The reverence with which the boys, as youngsters, had looked up to the
masters, disappeared with striking rapidity. The few teachers in whose
lessons you could do what you liked were despised. The masters who knew
how to make themselves respected, only in exceptional cases inspired
affection. The love of mockery soon broke out. Children had not been at
school long before the only opinion they allowed scope to was that the
masters were the natural enemies of the boys. There was war between
them, and every stratagem was permissible. They were fooled, misled,
and plagued in every conceivable manner. Or they were feared and we
flattered them.
A little boy with a natural inclination to reverence and respect and
who brought both industry and good-will to his work, felt confused by
all the derogatory things he was constantly hearing about the masters,
and, long before he was half grown up, formed as one result of it the
fixed determination that, whatever he might be when he grew up, there
was one thing he would never, under any circumstances be, and that
was--master in a school.
From twelve years of age upwards, contempt for the masters was the
keynote of all conversation about them. The Latin master, a little,
insignificant-looking man, but a very good teacher, was said to be so
disgracefully enfeebled by debauchery that an active boy could throw
him without the least difficulty. The Natural History master, a clever,
outspoken young man, who would call out gaily: "Silence there, or
you'll get a dusting on the teapot that will make the spout fly off!"
sank deeply in our estimation when one of the boys told us that he
spent his evenings at music-halls. One morning there spread like
wildfire through the class the report that the reason the Natural
History master had not come that day was because he had got mixed up
the night before in a fight outside a music-pavilion. The contempt and
the ridicule that were heaped upon him in the conversation of the boys
were immeasurable. When he came next morning with a black, extravasated
eye, which he bathed at intervals with a rag, he was regarded by most
of us as absolute scum. The German master, a tall, good-looking man,
was treated as utterly incompetent because, when he asked a question in
grammar or syntax, he walked up and down with the book in front of him,
and quite plainly compared the answer with the book. We boys thought
that anyone could be a master, with a book in his hand. History and
Geography were taught by an old man, overflowing with good-humour,
loquacious, but self-confident, liked for his amiability, but despised
for what was deemed unmanliness in him. The boys pulled faces at him,
and imitated his expressions and mannerisms.
The Danish master, Professor H.P. Holst, was not liked. He evidently
took no interest in his scholastic labours, and did not like the boys.
His coolness was returned. And yet, that which was the sole aim and
object of his instruction he understood to perfection, and drilled into
us well. The unfortunate part of it was that there was hardly more than
one boy in the class who enjoyed learning anything about just that
particular thing. Instruction in Danish was, for Holst, instruction in
the metrical art. He explained every metre and taught the boys to pick
out the feet of which the verses were composed. When we made fun of him
in our playtime, it was for remarks which we had invented and placed in
his mouth ourselves; for instance: "Scan my immortal poem, _The Dying
Gladiator_." The reason of this was simply that, in elucidation of the
composition of the antique distich, he made use of his own poem of the
above name, which he had included in a Danish reading-book edited by
himself. As soon as he took up his position in the desk, he began:
"Hark ye the--storm of ap--plause from the--theatre's--echoing circle!
Go on, Möller!"
How could he find it in his heart, his own poem!