Remembering the former Dean of the Faculty

In 1960, I was in my final year of high school.

One day, in the thatched-roof junior high school dormitory where I lived in the province, the wife of a literature teacher, who lived next door, brought home a new book for her husband. She was a bookseller. Seeing the new book, I eagerly asked the teacher, "Uncle, what book is that? Can I see it?" I held the book in my hands:History of Russian Literature in the 19th Century"Volume I," the author was Hoang Xuan Nhi. Uncle Ba explained: "Mr. Hoang Xuan Nhi is from Ha Tinh, the same province as me, a relative of Mr. Hoang Xuan Han, who is now a professor at a university outside Hanoi, and holds a Bachelor of Literature degree from Germany. This is the first book on Russian literature in our country." A few days later, he lent me the book, and I devoured it. For the first time, I learned about the concept of Russian literature with the names of authors such as Pushkin, Lermontov, Gogol,… and I still remember to this day the poem Pushkin translated by the author:

                       I love my country, a strange kind of love.

But my reason could never resist it.

Mysterious traditions from ancient times

A calmness filled with proud confidence.

Then, by chance, I was admitted to the Faculty of Literature a year later (1961).

Professor Hoang Xuan Nhi

On a rainy day at the start of the school year, I first saw Professor Nhi in the main lecture hall at 19 Le Thanh Tong Street when the Director (Rector) Nguy Nhu Kontum introduced the deans. He stood up, turned around, and smiled in return. We all stood up as well. Tall and imposing, with a head of white hair, rosy complexion, bright eyes, and a gentle smile, he wore a white three-pocket short-sleeved shirt and blue worker's trousers with the hems rolled up. Very simple, yet elegant. That year he was 47 years old and had just been appointed Head of the Social Sciences Faculty (Literature + History) of the University, a position previously held by Professors Dang Thai Mai, Tran Duc Thao, and Tran Van Giau. His image has stayed with me throughout my life as a symbol of a Professor and Dean. That image also inspired a set of values ​​that I was fortunate enough to follow and strive for in my professional career. But it would be another 35 years...

At the end of the matriculation ceremony, the professor led the new students on a tour of the library (now the Le Van Thiem Auditorium) with a very unusual statement: "Follow me, comrades." Throughout my life, from my school days to my high school years, I had never seen a teacher address students as "comrades." But he addressed us that way his whole life.

The university lecture halls held many surprises for us. Most surprising was the enthusiastic and diligent learning atmosphere. Although many wore brown trousers and cloth shirts, and some even went barefoot, we students were no less enthusiastic and determined. Besides Professor Nhi, Professor Bach Nang Thi, Professor Hoang Nhu Mai, Professor Le Dinh Ky, Professor Dinh Gia Khanh, and Professor Do Duc Hieu, all in their forties, the other professors in the department were young and friendly with the students.

Through our teachers, we learned that Mr. Nhi came from a poor village in Ha Tinh province. He was studious from a young age, and after passing his high school exams, he received a scholarship to study in France and then Germany, earning a Bachelor of Arts degree. He was very proficient in French and German. He had translated...The Lament of the Warrior's WifeHe spoke French and received praise and rewards. When the resistance against the French broke out, instead of continuing his doctoral studies, he returned to Vietnam. He chose to join the resistance in the South. He worked in culture and education near the Southern Regional Party Committee during those difficult years, then became a key cadre and Director of the Southern Education Department before relocating to the North. Once, when I came to class, I saw him wearing a strange badge, not a medal or award. I asked about it and learned it was a "badge."The impregnable fortress of the Fatherland"I am very proud to present this to those who participated in the nine-year resistance movement in Southern Vietnam and achieved outstanding results. In the Literature Department, there is another person who has this badge: Professor Nguyen Ham Duong, a former soldier on the 'no-number' ships that transported weapons from Thailand to Zone 9 at the same time."

Professor Nhi didn't teach us immediately. It wasn't until our third and fourth years that he began teaching us two subjects. However, before that, as Dean, he frequently used his prestige to invite many renowned scholars to lecture to the students: Dang Thai Mai, Cao Xuan Huy, Vu Ngoc Phan, Hoai Thanh, Huy Can, Xuan Dieu, Che Lan Vien, etc., thanks to which we learned quite a lot of knowledge and practical skills. As students, we didn't dare approach him directly; we only met him in his office when we needed permission or lingered in the hallway to watch him play billiards with Phan Trac Canh, his professional assistant (later the owner of the famous used bookstore at 5 Bat Dan Street, Hanoi). He often smiled and waved to us.

