fish-supper in my honor. The Tamish fishermen cooked it in their
traditional way over a wood fire burning under the open sky. The
little supper-party reached the fishermen’s hut on the bank of the
Tamish River just about sunset. The western sky was all aglow with the
golden light of the parting day, and so was the surface of the tranquil
Tamish River, made luminous by the image of the western sky. The
rest of the landscape looked dark by contrast, excepting the glowing
faces of the patient supper-party, who sat around the busy fires and
watched the boiling kettles and the broiling pans. At some distance,
and standing at the very end of a fisherman’s barge, was the dark
silhouette of a tall young shepherd, who stood there lonely like some
solitary dark spectre hovering over the golden surface of the Tamish
River. It was just the spot for one who sought seclusion and longed
for quiet meditation. No ripple in the water or in the air disturbed
his dreams, if he had any, and I thought that he had. His sheep had
been watered, and he had finished his frugal supper long ago, before
the light of the day had retired below the distant horizon line of the
Banat plains. The silence of the approaching night awakened emotions
which only his tuneful flute could express, and suddenly he poured his
soul into a melody which surely was not addressed to mere phantoms
of the vacuous space. I felt that the quivering air was conveying
through the evening silence a message of love to some maiden, who was
perhaps just then spinning under some thatched roof of drowsy Idvor and
thinking of him. The priest approached me to tell me that the fish was
ready and that the feast would soon begin. I told him that my feast
had already begun and called his attention to the heavenly melody. He
said: “Oh, that’s Gabriel, the son of my neighbor Milutin. He entered
the village school when you left Idvor, and he finished it long ago.
He will be married on St. Michael’s day, and what you hear now is his
sefdalia (song of sighs) for his future bride, who is over there in our
drowsy village.” When he jokingly suggested that I might be looking
forward to the enjoyment of the sweets of simple pastoral life which
were in store for Gabriel, if I had not turned my back on Idvor eleven
years before, I answered that perhaps it was not too late to correct
the error. The priest looked astonished, and asked me whether I had
crossed and recrossed the Atlantic in order to become a shepherd of
Idvor. I said nothing, but I knew that Gabriel’s melody had disclosed
to me another world in which the question “What is Light?” is by no
means the most important question. There were other great questions of
human life, the answers to which can perhaps be found in Idvor without
a knowledge of Maxwell’s electrical theory.
VI
STUDIES AT THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE
A long-continued struggle with no let-up will wreck a feeble
constitution. It produces in a strong and healthy constitution a
tuning-up of continuously rising pitch under the tension of which even
the strongest constitution may snap in two. My struggle had been going
on for nine years when I was returning to Europe on my way to Idvor,
hence my pitch was very high. Nervous tension resulting in a lack of
poise was the diagnosis of my ailment, according to my English friend
in Lucerne, who urged me to abandon the exploration of the beauties
of the Alps and seek the solitude of my native village; otherwise, he
said, not even all the guardian angels in heaven could prevent me from
breaking my neck. A two months’ vacation in the soporific atmosphere
of Idvor was a blessing; my pitch was lowered through several octaves,
and I did not vibrate violently in response to every impulse that came
along. I recognized, for instance, that the Serbs of the Voyvodina
could wait a little longer for their political salvation, which I
confidently expected from their adoption of the American point of view.
I also recognized that to many human beings a knowledge of the modern
theories of physics was not indispensable to happiness. There was not
a single person in Idvor who cared two straws about these things, and
yet most of these good people were happy, as, for instance, Gabriel,
who was to be married on St. Michael’s day. Gabriel did not know much,
I said to myself, but the little knowledge he had was very definite.
He knew that he loved the girl he was about to marry, and he also knew
that his life, following in the footsteps of his peasant ancestors,
had a definite object in view which, as everybody in his village knew,
was easily attainable. I knew more than Gabriel did, but my knowledge
was not as definite as his. My aim in life was, I thought, much higher
than his; but was it attainable? And, if attainable, was it worth the
struggle? Two months earlier such a question could not have occurred to
me even in a dream. But Gabriel’s melody and the dreamy atmosphere of
Idvor suggested it.
