The Last Lesson
by Alphonse Daudet
I started for school very late that morning and was in
great dread of a scolding, especially because M. Hamel had said that he would
question us on participles, and I did not know the first word about them. For a
moment I thought of running away and spending the day out of doors. It was so
warm, so bright! The birds were chirping at the edge of the woods; and in the
open field back of the sawmill the Prussian soldiers were drilling. It was all
much more tempting than the rule for participles, but I had the strength to
resist, and hurried off to school.
When I passed the town hall there was a crowd in front of
the bulletin-board. For the last two years all our bad news had come from
there—the lost battles, the draft, the orders of the commanding officer—and I
thought to myself, without stopping:
“What can be the matter now?”
Then, as I hurried by as fast as I could go, the
blacksmith, Wachter, who was there, with his apprentice, reading the bulletin,
called after me:
“Don’t go so fast, bub; you’ll get to your school in plenty
of time!”
I thought he was making fun of me, and reached M. Hamel’s
little garden all out of breath.
Usually, when school began, there was a great bustle, which
could be heard out in the street, the opening and closing of desks, lessons
repeated in unison, very loud, with our hands over our ears to understand
better, and the teacher’s great ruler rapping on the table. But now it was all
so still! I had counted on the commotion to get to my desk without being seen;
but, of course, that day everything had to be as quiet as Sunday morning.
Through the window I saw my classmates, already in their places, and M. Hamel
walking up and down with his terrible iron ruler under his arm. I had to open
the door and go in before everybody. You can imagine how I blushed and how
frightened I was.
But nothing happened. M. Hamel saw me and said very kindly:
“Go to your place quickly, little Franz. We were beginning
without you.”
I jumped over the bench and sat down at my desk. Not till
then, when I had got a little over my fright, did I see that our teacher had on
his beautiful green coat, his frilled shirt, and the little black silk cap, all
embroidered, that he never wore except on inspection and prize days. Besides,
the whole school seemed so strange and solemn. But the thing that surprised me
most was to see, on the back benches that were always empty, the village people
sitting quietly like ourselves; old Hauser, with his three-cornered hat, the
former mayor, the former postmaster, and several others besides. Everybody
looked sad; and Hauser had brought an old primer, thumbed at the edges, and he
held it open on his knees with his great spectacles lying across the pages.
While I was wondering about it all, M. Hamel mounted his
chair, and, in the same grave and gentle tone which he had used to me, said:
“My children, this is the last lesson I shall give you. The
order has come from Berlin to teach only
German in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine
What a thunderclap these words were to me!
Oh, the wretches; that was what they had put up at the
town-hall!
My last French lesson! Why, I hardly knew how to write! I
should never learn any more! I must stop there, then! Oh, how sorry I was for
not learning my lessons, for seeking birds’ eggs, or going sliding on the Saar ! My books, that had seemed such a nuisance a while
ago, so heavy to carry, my grammar, and my history of the saints, were old
friends now that I couldn’t give up. And M. Hamel, too; the idea that he was
going away, that I should never see him again, made me forget all about his
ruler and how cranky he was.
Poor man! It was in honor of this last lesson that he had
put on his fine Sunday clothes, and now I understood why the old men of the
village were sitting there in the back of the room. It was because they were
sorry, too, that they had not gone to school more. It was their way of thanking
our master for his forty years of faithful service and of showing their respect
for the country that was theirs no more.
While I was thinking of all this, I heard my name called.
It was my turn to recite. What would I not have given to be able to say that
dreadful rule for the participle all through, very loud and clear, and without
one mistake? But I got mixed up on the first words and stood there, holding on
to my desk, my heart beating, and not daring to look up. I heard M. Hamel say
to me:
“I won’t scold you, little Franz; you must feel bad enough.
See how it is! Every day we have said to ourselves: ‘Bah! I’ve plenty of time.
I’ll learn it to-morrow.’ And now you see where we’ve come out. Ah, that’s the
great trouble with Alsace
“Your parents were not anxious enough to have you learn.
They preferred to put you to work on a farm or at the mills, so as to have a
little more money. And I? I’ve been to blame also. Have I not often sent you to
water my flowers instead of learning your lessons? And when I wanted to go
fishing, did I not just give you a holiday?”
Then, from one thing to another, M. Hamel went on to talk
of the French language, saying that it was the most beautiful language in the world—the
clearest, the most logical; that we must guard it among us and never forget it,
because when a people are enslaved, as long as they hold fast to their language
it is as if they had the key to their prison. Then he opened a grammar and read
us our lesson. I was amazed to see how well I understood it. All he said seemed
so easy, so easy! I think, too, that I had never listened so carefully, and
that he had never explained everything with so much patience. It seemed almost
as if the poor man wanted to give us all he knew before going away, and to put
it all into our heads at one stroke.
After the grammar, we had a lesson in writing. That day M.
Hamel had new copies for us, written in a beautiful round hand: France , Alsace ,
France , Alsace
“Will they make them sing in German, even the pigeons?”
Whenever I looked up from my writing I saw M. Hamel sitting
motionless in his chair and gazing first at one thing, then at another, as if
he wanted to fix in his mind just how everything looked in that little
school-room. Fancy! For forty years he had been there in the same place, with
his garden outside the window and his class in front of him, just like that.
Only the desks and benches had been worn smooth; the walnut-trees in the garden
were taller, and the hopvine that he had planted himself twined about the
windows to the roof. How it must have broken his heart to leave it all, poor
man; to hear his sister moving about in the room above, packing their trunks!
For they must leave the country next day.
But he had the courage to hear every lesson to the very
last. After the writing, we had a lesson in history, and then the babies
chanted their ba, be bi, bo, bu. Down there at the back of the room old Hauser
had put on his spectacles and, holding his primer in both hands, spelled the
letters with them. You could see that he, too, was crying; his voice trembled
with emotion, and it was so funny to hear him that we all wanted to laugh and
cry. Ah, how well I remember it, that last lesson!
All at once the church-clock struck twelve. Then the
Angelus. At the same moment the trumpets of the Prussians, returning from
drill, sounded under our windows. M. Hamel stood up, very pale, in his chair. I
never saw him look so tall.
“My friends,” said he, “I—I—” But something choked him. He
could not go on.
Then he turned to the blackboard, took a piece of chalk,
and, bearing on with all his might, he wrote as large as he could:
“Vive La France
Then he stopped and leaned his head against the wall, and,
without a word, he made a gesture to us with his hand:
“School is dismissed—you may go.”
