Only after everyone is seated does Donald H. Fleming, Professor of History, stride briskly into Emerson D to deliver his lectures on American thought. He unwinds his scarf with a flourish, and jauntily waves his acknowledgement to the friendly hisses or applause with which his History 169 students often greet him. When this urbane figure turns to a discussion of intellectual history, he gives a dramatic, as well as an historical, interpretation of the men treated in the course. Reading from original sources, he tries to convey the sarcasm of H.L. Mencken, the vitality of Theodore Roosevelt, or the pomposity of William Jennings Bryan.

Despite the charisma of his lectures, Mr. Fleming stresses the solitude of a professor in talking about his own role. When asked for an interview, his first words were a mock tragic, "how grim." To him the "life of scholarship is a private sort of existence," and this makes it appealing. Privacy has meant that he sees men in other fields infrequently. Even among his fellow historians conversations follow university politics or national affairs, and intellectual privacy is respected. "I have seldom in my whole career had discussions of a scholarly or academic nature with men like Frank Friedel or Oscar Handlin."

Next year, as Chairman of the History Department, Mr. Fleming will preside over formal discussions among these men. But he points out that his function will be to make sure all sides are heard, but not to guide the opinions of others. His views on another departmental matter, the proposed plan to give sophomore tutorial for credit, are of a piece with his concern for individual privacy and scholarship. Tutorial should give an opportunity for "leisured reflection" and study whenever possible, he says, and a needless grade at the sophomore level does harm to this philosophy. This comes from a man who has a deep respect for the individual scholar pursuing his own curiosity at his own pace in the university.

The ideal of the lone man working within the university community is, Mr. Fleming feels, a dying point of view. In contrast to the Harvard of pre-World War II days, "when professors were basically academics and their primary role was teaching and research," he believes that today many faculty members value a Harvard professorship because of its value elsewhere. "Professors now have a great variety of temptations," he says, adding wryly, "you must remember its more prestigious being a Harvard professor outside than being one here.

Mr. Fleming's wish for intellectual privacy expresses an individualism which tends toward the iconoclastic, and he often finds well worn thought a fit subject for mockery. Studying history because it offers a means of enlarging one's experience, he feels, in the tradition of Jamesian pragmatism, that it can lead to hypotheses for action. But, lest he sound as pretentious as some of the thinkers whom he enjoys debunking in his course, Mr. Fleming quickly adds, "To be frank, I study history for the hell of it. Some people enjoy playing the violin. I play history."

Given his liking for the "old style" Harvard professor, it is not surprising that Mr. Fleming recognizes no antithesies between research and teaching. In his view, both he and students profit when he can "induge" in extensive study. Not only "is it a relief to be on top of a subject, not always an easy task in some of the broader courses," he says, "but I have found that students respond best to the lectures which are based on research."

Besides research, Mr. Fleming feels his arrival at Harvard has influenced his teaching. After eleven years at Brown, he became a professor here in 1958 and was struck by a feeling which most undergraduates share. As he puts it, "Harvard has an effect on both students and faculty. There were very bright students at Brown, but when I came here I had an image of the Harvard student: I thought he would be more demanding. As a result, I tried to give more tightly organized and thoughtful lectures. This is what Harvard has, this idea that everyone has to live up to some standard."

What Harvard lacks, in his view, is an easy relationship between student and professor. Although he doesn't think it feasible to be a "pal," Mr. Fleming finds a certain tenseness at Harvard that was absent at Brown. "Students come in, sit rigidly on the edge of their chairs, and are fearful of staying too long." Another problem is exams, which he feels are too often unintelligent and boring: "they clearly should teach people and help them to understand the course. And the graduate graders are sometimes too harsh: "Professors, you know, are a soft touch."

But as he says, "it's not my nature to carp." While he looked about his small study in Widener, every cranny filled with precise piles of books and pamphlets, he seemed a man who, having "willed" a highly individual existence, quite frankly enjoys it.