Back then, the Faculty of Literature was located in Lang village, within a peaceful and spacious campus (encompassing land belonging to two universities: the present-day Foreign Trade University and the Diplomatic Academy), offering a comfortable living, studying, and activity environment, despite the poverty. During our two years of study, Professor Nhi taught us two curricula and specialized courses:Soviet Russian literatureandAesthetic criticismThe professor ceded the study of 18th-19th century Russian literature to a group of younger professors: Nguyen Kim Dinh, Nguyen Truong Lich, Truong Quang Che, and Bui Xuan An.

On the first day of class, we were excited to be taught by the Head of Department. He, however, was calm and composed. He was still dressed in his traditional attire from the previous year: a short-sleeved shirt with three pockets and blue worker's trousers. He gently tapped his small pipe against the metal tobacco box in his hand. He looked at us kindly and spoke softly enough to be heard: "I'll use this first class to share my thoughts with you all." He didn't begin with academics, but with the patriotism of an intellectual. He told us that we had grown up in an independent country and hadn't fully understood the suffering of those who had lost their country. He recounted: One New Year's Eve in Paris before World War II, a group of international students held a celebration, each telling a story about their homeland. Then, they asked everyone to introduce their national flag and sing their national anthem. When it was his turn, he was flustered and distressed. What could he introduce when his country was lost? Swallowing his tears, he spoke about the flag erected at the village festival and sang a short folk song from Nghe An and Ha Tinh provinces. The students cheered, but the teacher cried. Our class became very downcast.

The professor gave us some advice: Strive to study for the people, for the country, and for yourself. Therefore, you must improve your self-study skills and cultivate your foreign language abilities. Without those two things, you cannot develop. He recounted how he had memorized the Larousse dictionary to read and translate books on his own, and how he had to dip his feet in a basin of cold water on cold winter nights to stay awake while studying (in my class, there was a student who memorized the Russian-Vietnamese dictionary by Nguyen Nang An - that student later became the talented poet Anh Ngoc). He taught himself Russian for half a year, then read and wrote a history of Russian literature and translated Marxist aesthetics. He was a great inspiration to our group of students at that time.

To be honest, the professor, like Professor Le Dinh Ky, wasn't a particularly eloquent speaker, but his lectures, delivered in a soft, slow manner, were very insightful, with deep analyses and valuable information. He provided us with a very profound analysis of Gorky and his short stories.The Mother, The Falcon, Dan Co's Heart,...the historical tragedy of Solokhov's characters inThe Don River flows peacefully, the land is barren, and the fate of mankind is sealed....these were truly new and memorable things. When teaching Russian literature, thanks to his profound knowledge of Western literature, he always gave us comparative analyses with French, English, German, and Spanish literature. Through his teachings, we learned that Shakespeare's verse plays in English literature were adapted in French and German thanks to the talent of Charles Hugo (son of Victor Hugo) and the German poet Sleghen.

When lecturing on the Critique of Modern Aesthetics, our professor never failed to guide us from ancient Greek aesthetics through the Renaissance to the modern era, including the Russian aesthetics of Chernyshevsky. Once, he asked us: Does anyone know the origin of the statement:All theories are gray, but the tree of life is forever green."?" I thought it was some philosopher. A friend of mine replied, "That's a quote from Goethe." The teacher said it was correct, but the translation wasn't accurate. Then he explained, "That's a quote from Mephistopheles to the doctor in Goethe's epic poem *Faustus* when praising the beauty of the female body. The original wasn't 'the tree of life forever,' but rather 'the golden tree of life...'." Learning requires practice, so the teacher made us write an essay analyzing the aesthetic aspects of Aitmatov's *The Tale of the Mountains and Steppes* through two short stories: "The First Teacher" and "The Young Maple Tree with a Red Scarf." We had several seminar sessions, each presenting our own ideas, before the teacher gave us grades.

Academically, he was always orthodox, sharing little aesthetic with the younger Hegelian school or the liberalism of Garodi, Lucas, and others. He was very strict and principled. Once, in class, an older student (who later became an officer in the organizational department) was asked to leave the class and not allowed to continue the course because he... laughed in class while the professor was lecturing on an important theoretical issue. He gave us quite difficult exams and graded them very strictly.

