All over Russia people were talking of education. As soon as peace
had been concluded at Paris, and the severity of censorship had been
slightly relaxed, educational matters began to be eagerly discussed.
The ignorance of the masses of the people, the obstacles that had
hitherto been put in the way of those who wanted to learn, the absence
of schools in the country, the obsolete methods of teaching, and the
remedies for these evils became favourite themes of discussion in
educated circles, in the press, and even in the drawing-rooms of the
aristocracy. The first high schools for girls had been opened in 1857,
on an excellent plan and with a splendid teaching staff. As by magic
a number of men and women came to the front who have not only devoted
their lives to education, but have proved to be remarkable practical
pedagogists: their writings would occupy a place of honour in every
civilized literature, if they were known abroad.
The corps of pages also felt the effect of that revival. Apart from a
few exceptions, the general tendency of the three younger forms was to
study. The head of the educational department, the inspector, Winkler,
who was a well-educated colonel of artillery, a good mathematician,
and a man of progressive opinions, hit upon an excellent plan for
stimulating that spirit. Instead of the indifferent teachers who
formerly used to teach in the lower forms, he endeavoured to secure
the best ones. In his opinion, no professor was too good to teach the
very beginnings of a subject to the youngest boys. Thus, to teach
the elements of algebra in the fourth form he invited a first-rate
mathematician and a born teacher, Captain Sukhónin, and the form took
at once to mathematics. By the way, it so happened that this captain
was a tutor of the heir of the throne (Nikolái Alexándrovich, who died
at the age of twenty-two), and the heir-apparent was brought once a
week to the corps of pages to be present at the algebra lessons of
Captain Sukhónin. The Empress Marie Alexándrovna, who was an educated
woman, thought that perhaps the contact with studious boys would
stimulate her son to learning. He sat among us, and had to answer
questions like all the others. But he managed mostly, while the teacher
spoke, to make drawings, very nicely, or to whisper all sorts of droll
things to his neighbours. He was good-natured and very gentle in
his behaviour, but superficial in learning and still more so in his
affections.
For the fifth form the inspector secured two remarkable men. He entered
our class-room, one day, quite radiant, and told us that we should
have a rare chance. Professor Klasóvsky, a great classical scholar
and expert in Russian literature, had consented to teach us Russian
grammar, and would take us through all the five forms in succession,
shifting with us every year to the next form. Another university
professor, Herr Becker, librarian of the imperial (national) library,
would do the same in German. Professor Klasóvsky, he added, was in weak
health that winter, but the inspector was sure that we would be very
quiet in his class. The chance of having such a teacher was too good to
be lost.
He had thought aright. We became very proud of having university
professors for teachers, and although there came voices from the
Kamchátka (in Russia, the back benches of each class bear the name
of that remote and uncivilized peninsula) to the effect that ‘the
sausage-maker’--that is, the German--must be kept by all means in
obedience, public opinion in our form was decidedly in favour of the
professors.
‘The sausage-maker’ won our respect at once. A tall man, with an
immense forehead and very kind, intelligent eyes, slightly veiled by
his spectacles, came into our class, and told us in quite good Russian
that he intended to divide our form into three sections. The first
section would be composed of Germans, who already knew the language,
and from whom he would require more serious work; to the second section
he would teach grammar, and later on German literature, in accordance
with the established programmes; and the third section, he concluded
with a charming smile, would be the Kamchátka, ‘From you,’ he said, ‘I
shall only require that at each lesson you copy four lines which I will
choose for you from a book. The four lines copied, you can do what you
like; only do not hinder the rest. And I promise you that in five years
you will learn something of German and German literature. Now, who
joins the Germans? You, Stackelberg? You, Lamsdorf? Perhaps some one
of the Russians? And who joins the Kamchátka?’ Five or six boys, who
knew not a word of German, took residence in the peninsula. They most
conscientiously copied their four lines--a dozen or a score of lines
in the higher forms--and Becker chose the lines so well, and bestowed
so much attention upon the boys that by the end of the five years they
really knew something of the language and its literature.
