Dr. Levin was a man of medium height, and with a straight nose and blue eyes that belied his race. People were continually telling him that he did not look like a Jew—a fact which invariably nettled him. It was as if people were saying that, whatever he might be on the inside, outwardly he could pass for a man. In college he had even been invited to join a Greek letter fraternity by some well-meaning Christian colleague, not up on the art of trailing one’s ancestry by one’s name.
When Dr. Levin spoke it was with nervous force. He was forever anticipating other persons’ questions and usually correctly. His mind ran nimbly from subject to subject, and he was equally at home in a discussion on anthropology and art. Persons who knew him casually called him an “intellectual.” And there were subjects in addition, that is, to his chosen field, surgery, in which he did display scholarship. Psychology was one of these.
When Hamilton had thanked him for saving his life, Dr. Levin had dismissed the matter by saying that it was only a case, like any other of a thousand cases.
“From your viewpoint it may be a wonderful service that I am doing, but from my viewpoint it is a remarkable opportunity for study,” Dr. Levin had explained. “Well, I’ll admit that patriotism had something to do with my coming here.” His eyes twinkled. “But think of the wonderful clinic I have before me. Hundreds of cases that the average surgeon runs across once in a lifetime. Hundreds of variations of injury that one would not find in a thousand years in the largest hospital in the world. Each fresh case a problem—an interesting problem to be solved. A challenge to my skill and ingenuity. We surgeons evolve new systems of treatment, new techniques, new theories, as we go along.
“That is the best part of my work,” the surgeon went on enthusiastically, “it gives one a chance to serve his community and to express his own individuality at the same time.”
“Don’t you feel any difference in your attitude when you treat a case like—like that one?” asked Hamilton.
“Certainly not,” replied Levin. “There’s your snobbishness creeping out. You’re probably a Southerner, aren’t you? I thought so. The antipathy to the negro is interesting as a phenomenon. It’s a problem in mob psychology. But a surgeon cuts down under the skin of man—literally. You’ve never seen a class in anatomy. Well, to the surgeon, to the scientist, there isn’t such overwhelming proof of the white man’s superiority. No, I don’t mean just physically. You remember how the Teutonic barbarians swept over Rome. And the white men whipping the Indians. It all seemed part of some divine scheme to keep the inferior races subdued. The Nordic, including the Teuton, you know, always has boasted of his physical superiority. But now, when his physical superiority is not so well established over the black, he argues that it is not important.
“But mentally—The weight of the average negro’s brain I’ll grant is slightly less than the weight of the average white man’s. Yet the brains are almost identical. The stuff in Williams’ brain is in all probability the same as in your brain, Hamilton. It may be a little finer quality, or a little poorer. There may be more of it or less of it, even though you are a Hamilton of Virginia, or wherever it is, and Williams, the grandson of a negro slave. As a matter of fact, Williams is probably as well educated as any of us. We’re all college graduates—McCall, you and I. Well, Williams is a Harvard graduate. It doesn’t mean much, if you or I are college men. Probably couldn’t help it. Our parents mapped out our educational program for us, but do you realize what it means to win a college education, with the whole white world sneering at you and offering obstacles to your path? And, of course, there’s poverty. But that’s only a minor difficulty.”
“Oh, there are some smart niggers, I’ll admit,” said Hamilton frowning, “but they’re the exceptions. Booker T. Washington, this poet, Dunbar, I guess his name is. And I’ve read some of DuBois in college, sociology class. But the mass—Ugh!”
Hamilton made a wry face.