Franz, the little schoolboy who narrates Daudet’s “Last Lesson,” is a rather negligent pupil. He doesn’t keep up with his lessons, he doesn’t like his teacher, M. Hamel, and he’d prefer to be out roaming the woods of his native region of Alsace-Lorraine, France, rather than in the classroom. Yet the lesson he attends on the day the story is set changes his view of school forever. Franz learns the true value of his education when he realizes that school teaches him more than just proper grammar; it teaches him how to be a committed French citizen.
Franz doesn’t like going to school, and this is made clear in his consistent attempts to shirk his obligations. On the day the story is set, he considers skipping class to dawdle in the woods, particularly as he hasn’t learned the lesson on participles he was meant to memorize, and which he is to deliver before the class that very day. He is, furthermore, afraid of his school teacher, M. Hamel, who carries a “terrible” ruler under his arm with which he terrorizes his students. Franz seems to approach his schoolwork as pointless and unnecessary toil, finding many other things—such as hunting for birds’ nests or sliding on the river Saar—to be more worthy of his time.
However, the news that Prussian authorities—who have taken control of Alsace-Lorraine—have banned the teaching of the French language in schools, gives him a new perspective on his education. Upon learning from M. Hamel that this will be his last lesson in French, Franz comes to regret his negligence of his school responsibilities. He realizes that he does not yet even have a good grasp of the language he has taken for granted—he hardly knows how to write in French. He begins to see how valuable his schooling is in general. Even the things that had seemed such a nuisance to him before—such as his books—suddenly appear to him to be “old friends” that he can’t give up. As such, Franz’s newfound respect for his education points to his emerging awareness that his schooling equips him with immensely valuable knowledge, knowledge that extends much deeper than he had realized.
Indeed, during the lesson, Franz discerns that he as well as the rest of the villagers have made a mistake in neglecting their schooling, one which, in the face of foreign occupation, will now cost them. M. Hamel points out that his pupils’ parents have colluded in their children’s neglect of their education, preferring to send them out to work on farms or at the mills, for extra money. Franz notices that even the elders of the village, gathered at the back of the room, were “sorry […] that they had not gone to school more.” The villagers, therefore, have prioritized labor over education. This, under the present circumstances, comes to seem shortsighted. Neglecting their own and their children’s schooling in favor of work may have helped at the time, but ultimately it has robbed them and their children of the education necessary to hold on to their identities in the face of foreign conquest.
Franz’s last lesson is thus one that revolutionizes his own conception of his education. School, Franz learns, is about much more than memorizing boring grammar lessons—school also equips him with knowledge and values that are indispensable to his identity. While more shortsighted needs for work and play may have taken precedence in the village, the story ultimately suggests that it is only the identity instilled through education that has the power to save Franz and his community in times of danger.
Related Themes from Other Texts
Education and Knowledge ThemeTracker
Education and Knowledge Quotes in The Last Lesson
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 strength to resist, and hurried off to school.
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 […] and the teacher’s great ruler rapping 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.
[…] 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.
[…] 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. The new master comes tomorrow. This is your last French lesson. I want you to be very attentive.”
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.
“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 tomorrow.’ And now you see where we’ve come out. Ah, that’s the great trouble with Alsace; she puts off learning till tomorrow. Now those fellows out there will have the right to say to you, ‘How is it; you pretend to be Frenchmen, and yet you can neither speak nor write your own language?’”
“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?”
[…] 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.
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. They looked like little flags floating everywhere in the school-room, hung from the rod at the top of our desks.
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.
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!”
