Professor Deering examined him closely. “Well, you see,” he said, “there’s an empire of false standards in such a college as ours,—in all American institutions, to speak frankly. The flaw lies in the creed, which is fostered by the faculty, that college is a place to do things, a standard-in-itself, a place-in-itself. For this arbitrary creed, arbitrary goals and targets are set up—secret societies, athletic insignia, a host of extra-curriculum activities. These are looked on, not as play, but as ends. They become the business of the bulk of our students. By senior year, the students themselves laugh at them—at the professors for fostering them—with real life before them. But at the beginning, it is hard to hold one’s balance, to remember that college as a thing-in-itself is trumpery; that it can be exalted only if it be made subservient to personal, spiritual growth.”
“Results, then—you mean—are bad?”
“They’re as bad as rules,” laughed Professor Deering.
This excited Quincy. “How then can you give marks in your classes?”
The Professor looked at him, not with anger as Quincy had feared, after putting this question, but with pleasure. He smiled.
“You haven’t got me there! I must give marks, since our College thinks it must give degrees. But I give the marks only nominally. In my classes, each June, the students hand in to me their own marks—given to themselves in honor and by their personal lights. In that way, I outdo the authorities above me.”
“Does anyone ever flunk himself?”
“It has happened frequently. My practice, moreover, has proved to me how little conceit there really is in youth.” Quincy’s eyes glowed at this. “I have a reputation for very low marking. Of course, it is the men who are responsible. But I never over-ride their judgment, in either extreme.”
“Even if you disagree?”
“Would that be reasonable?” flashed back Professor Deering.