My student life ended amidst the chaos of war (1965). I stayed at the school as a teaching staff member, under the supervision of my professor, but in a different specialization: Linguistics. The school had to evacuate from Hanoi to the mountains of Viet Bac, in Dai Tu district, Thai Nguyen province. We, young and old, followed him into this new life. Upon arriving at the camp, he quickly adapted to wartime life, leaving behind his familiar Simson motorbike that he had ridden for many years in Hanoi. He joined us in digging tunnels, building bamboo and thatched houses, and reading by oil lamp. He remained calm, composed, and cheerful. One day, while receiving rice rations, during a heavy rain and a large flood, he put his backpack of rice on the back of a buffalo and asked the students to hold on tight so the buffalo could swim across the stream. This story became a significant event when a student from class K8 wrote:Evacuation narrative"I dedicated an inscription to the teacher for one chapter: 'Chairman Hoang rides a buffalo across the stream'."

Our group of teachers, including Mr. Ham Duong, Mr. Thuat, and myself, shared a house near Mr. Nhi in the valley, so I had the opportunity to be close to his family. He was also actively involved in farming and raising livestock. He said, "I'm used to it. Nine years in the swamps was much harder, but I still managed to survive." We often exchanged products with him (vegetables, eggs, gourds, and sometimes even chickens). He guided us in raising ducks for eggs using fresh cassava (which had to be boiled before being sliced ​​for the ducks to eat). More than us, he also fished to improve our meals because he was familiar with the canals and waterways of Southern Vietnam. Despite the hardships, he always encouraged and reminded us to diligently read and study on our own, while he himself continued to study and write, including writing the play "Kieu," which the K8 student performing arts group performed in various places, even in Hanoi.

However, Professor Nhi was not just a professor; he was the head of the department, responsible for many things. In peacetime as well as wartime, his colleagues greatly respected him and wanted him to focus on his professional work, so they helped him with many tasks. I remember the vice-deans: Truong Van Vinh, Hoang Huu Yen, Ton Gia Ngan, Nguyen Van Tu, Do Duc Hieu, and the assistants: Phan Trac Canh, Nguyen Xuan Hoa, Bui Khanh The, Nguyen Ngoc Son,… all working tirelessly for him, sometimes to the point where he forgot his duties and paid little attention to details. I remember, in the summer of 1972, the war was fierce, with constant American bombing, and the school and department had to relocate to Hiep Hoa, Ha Bac once again. One day, I brought him his salary. After receiving it, he asked, "Do you know where our department is now? I want to visit you all." I was a little surprised but understood immediately and told him the information. The next day, at only 4 a.m., the professor cycled all the way to Hebei to visit his colleagues and inspect the department. Another story. Back in Dai Tu, one day I went to his house to exchange rice for noodles, and he said to me, "Young comrades should strictly adhere to Party discipline. I attend meetings regularly, but I rarely see you." I explained, "Sir, I'm not a Party member." He calmly replied, "Oh, really? Then you must strive harder. Let me introduce you." I quickly said, "No, sir, that's not possible. You're in a different department, and I'm in the language department." He replied, "Why not? I'm a Party member, and the head here, why not? I know all of you." I silently thanked him, but I didn't dare say anything more for fear of offending him.

Teacher Nhi was a kind, honest man, but with a strong personality. There are amusing anecdotes about him that I only understood much later, such as the story of being invited to a feast, and after the meal, he would collect the leftovers and share them with his colleagues, explaining, "They gave it to me, so it's mine." Another time, while on a business trip, stopping for a drink, he stood outside the shop without going in and said to his colleagues, "I have a water bottle here, you guys go in and drink, then we'll pool our money to pay!" Yet another time, seeing that his house had a trellis full of gourds, Teacher Duong sent me over to "contact" him. Teacher Nhi led me to the trellis to pick one gourd, then he asked me to choose another. I chose and pointed, and he cut another gourd and said, "I gave the first one to you guys, but you have to pay me for this one." Later, when I had the opportunity to live in Europe, I understood that he lived very Western ways, everything was transparent, not sociable or pretentious, and not at all stingy as some people thought.

When Professor turned seventy (1984), our department celebrated his birthday at the Lo Duc Dormitory cafeteria. It was a time of great hardship, with only bananas, powdered candy, and tea available. Professor was happy, and we were happy too. Mr. Ma Giang Lan respectfully greets Professor:

                         Let's raise a glass to remember this day,

We'll toast to the day you turn eighty, teacher.

But... he stopped at the age of 78.

As I bid farewell to my teacher at the main building on Le Thanh Tong Street, I remember the image of revolutionary Hoang Quoc Viet, very weak and needing two people to support him, still trying to come and pay his respects. Then Professor Tran Dai Nghia, equally frail, came to say goodbye to his friend from Paris, with whom he had returned to the country to join the resistance.

A quarter of a century has passed since his passing, and the Department of Literature remembers him, the respected teacher and head of the department during its humble beginnings, a role model for an entire generation.

                                                     In the summer of the Year of the Horse, 2014