Professor—“But this is not a case of distress: I don’t think a professor should be asked for money where money is not needed—and then—”
Student—“The question is simply, will you pay or will you not?”
Professor—“I have told you my ideas about—”
Student—“I am not interested in your ideas. Will you or will you not?”
Professor (flushing with anger, like Sigurd the Bishop)—“No.”
Student turns his back upon professor, and walks away with the air of one going to prepare for a vendetta.
I have told you before that the first, second, and third year classes are mixed together. But that makes no matter. The matter is that the students can change the subjects of their studies when they please, and do so occasionally by way of showing their disapproval of the professor. “You must not teach that subject: I wish you to teach us about Greek mythology instead” is a specimen observation.
I cannot write to you about such delightful friends as the one described in your last letter, for the simple reason that I haven’t any. (You know that it is very difficult for me to find sympathizers in such a frogpond as the foreign community of an open port.) The Russian professor of philosophy, although boasting a Heidelberg degree, acknowledges to me that he believes heretics ought to be burnt alive (“for the saving of their souls”), and that he hopes to see the whole world under Catholic domination. I fancy he dreams of the Russian conquest to come; and the Panslavic dream is not impossible! He is a queer man,—about fifty at least,—a bachelor. Soft and cold—snowy in fact. The Jesuit improves on acquaintance—gentle, courteous, half-sympathetic, but always on guard, like a man afraid of being struck by some human affection. The American lawyer, hard and grim, has a rough plain goodness about him—providing that he be put to no trouble.... And the German, Dr. R——, of whom I spoke rather unsympathetically before, seems to me now the finest man of the lot. There can be no question of his learning, and his dogmatism; but he gives me the solid feeling of a man honest like a great rock of black basalt—huge, hard, direct—one of those rare German types with eyes and hair blacker than a coal. His hand is broad, hard, warm always, and has something electrical in its grasp. I think I shall get fond of him, if he doesn’t talk Virchow to me. (For Virchow is my bête noir! I hate his name with unspeakable hatred.) At all events, to my great surprise, I find this grim dark German takes absolute pleasure in doing a kindness, and in speaking well of others. Wherefore I feel that I am unreasonable and wrong to feel repelled by his liking for Virchow.
Of course, we must all go some day, if the university doesn’t go first. But as all have big salaries, all prepare for the rainy day. I shall not complain if allowed to finish my three years—though I should prefer six. But you can imagine how unstable everything looks—with changes in the ministry of education about every twelve months,—and the political influences behind the students. I am reposing upon the safety-valves of a steam-boiler,—much cracked, with many of the rivets loose,—and the engineers studying how to be out of the way when the great whang-bang comes around.
And when it does come, may it blow me, for a moment at least, in the immediate vicinity of Ellwood Hendrick.