My mother observed that a change had occurred, but she was not alarmed.
I spoke less often of my future plans, and was less anxious about my
departure for Cambridge. The wedding celebrations in my native Banat
were already ushered in by the gay autumn season, and the beautiful
kolo dancers, whirling around the merry bagpipes, engaged my interest
much more than when I had come to Idvor two months before. One evening
my mother recalled an incident which happened in my early boyhood days
and which I remembered well. She said something like this:
“Do you remember when Bukovala’s mill with its high conical roof was
rethatched?” I said, “Yes,” and she continued: “You were then a little
shaver, but you certainly remember still the shining tin star which the
workmen had planted upon the top of the conical roof after they had
finished their work of thatching. The children of Idvor thought that
it was a real star from heaven; it looked so bright when the sunlight
was shining upon it. One day the tin star disappeared, and everybody
wondered how anybody could have climbed up that smooth and steep roof
and taken the star away. Old Lyubomir, who loved you so dearly and
delighted in making sheepskin coats for you, was sure that it was you,
and he suggested that special prayers of thanksgiving be read in church
for your miraculous escape. Old Lyubomir was right, as you know, and
I always believed that God had saved you for a mission in life much
higher than that of young Gabriel, whose happy lot you seem to envy.
Blessed America has taught you how to climb a roof much steeper than
that of Bukovala’s mill, and on its top and all the way up to it you
will find many a real star from heaven. You are not far from the top
and you cannot stop nor turn back now any more than you could when you
saw the peak of Titlis in the distance, but felt too fatigued to finish
your climb. Gabriel’s magic flute and his mellow sefdalia, song of
sighs, have turned your thoughts to things which are now in everybody’s
mind: to wedding-feasts and kolo dancing, and to other diversions which
fill the hearts of Idvor’s youth during this merry autumn season.
You are dreaming now some of the idle dreams of youth, but when you
return to Cambridge you will wake up again and see that all this was
a pleasant dream only, which you saw in your restful hours in drowsy
Idvor. The real things are waiting for you at Cambridge.”
I confessed my weakness and pleaded extenuating circumstances. I tried
to persuade her that her tender affection and watchful ministering
to what she insisted should be my pleasures and comforts during that
summer had transformed a hardy youth into a soft and pampered pet. She
answered: “The blacksmith softens his steel before he forges it into a
chain; you are just right for the blacksmiths of Cambridge.”
* * * * *
When I returned to Cambridge from drowsy little Idvor things looked
different from what they had on my former visit two months before.
Things which, in my feverish haste, I had scarcely noticed then filled
me now with awe. The ancient college buildings inspired a feeling
of wonder and of veneration. I saw in them just so many monumental
records of the ancient traditions of English learning. I began to
understand, I thought, how it happened that a little nation on a
little island in the northern Atlantic became the leader in the world’s
empire of intellect, and the cradle of a great civilization. This
first impression made upon me by these ancient monuments was greatly
amplified as soon as I caught even the first glimpses of the daily
activity of Cambridge. The forenoons appeared serious and sombre to an
outside observer; everybody wore a black cap and gown and everybody
did apparently the same thing, going somewhere in search of sources of
learning and inspiration. The intellect of Cambridge seemed to be in
full action during the forenoons, and hence the solemn seriousness of
the university town during the early half of the day. But the scene
changed as if by magic when the midday had passed. The black caps
and gowns disappeared, and in their places white flannel trousers
and gaily colored blazers and caps adorned the college youths and
many college dons. The same youths who in the forenoon, like sombre
monks, were making a pilgrimage to some miracle-working fountains of
wisdom joined in a gay procession in the afternoon, hastening to the
sparkling fountains of athletic recreation. The intellectual activity
of the forenoon was succeeded by the physical activity of Cambridge
in the afternoon. To a stranger like myself, who knew practically
nothing of the famous university town, the change of scene between
morning and afternoon was bewildering. It looked to me as if I saw a
monastic-looking procession of serious and thoughtful men suddenly
changed into gay groups of lively youths whose only thoughts were on
the games which awaited them. By counting the different colors of
blazers and caps and the coats of arms which adorned the athletic
youths one could easily count the number of different colleges in
the old university. These colors and coats of arms had a meaning, I
thought, and I asked myself whether they did not, like the ancient
college buildings, record the ancient traditions of the venerable
seat of learning. They certainly did; they were a part of the symbolic
language which told the story of the university’s customs and
traditions. It was clear to me that while at Cambridge my work was to
be done in the morning and evening, and my playing in the afternoon,
in accordance with the local customs. I stayed at a hotel for several
days and watched these external pictures of Cambridge life before I
called on Mr. Niven of Trinity and on Mr. Oscar Browning of King’s. I
wished to get some picture of the daily activities at Cambridge before
I presented myself to these learned men, and I got it.
