The Last Lesson

The story opens with the young narrator, Franz, setting out late for school. He is afraid because his teacher, M. Hamel, has said he would question the class on participles, and Franz, who has not studied them at all, knows nothing. He is tempted to skip school and spend the day in the open fields, for the weather is warm and bright, the birds are chirping, and Prussian soldiers are drilling in the open field behind the saw-mill. These sights are 'more tempting' than learning the rules of participles, but Franz resists the temptation and hurries on to school.

On the way Franz passes the town hall, where a crowd has gathered before the bulletin-board. For the last two years all bad news—lost battles, the draft, the orders of the commanding officer—had come from that board. Franz wonders what the matter is now, but does not stop. Wachter, the blacksmith, who is reading the notice with his apprentice, calls out to him not to hurry, telling him he will get to his school in plenty of time. Franz thinks the blacksmith is making fun of him and runs on, reaching the school out of breath.

Usually the beginning of school was marked by a great bustle—opening and closing of desks, lessons repeated aloud together, and the teacher rapping the table with his great ruler. Franz had counted on this noise to slip into his seat unseen. But that day everything was as quiet as a Sunday morning. Through the window he saw his classmates already in their places and M. Hamel walking up and down with his terrible iron ruler under his arm. Franz had to open the door and walk in before the whole silent class, blushing and frightened.

To Franz's surprise, M. Hamel did not scold him. Instead he spoke kindly: 'Go to your place quickly, little Franz. We were beginning without you.' Franz then noticed two strange things—M. Hamel was wearing his beautiful green coat, his frilled shirt and the little black silk cap, all embroidered, which he wore only on inspection and prize days. Even more astonishing, the back benches, usually empty, were filled with the old people of the village—old Hauser with his three-cornered hat, the former mayor, the former postmaster and others—all looking sad. They had come to honour M. Hamel and to thank him for his forty years of faithful service.

Then M. Hamel mounted his chair and announced in a grave, gentle tone the reason for everything. An order had come from Berlin that only German would be taught in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine. The new teacher would arrive the next day. This was their last French lesson. The words struck Franz like a thunderbolt. He now understood the notice at the town hall. His last French lesson! He could hardly write, and now he would never learn his own language. He felt sorry for having wasted his time, for hunting birds' eggs and going sliding on the Saar instead of studying. His books, which had seemed a nuisance and too heavy to carry, now felt like old friends he could not give up.

When Franz's turn came to recite the rule for participles, he got confused and could not say a word. But M. Hamel did not scold him. He said he would not punish Franz, for they were all to blame. The parents had not cared enough for learning, preferring to send children to work on farms or in mills for a little money; M. Hamel himself had often sent them to water his plants or given them a holiday when he wanted to go fishing. Then M. Hamel spoke about the French language—how it was the most beautiful, the clearest and the most logical language in the world. He said they must guard it among themselves 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.'

M. Hamel then opened a grammar book and read the lesson. Franz was amazed at how well he understood it; everything seemed easy that day, because he was listening so attentively and because M. Hamel explained with such patience. After grammar came a writing lesson. M. Hamel had prepared new copies, written in a beautiful round hand—'France, Alsace, France, Alsace.' They looked like little flags floating in the room from the rod at the top of the desks. Everyone worked in complete silence; only the scratching of pens could be heard. On the roof some pigeons cooed, and Franz wondered, with a mix of irony and sorrow, whether the Germans would make even the pigeons sing in German.

Whenever Franz looked up from his writing he saw M. Hamel sitting motionless in his chair, gazing at one thing and then another, as if he wished to fix in his mind the whole picture of the little school-room which he had to leave forever. For forty years he had been there, with the same garden outside the window and the same desks worn smooth by use. The benches and desks were like old friends; the walnut-trees in the garden had grown taller; and the hop-vine he had planted twined about the windows to the roof. It must have broken his heart to leave it all, and to hear his sister moving about overhead, packing their boxes—for they were to leave the country the next day.

M. Hamel still had the courage to hear every lesson to the very last. After the writing, the little children chanted their ba, be, bi, bo, bu, and even old Hauser, with his spectacles and his old primer held in both hands, spelled the letters with them, his voice trembling with emotion, so that everyone wanted to both laugh and cry. Then the church-clock struck twelve, and at the same time the trumpets of the Prussians, returning from drill, sounded under the windows. M. Hamel stood up, very pale, and tried to speak the words 'My friends, I—I—' but something choked him; he could not go on.

Then M. Hamel turned to the blackboard, took a piece of chalk, and bearing on with all his might, wrote as large as he could—'Vive La France!' (Long Live France!). Then he stopped and leaned his head against the wall, and without a word, he made a gesture to them with his hand—'School is dismissed—you may go.' This wordless, heartbroken gesture forms the powerful, unforgettable ending of the story, capturing the pain of a man and a people losing their language and their land.