I joined the Germans. My brother Alexander insisted so much in his
letters upon my acquiring German, which possesses so rich a literature
and into which every book of value is translated, that I set myself
assiduously to learn it. I translated and studied most thoroughly one
page of a rather difficult poetical description of a thunderstorm; I
learned by heart, as the professor had advised me, the conjugations,
the adverbs, and the prepositions--and began to read. A splendid method
it is for learning languages. Becker advised me, moreover, to subscribe
to a cheap illustrated weekly, and its illustrations and short stories
were a continual inducement to read a few lines or a column. I soon
mastered the language.
Toward the end of the winter I asked Herr Becker to lend me a copy of
Goethe’s ‘Faust.’ I had read it in a Russian translation; I had also
read Turguéneff’s beautiful novel, ‘Faust’; and I now longed to read
the great work in the original. ‘You will understand nothing in it;
it is too philosophical,’ Becker said, with his gentle smile; but he
brought me, nevertheless, a little square book, with the pages yellowed
by age, containing the immortal drama. He little knew the unfathomable
joy that that small square book gave me. I drank in the sense and the
music of every line of it, beginning with the very first verses of
the ideally beautiful dedication, and soon knew full pages by heart.
Faust’s monologue in the forest, and especially the lines in which he
speaks of his understanding of nature,
Thou
Not only cold, amazed acquaintance yield’st,
But grantest that in her profoundest breast
I gaze, as in the bosom of a friend,
simply put me in ecstasy, and till now it has retained its power over
me. Every verse gradually became a dear friend. And then, is there
a higher æsthetic delight than to read poetry in a language which
one does not quite thoroughly understand? The whole is veiled with a
sort of slight haze, which admirably suits poetry. Words, the trivial
meanings of which, when one knows the language colloquially, sometimes
interfere with the poetical image they are intended to convey, retain
but their subtle, elevated sense; while the music of the poetry is only
the more strongly impressed upon the ear.
* * * * *
Professor Klasóvsky’s first lesson was a revelation to us. He was a
small man, about fifty years of age, very rapid in his movements, with
bright, intelligent eyes, a slightly sarcastic expression, and the high
forehead of a poet. When he came in for his first lesson, he said in a
low voice that, suffering from a protracted illness, he could not speak
loud enough, and asked us, therefore, to sit closer to him. He placed
his chair near the first row of tables, and we clustered round him
like a swarm of bees.
He was to teach us Russian grammar; but, instead of the dull grammar
lesson, we heard something quite different from what we expected. It
was grammar: but here came in a comparison of an old Russian folklore
expression with a line from Homer or from the Sanskrit Mahabharata,
the beauty of which was rendered in Russian words; there, a verse from
Schiller was introduced, and was followed by a sarcastic remark about
some modern society prejudice; then solid grammar again, and then some
wide poetical or philosophical generalization.
Of course, there was much in it that we did not understand, or of which
we missed the deeper sense. But do not the bewitching powers of all
studies lie in that they continually open up to us new and unsuspected
horizons, not yet understood, which entice us to proceed farther and
farther in the penetration of what appears at first sight only in vague
outline? Some with their hands placed on one another’s shoulders, some
leaning across the tables of the first row, others standing close
behind Klasóvsky, we all hung on his lips. As toward the end of the
hour his voice fell, the more breathlessly we listened. The inspector
opened the door of the class-room, to see how we behaved with our new
teacher; but on seeing that motionless swarm he retired on tiptoe. Even
Daúroff, a restless spirit, stared at Klasóvsky as if to say, ‘That
is the sort of man you are?’ Even von Kleinau, a hopelessly obtuse
Circassian with a German name, sat motionless. In most of the others
something good and elevated simmered at the bottom of their hearts,
as if a vision of an unsuspected world was opening before them. Upon
me Klasóvsky had an immense influence, which only grew with years.
Winkler’s prophecy, that, after all, I might like the school, was
fulfilled.
In western Europe, and probably in America, this type of teacher
seems not to be widely spread; but in Russia there is not a man or
woman of mark, in literature or in political life, who does not owe
the first impulse toward a higher development to his or her teacher of
literature. Every school in the world ought to have such a teacher.