Niven was expecting me and was ready with a programme of work which
he had promised me in June, and I gladly accepted it. Both Niven and
Browning assured me that at that late date lodgings in any college
were out of the question, and that I must get lodgings in the town
for one academic year at least. It did not matter, because very many
students resided outside of the college buildings. I really preferred
it, because I had not come to Cambridge to seek the opportunities
offered by its college life; I had come to study physics and find out
how Maxwell answered the question “What is Light?” That was the only
definite point in the programme which I had brought to Cambridge; the
rest was hazy and reminded me often of a Serbian figure of speech
which speaks of a goose groping around in a fog to find its way. But
I had groped like a goose in a fog when I landed at Castle Garden and
finally found my way. The saying, “Where there’s a will there’s a way,”
comforted me much.
My residence in lodgings outside of the college precincts had one great
advantage. It gave me an opportunity to study English life from what
I considered a somewhat novel point of view. It is the point of view
which discloses to the foreigner English domestic life through the
unique personality of the English landlady. During my eighteen months’
stay at the University of Cambridge, I had an opportunity to study her
wonderful ways, not only in Cambridge, but also in London, Hastings,
Brighton, and Folkestone, where I used to spend my Easter and Christmas
vacations. She was the same everywhere: dignified, reticent, punctual,
and square; neat and clean in all her ways; willing and anxious to
render service, but not a servant; possessing a perfect understanding
of her own business, which she minded scrupulously, but avoiding
carefully minding anybody else’s business.
At Mr. Browning’s request a Mr. Ling, the leading tenor of King’s
College choir, took me around to look for lodgings. He belonged to the
town and not to the gown, and was quite anxious to impress me with the
many virtues of the town. He transformed our trip into an elaborate
inspection tour of the student lodgings, because he was proud of them
and considered them a very essential part of the great university.
At that time I thought that he, a very enthusiastic townsman, was
perhaps exaggerating the importance of this subsidiary instrumentality
of the university. But when I got to know the Cambridge landlady and
to understand her importance, I became convinced that Mr. Ling was
right. I had not been in Cambridge more than a week before I learned
the fundamentals of English domestic life, and I admired its wholesome
simplicity. My landlady taught me these fundamentals, and in her
wonderfully tactful ways she enforced their operation without my being
aware that I was led around by her intelligent and forceful hand.
I take off my hat to the English landlady, who, in her humble and
unostentatious ways, is one of the eloquent interpreters of Anglo-Saxon
civilization. She was one of my trusty guides and sympathetic
assistants during my strenuous eighteen months at the University of
Cambridge.
I started my work at Cambridge unattached to any college. But later
I made up my mind to attach myself to King’s College, yielding to
repeated suggestions from my friend, Mr. Oscar Browning. But I did not
change my lodgings. King’s had less than a hundred students and many
dons. Not one of them was a star in physics, and therefore the college
had no attractions for me on account of the learning of its dons.
