in which the spirit unfolds itself\nis not the attribute of a mind existing amidst other minds and face to\nface with surrounding nature, but is instead the most genuine\nsignification of All. For it is the life of the spirit in which\neverything gathers to find its support and become thinkable. Man, as he\nis educated, is man rigorously considered as spirit,--spirit which is\nfree, because infinite and truly universal in every one of its moments\nand attitudes. This the educator must intently consider if he wants to\nconceive adequately his task and its enormous responsibilities, which\nbecome evident when he reflects how in the monad of the individual, in\nthe simple soul of the child entrusted to his creative care, the\ninfinite vibrates, and a life is born at every instant, which thence\nthrobs over the boundless expanse of space, of time, and of all\nreality.\n\nThis adequate conception need not be elaborated into a complete system\nof philosophy. The educator must sense and grasp this infinite over\nwhich every word of his is carried, every glance of his, every gesture.\nAs he enters the classroom, as he approaches the child, to whom not only\n_magna reverentia_ is due, but the very cult which is shown to things\ndivine, he cannot but feel himself exalted; he cannot but be fully\nconscious of the difficulties of his lofty station, and of the duty of\novercoming them. He must therefore dismiss from within himself all that\nis petty in his particular personality, all his preoccupations and\npassions, all his commonplace everyday thoughts. He must shake off the\ndepressing burden of the flesh, which pulls him downward; and he will\nthen open his soul to fortifying Faith, to the ruling and inspiring\nDeity. The man who is not capable of feeling in the School the sanctity\nof the place and of his work is not fit to be an educator.\n\nThe spirituality of education becomes however an empty formula, and a\nmotif for rhetorical variations, if on the one hand we do not possess\nthe concept of the essence or of the attributes of the spirit, and if on\nthe other we do not sharply expose those realistic prejudices of\npedagogy which have been maintained in the field of education by the\nmaterialistic conception of man and by a tradition which is both\nunreflecting and alien to all radical criticism. I tried to satisfy both\nthese exigencies rather by arousing the reflection and impelling it on\nits way than by escorting it on a journey which must be undertaken with\ndue preparation.\n\nAnd finally, in the effort to provide ourselves with a motto, so to\nspeak, and a rallying banner, I set forth the doctrine of educational\nunity--of the education which is always at all moments education of the\nspirit. For even physical culture is conceivable only as formation of\nthe mind, and more properly of character. Education, we saw, may be made\nactual in a thousand different ways, only always on condition that we\nobserve the law which proceeds from its innermost essence and\nconstitutes its immanent ideal. Every education is good, provided it is\neducation--philosophical, human, mind-stirring education; provided it\ndoes not bring atrophy to any necessary function of the spirit, does not\ncrush the spirit under the weight either of things or of the divinity,\nnor excessively exalt it in the consciousness of its own personal power;\nprovided it neither hurls it into the free abstract world of dreams nor\nfetters it in the iron chains of an inhuman reality; and provided it\ndoes not shatter it and scatter its fragments by the multiple\ninvestigations of things innumerable, the knowledge of which can never\nbring satisfaction. For it is the function of education to enable the\ncentralising unity of the reflective spirit to become articulate and\nvaried through the multiplicity of life and of experience, which is the\nactuality of the spirit itself. Opposition to all abstractions, in\nbehalf of the concrete spirit and of liberty--that is our educational\nideal.\n\n\n\n\nTHE EUROPEAN LIBRARY\n\nEdited by J. E. SPINGARN\n\nThis series is intended to keep Americans in touch with the intellectual\nand spiritual ferment of the continent of Europe to-day, by means of\ntranslations that partake in some measure of the vigor and charm of the\noriginals. No attempt will be made to give what Americans miscall \"the\nbest books,\" if by this is meant conformity to some high and illusory\nstandard of past greatness; any twentieth-century book which displays\ncreative power or a new outlook or more than ordinary interest will be\neligible for inclusion. Nor will the attempt be made to select books\nthat merely confirm American standards of taste or morals, since the\nseries is intended to serve as a mirror of European culture and not as a\nglass through which it may be seen darkly. All forms of literature will\nbe represented, including fiction, belles lettres, poetry, philosophy,\nsocial and economic discussion, history, biography, etc.; and special\nattention will be paid to authors whose works have not hitherto been\naccessible in English.\n\n  \"The first organized effort to bring into English a series of the\n  really significant figures in contemporary European literature....\n  An undertaking as creditable and as ambitious as any of its kind on\n  the other side of the Atlantic.\"--_New York Evening Post._\n\n\nTHE WORLD'S ILLUSION. By JACOB WASSERMANN. Translated by Ludwig\nLewisohn. Two volumes.\n\n  One of the most remarkable creative works of our time, revolving\n  about the experiences of a man who sums up the wealth and culture of\n  our age yet finds them wanting.\n\nPEOPLE. By PIERRE HAMP. Translated by James Whitall. With Introduction\nby Elizabeth Shepley Sergeant.\n\n  Introducing one of the most significant writers of France, himself a\n  working man, in whom is incarnated the new self-consciousness of the\n  worker's world.\n\nDECADENCE, AND OTHER ESSAYS ON THE CULTURE OF IDEAS. By REMY DE\nGOURMONT. Translated by William Aspenwall Bradley.\n\n  The critical work of one of the great aesthetic thinkers of France,\n  for the first time made accessible in an authorized English\n  version.\n\nHISTORY: ITS THEORY AND PRACTICE. By BENEDETTO CROCE. Translated by\nDouglas Ainslie.\n\n  A new interpretation of the meaning of history, and a survey of the\n  great historians, by one of the leaders of European thought.\n\nTHE NEW SOCIETY. By WALTER RATHENAU. Translated by Arthur Windham.\n\n  One of Germany's most influential thinkers and men of action\n  presents his vision of the new society emerging out of the War.\n\nTHE PATRIOTEER. By HEINRICH MANN. Translated by Ernest Boyd.\n\n  A German \"Main Street,\" describing the career of a typical product\n  of militarism, in school, university, business, and love.\n\nMODERN RUSSIAN POETRY: AN ANTHOLOGY. Translated by Babette Deutsch and\nA. Yarmolinsky.\n\n  Covers the whole field of Russian verse since Pushkin, with the\n  emphasis on contemporary poets.\n\nTHE REFORM OF EDUCATION. By GIOVANNI GENTILE. With an Introduction by\nBenedetto Croce. Translated by Dino Bigongiari.\n\n  A new interpretation of the meaning of education, by one who shares\n  with Croce the leadership of Italian thought to-day.\n\nCHRIST. By GIOVANNI PAPINI. Translated by Dorothy Canfield Fisher. _In\npreparation._\n\n  The first biography of Christ by a great man of letters since\n  Renan's.\n\nRUBE. By G. A. BORGESE. Translated by Isaac Goldberg. _In preparation._\n\n  An Italian novel of unusual insight, centering on the spiritual\n  collapse since the War.\n\nTHE REIGN OF THE EVIL SPIRIT. By C. P. RAMUZ. Translated by James\nWhitall. _In preparation._\n\n  A charming and fantastic tale, introducing an interesting\n  French-Swiss novelist.\n\n  HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY\n  Publishers        New York","title":"The Reform of Education","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":63119}