Each teacher in a school has his own subject, and there is no link
between the different subjects. Only the teacher of literature, guided
by the general outlines of the programme, but left free to treat it as
he likes, can bind together the separate historical and humanitarian
sciences, unify them by a broad philosophical and humane conception,
and awaken higher ideas and inspirations in the brains and hearts of
young people. In Russia, that necessary task falls quite naturally upon
the teacher of Russian literature. As he speaks of the development of
the language, of the contents of the early epic poetry, of popular
songs and music, and, later on, of modern fiction, of the scientific,
political, and philosophical literature of his own country, and the
divers æsthetical, political, and philosophical currents it has
reflected, he is bound to introduce that generalized conception of the
development of the human mind which lies beyond the scope of each of
the subjects that are taught separately.
The same thing ought to be done for the natural sciences as well. It is
not enough to teach physics and chemistry, astronomy and meteorology,
zoology and botany. The philosophy of all the natural sciences--a
general view of nature as a whole, something on the lines of the
first volume of Humboldt’s ‘Cosmos’--must be conveyed to the pupils
and the students, whatsoever may be the extension given to the study
of the natural sciences in the school. The philosophy and the poetry
of nature, the methods of all the exact sciences, and an inspired
conception of the life of nature must make part of education. Perhaps
the teacher of geography might provisionally assume this function;
but then we should require quite a different set of teachers of this
subject, and a different set of professors of geography in the
universities would be needed. What is now taught under this name is
anything you like, but it is not geography.
* * * * *
Another teacher conquered our rather uproarious form in a quite
different manner. It was the teacher of writing, the last one of the
teaching staff. If the ‘heathen’--that is, the German and the French
teachers--were regarded with little respect, the teacher of writing,
Ebert, who was a German Jew, was a real martyr. To be insolent with him
was a sort of _chic_ amongst the pages. His poverty alone must have
been the reason why he kept to his lesson in our corps. The old hands,
who had stayed for two or three years in the fifth form without moving
higher up, treated him very badly; but by some means or other he had
made an agreement with them: ‘One frolic during each lesson, but no
more’--an agreement which, I am afraid, was not always honestly kept on
our side.
One day, one of the residents of the remote peninsula soaked the
blackboard sponge with ink and chalk and flung it at the caligraphy
martyr. ‘Get it, Ebert!’ he shouted, with a stupid smile. The sponge
touched Ebert’s shoulder, the grimy ink spirted into his face and down
on to his white shirt.
We were sure that this time Ebert would leave the room and report
the fact to the inspector. But he only exclaimed, as he took out his
cotton handkerchief and wiped his face, ‘Gentlemen, one frolic--no
more to-day! The shirt is spoiled,’ he added in a subdued voice, and
continued to correct someone’s book.
We looked stupefied and ashamed. Why, instead of reporting, he had
thought at once of the agreement! The feelings of the whole class
turned in his favour. ‘What you have done is stupid,’ we reproached our
comrade. ‘He is a poor man, and you have spoiled his shirt! Shame!’
somebody cried.
The culprit went at once to make excuses. ‘One must learn, sir,’ was
all that Ebert said in reply, with sadness in his voice.
All became silent after that, and at the next lesson, as if we
had settled it beforehand, most of us wrote in our best possible
handwriting, and took our books to Ebert, asking him to correct them.
He was radiant, he felt happy that day.
This fact deeply impressed me, and was never wiped out from my memory.
To this day I feel grateful to that remarkable man for his lesson.
With our teacher of drawing, who was named Ganz, we never arrived at
living on good terms. He continually reported those who played in his
class. This, in our opinion, he had no right to do, because he was only
a teacher of drawing, but especially because he was not an honest man.
In the class he paid little attention to most of us, and spent his
time in improving the drawings of those who took private lessons from
him, or paid him in order to show at the examinations a good drawing
and to get a good mark for it. Against the comrades who did so we had
no grudge. On the contrary, we thought it quite right that those who
had no capacity for mathematics or no memory for geography, should
improve their total of marks by ordering from a draughtsman a drawing
or a topographical map for which they would get ‘a full twelve.’ Only
for the first two pupils of the form it would not have been fair to
resort to such means, while the remainder could do it with untroubled
consciences. But the teacher had no business to make drawings to order;
and if he chose to act in this way, he ought to bear with resignation
the noise and the tricks of his pupils. These were our ethics. Instead
of this, no lesson passed without his lodging complaints, and each time
he grew more arrogant.