But it had a beautiful chapel and a famous choir. The stained-glass
windows of King’s College chapel were famous as far back as Cromwell’s
time and they are still so. Every time I attended service in this
glorious chapel I went away feeling spiritually uplifted. I attended
regularly, although, as a member of the Orthodox faith, I was excused
from all religious services. What the other students, belonging to
the established church, considered a stern duty, I considered a rare
privilege. The chapel gave me a spiritual tonic whenever I needed it,
and I needed it often. I yielded also to Mr. Browning’s suggestions
to try for a place in the college boat, and succeeded. Rowing was the
only exercise which I took at Cambridge after I had become attached
to King’s, but before that I took long walks, usually with one of the
younger dons or with a student who was engaged in the same book work
in which I was engaged. They helped me to make myself familiar with
the history of Cambridge and of the surrounding country. Everybody in
Cambridge took his daily exercise just as regularly as he took his
daily bath and food. I followed the universal custom; it suited me well
and, besides, that was the best way to get along in Cambridge.
Physical as well as intellectual activity of the students at Cambridge
was a matter of daily routine, regulated by customs and traditions.
But these regulators were different for different groups of students.
The student studying for honors arranged his work differently from
the arrangement which suited the needs of a Poll student, that is,
the ordinary student who did not aspire to academic honors. Their
previous training also had been different. The students who aspired
to academic honors in mathematics were quite numerous, more numerous
than the students in any other honor class. Cambridge, ever since the
time of Newton, had become the nursery of the mathematical sciences
in the British Empire. There were about five of these honor groups at
Cambridge in those days. Niven advised me to join the honor group in
mathematics, the so-called mathematical tripos group, and he picked
out a coach for me. Just as one straight line, only, can be drawn
through two points, so the line of the student’s intellectual activity
at Cambridge was fixed when he had picked out the honor class and the
tutor or coach to train him for the examinations prescribed for that
honor class. To join the honor class in mathematics meant to work
alongside of students who expected to become Cambridge _wranglers_.
To understand the meaning of this it suffices to know that no greater
honor was in store for the ambitious youths in the university than to
be a _senior wrangler_ or to stroke a victorious varsity boat. The
preparations for these glorious honors were just as careful as the
preparations of a Grecian youth for participation in the Olympian
games. I had no ambition to become a Cambridge wrangler, but Niven
pointed out that a prospective physicist who wished to master some day
Maxwell’s new electrical theory must first master a good part of the
mathematical work prescribed for students preparing for the Cambridge
mathematical tripos examinations.
“Doctor Routh could fix you up in quicker time than anybody,” said
Niven with a smile, and then he added cautiously, “that is, if Routh
consents to your joining his private classes, and if you can manage
to keep up the pace of the youngsters who are under his training.”
Three months before, when I first called on Niven, and when my pitch
was very high, I would have resented this; but Idvor had lowered my
pitch several octaves and I swallowed Niven’s bitter pill without the
slightest sign of mental distress. My humility pleased him, because it
probably relieved him of some anxiety about the question of managing me.
John Edward Routh, fellow of Peterhouse College, was the most famous
mathematical coach that Cambridge University had ever seen. In his
lifetime he had coached several hundred wranglers, and for twenty-two
consecutive years he had coached the senior wrangler of each year.
This is really equivalent to saying that a certain jockey had ridden
the Derby winner for twenty-two consecutive years. He was a senior
wrangler himself in 1854, when great James Clerk Maxwell was second
wrangler, and he divided with Maxwell the famous Smith’s prize in
mathematics. To be admitted by Routh into his private classes was
flattering, according to Niven, but to be able to keep up with them
would be a most encouraging sign. Niven was anxiously waiting for that
sign. Routh accepted me, but gave me to understand that my mathematical
preparation was much below the standard of the boys who came to
Cambridge to prepare for the mathematical tripos examinations, and that
I should have to do considerable extra reading. He also cautioned me
that all this meant very stiff work for a good part of the academic
year. I went to Cambridge to study physics and not mathematics; but,
according to Niven and Routh, my real desire, as far as they could make
it out, was to study mathematical physics, and they assured me that my
training with Routh, if I could keep the pace, would soon lay a good
foundation for that. Lord Rayleigh lectured on mathematical physics and
so did famous Professor Stokes (later Sir George Gabriel Stokes); but
according to Routh and Niven I was not prepared to attend any of these
lectures, and much less to read Maxwell’s famous mathematical treatise
on his new electrical theory. Niven reminded me once of my first visit
to Cambridge, when I had insisted that Cambridge without Maxwell had no
attractions for me, and he asked me, jokingly, whether Lord Rayleigh’s
lectures were good enough for me. I answered that they certainly were,
but that, unfortunately, I was not good enough for the lectures. “Next
year you will be,” said Niven, consoling me; and I, unable to suppress
my feeling of disappointment, answered: “Let us pray that the starving
jackass does not drop dead before the grass is green again.” “What’s
that?” asked Niven, somewhat puzzled. “That is a free translation of a
Serbian proverb, and I am the jackass,” said I, and refused to furnish
any further explanations. But Niven figured it out correctly in the
course of the evening and then laughed heartily. He confessed that
Serbo-American humor was somewhat involved and required considerable
analysis.
