大学生活回忆（1）（2/2）
《我的大学，用一辈子去忘记》作者：杨柳青 2017-02-10 18:11
ncerned solely with what I may call the mechanics of flowers.” “Well,” I’d say, “I can’t see anything.” “Try it just once again,” he’d say, and I would put my eye to the microscope and see nothing at all, except now and again a nebulous2 milky substance—a phenomenon of maladjustment.
You were supposed to see a vivid, restless clockwork of sharply defined plant cells, “I see what looks like a lot of milk,” I would tell him. This, he claimed, was the result of my not having adjusted the microscope properly, so he would read just it for me, or rather, for himself. And I would look again and see milk.
I finally took a deferred3 pass, as they called it, and waited a year and tried again. (You had to pass one of the biological sciences or you couldn’t graduate.) The professor had come back from vacation brown as a berry, brightened, and eager to explain cellstructure again to his classes. “Well,” he said to me, cheerily when we met in the fist laboratory hour of the semester,“we’re going to see cells this time, aren’t we? ”“Yes, sir,” I said. Students to right of me and to left of me and in front of me were seeing cells’, and what’s more, they were quietly drawing pictures of them on their notebooks. Of course, I didn’t see anything.
“We’ll try it,” the professor said to me grimly, “with every adjustment the microscope known to man. As God is my witness, I’ll arrange this glass so that you see cells through it or I’ll give up teaching. In twenty-two years of botany, I—” he cut off abruptly for he was beginning to quiver all over, like Lionel Barrymore.
So we tried it with every adjustment of the microscope known to man. With only one of them did I see anything but blackness or the f***liar lacteal4 opacity5, and that time I saw, to my pleasure and amazement, a variegated constellation of flecks, specks and dots. These I hastily drew. The instructor, noting my activity, came back from an adjoining desk, a smile on his lips and his eyebrows high in hope. He looked at my cell drawing. “What’s that?” he demanded, with a hint of squeal in his voice. “That’s what I saw,” I said. “You didn’t, you didn’t, you didn’t!” he screamed, losing control of his temper instantly, and he bent over and squinted6 into the microscope. His head snapped up. “That’s your eye!” he shouted. “You’ ve fixed the lens so that it reflects! You’ve drawn your eye!”
You were supposed to see a vivid, restless clockwork of sharply defined plant cells, “I see what looks like a lot of milk,” I would tell him. This, he claimed, was the result of my not having adjusted the microscope properly, so he would read just it for me, or rather, for himself. And I would look again and see milk.
I finally took a deferred3 pass, as they called it, and waited a year and tried again. (You had to pass one of the biological sciences or you couldn’t graduate.) The professor had come back from vacation brown as a berry, brightened, and eager to explain cellstructure again to his classes. “Well,” he said to me, cheerily when we met in the fist laboratory hour of the semester,“we’re going to see cells this time, aren’t we? ”“Yes, sir,” I said. Students to right of me and to left of me and in front of me were seeing cells’, and what’s more, they were quietly drawing pictures of them on their notebooks. Of course, I didn’t see anything.
“We’ll try it,” the professor said to me grimly, “with every adjustment the microscope known to man. As God is my witness, I’ll arrange this glass so that you see cells through it or I’ll give up teaching. In twenty-two years of botany, I—” he cut off abruptly for he was beginning to quiver all over, like Lionel Barrymore.
So we tried it with every adjustment of the microscope known to man. With only one of them did I see anything but blackness or the f***liar lacteal4 opacity5, and that time I saw, to my pleasure and amazement, a variegated constellation of flecks, specks and dots. These I hastily drew. The instructor, noting my activity, came back from an adjoining desk, a smile on his lips and his eyebrows high in hope. He looked at my cell drawing. “What’s that?” he demanded, with a hint of squeal in his voice. “That’s what I saw,” I said. “You didn’t, you didn’t, you didn’t!” he screamed, losing control of his temper instantly, and he bent over and squinted6 into the microscope. His head snapped up. “That’s your eye!” he shouted. “You’ ve fixed the lens so that it reflects! You’ve drawn your eye!”