As soon as we were moved to the fourth form, and felt ourselves
naturalized citizens of the corps, we decided to tighten the bridle
upon him. ‘It is your own fault,’ our elder comrades told us, ‘that he
takes such airs with you; _we_ used to keep him in obedience.’ So we
decided to bring him into subjection.
One day, two excellent comrades of our form approached Ganz with
cigarettes in their mouths, and asked him to oblige them with a light.
Of course, that was only meant for a joke--no one ever thought of
smoking in the class-rooms--and, according to our rules of propriety,
Ganz had merely to send the two boys away; but he inscribed them in
the journal, and they were severely punished. That was the last drop.
We decided to give him a ‘benefit night.’ That meant that one day all
the form, provided with rulers borrowed from the upper forms, would
start an outrageous noise by striking the rulers against the tables,
and send the teacher out of the class. However, the plot offered many
difficulties. We had in our form a lot of ‘goody’ boys who would
promise to join in the demonstration, but at the last moment would grow
nervous and draw back, and then the teacher would name the others.
In such enterprises unanimity is the first requisite, because the
punishment, whatsoever it may be, is always lighter when it falls on
the whole class instead of on a few.
The difficulties were overcome with a truly Machiavellian craft. At
a given signal all were to turn their backs to Ganz, and then, with
the rulers laid in readiness on the desks of the next row, they would
produce the required noise. In this way the goody boys would not feel
terrified at Ganz staring at them. But the signal? Whistling, as in
robbers’ tales, shouting, or even sneezing would not do: Ganz would
be capable of naming anyone of us as having whistled or sneezed. The
signal must be a silent one. One of us who drew nicely, would take his
drawing to show it to Ganz, and the moment he returned and took his
seat--that was to be the time!
All went on admirably. Nesádoff took up his drawing, and Ganz corrected
it in a few minutes, which seemed to us an eternity. He returned
at last to his seat; he stopped for a moment, looking at us, he sat
down.... All the form turned suddenly on their seats, and the rulers
rattled merrily within the desks, while some of us shouted amidst
the noise, ‘Ganz out! Down with him!’ The noise was deafening; all
the forms knew that Ganz had got his benefit night. He stood there,
murmuring something, and finally went out. An officer ran in--the
noise continued; then the sub-inspector dashed in, and after him the
inspector. The noise stopped. Scolding began.
‘The elder under arrest, at once!’ the inspector commanded; and I, who
was the first in the form, and consequently the elder, was marched to
the black cell. That spared me seeing what followed. The director came;
Ganz was asked to name the ringleaders, but he could name nobody. ‘They
all turned their backs to me, and began the noise,’ was his reply.
Thereupon the form was taken downstairs, and although flogging had been
completely abandoned in our school, this time the two who had been
reported because they asked for a light were flogged with the birch
rod, under the pretext that the benefit night was a revenge for their
punishment.
I learned this ten days later, when I was allowed to return to the
class. My name, which had been inscribed on the red board in the class,
was wiped off. To this I was indifferent; but I must confess that the
ten days in the cell, without books, seemed to me rather long, so that
I composed (in horrible verses) a poem, in which the deeds of the
fourth form were duly glorified.
Of course our form became now the heroes of the school. For a month or
so we had to tell and retell all about the affair to the other forms,
and received congratulations for having managed it with such unanimity
that nobody was caught separately. And then came the Sundays--all the
Sundays down to Christmas--that the form had to remain at the school,
not being allowed to go home. Being all kept together, we managed to
make those Sundays very gay. The mammas of the goody boys brought them
heaps of sweets; those who had some money spent it in buying mountains
of pastry--substantial before dinner, and sweet after it--while in the
evenings the friends from the other forms smuggled in quantities of
fruit for the brave fourth form.
Ganz gave up inscribing anyone; but drawing was totally lost for us. No
one wanted to learn drawing from that mercenary man.