The Cambridge colleges, some nineteen in number, resembled our
American colleges in many ways. The career of the Cambridge Poll men
was essentially the same as that of our American college boys. But
our American colleges had no class of students corresponding to the
Cambridge honor men. Referring particularly to the honor men who
prepared for the so-called mathematical tripos, they came to Cambridge
after graduating at some college outside of Cambridge. For instance,
Maxwell came to Cambridge from the University of Edinburgh, and Routh
came there from the University College, London. Both of them migrated
to Cambridge, because their teachers in mathematics, like illustrious
De Morgan, the first mathematical teacher of Routh, were mathematicians
of distinction, and discovering in their young pupils extraordinary
mathematical talents they developed them as far as they could, and then
sent them to Cambridge for further development under the training of
famous coaches who prepared them for the mathematical tripos. These
teachers were usually former Cambridge wranglers, apostles of the
Cambridge mathematical school, and they were always on the lookout for
a fresh supply of mathematical genius for the nursery which regarded
great Newton as its founder. This was the type of boys which I met in
Routh’s classes. They did not seem to know as much of Greek and Latin,
of history and economics, of literature and physical sciences, as I
did, but their training in mathematics was far superior to mine. They
were candidates for the mathematical tripos, and no American college of
those days had a curriculum which could turn out candidates with the
preliminary mathematical training which those boys brought to Cambridge.
Routh had warned me that stiff work was before me for a good part of a
whole academic year, if I was to keep up with the young mathematical
athletes whom he was training, and he was right. I experienced many
moments of despondency and even despair, and I needed all the tonic
which King’s College chapel could give me; I needed it very often, and
I got it. Routh was a splendid drill-master even for those students
who, like myself, had no tripos aspirations. He certainly was a
wonder, and everything he did was done with ease and grace and in
such an offhand manner that I often thought that he considered even
the stiffest mathematical problems mere amusing tricks. Problems over
which I had puzzled in vain for many hours he would resolve in several
seconds. He was a virtuoso in the mathematical technique, and he
prepared virtuosos; he was the great master who trained future senior
wranglers. I never felt so small and so humble as I did during the
early period of my training with Routh. Vanity and false pride had no
place in my heart when I watched Routh demolish one intricate dynamical
problem after another with marvellous ease. I felt as a commonplace
artist feels when he listens to a Paderewski or to a Fritz Kreisler.
Long before the end of the academic year, I finished Routh’s
preliminary tripos course in dynamics and much of the auxiliary
mathematics demanded by it, and became quite skilled in solving
dynamical problems. I had much difficulty in keeping pace with Routh’s
classes, but I succeeded, and Niven was pleased. But I was not pleased;
I did not think that I had found there what I had expected to find. In
the course of time I discovered that I was not alone in my opinion;
many Cambridge men failed to find in tripos drills the stimulating
elements of that scientific spirit which leads to original research. I
was a goose which groped around in a fog when I came to Cambridge; but,
if I had come from an English college as a promising tripos candidate,
with my work cut out for me by my superiors and in accordance with
old customs and traditions of Cambridge, I should not have discovered
that there was in Cambridge at that time an epoch-making movement, the
significance of which cannot be overestimated. I shall return to this
point later.