Chapter 24 — The Last Class

The last week of May brought apple blossoms through a soft, bright mist of new leaves. Peter Floyd, sitting in the sun on the steps of Chelsea House thought, as he had thought every spring, “Nature’s first green is gold.” He said it out loud to himself, said the whole poem over.

Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower, But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief. So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.

Nothing gold can stay. That a perfect creation is that poem, he thought. Complete, flawless, so easy, fading the physical into the metaphysical, what Emerson would call the natural into the spiritual – and what an impact! Robert Frost must have been proud of that poem, but humble too, for he must have known that he had been touched by the grace of God. True, nothing gold can stay. Looking back, life at Kennebec Academy had had much gold in it, but it couldn’t last. Even now, I am waiting for the bell to call me to my last class. Back in February the Headmaster had asked him whether he planned to return in the fall. “No,” he had said, “I agreed to get through at 65. I will be 65 in the spring so I will not be back next year.” The Headmaster had expressed proper – and sincere – regret. “Let’s not make any fuss about it,” Peter had added. You know that I abhor sentiment. Mr. Chips makes me sick. If anyone wants to know, simply say I will not be back next year. I will be building a boat or writing a book. No secret, no ceremony.” And now, he thought, sitting on the step of his dormitory in the May sun, I have written my last examination, I have read my last set of papers and written my last criticisms on them, I have entered my last grades in my last mark book – except for the exams, of course – and I am about to walk into my last class. A clutch of 9th-graders – intelligent, responsive, occasionally inspired. Remember Jonesey’s description of a rope ski tow? ‘A snake with his tail in his mouth hissing up the hill.’ And full of adolescent hell, too. I have done pretty well with them, but pretty well is not good enough. Maybe I should stay one more year and teach one class really well, do a really good job, just for once. But no. It wouldn’t work. To attempt perfection is to challenge the gods, and no one has done very well at that since Apollo’s son drove his father’s chariot and Icarus took the big drink. Be grateful that we have had a vision of perfection and let it go at that. Today must be the last. No sentimentality, no tearful farewells. Still, I will let them know that it is the last and I will make an opportunity to tell them how good it is to have to do what you like to do ‘where love and need are one.’ To be paid to read good books and to talk about them and share them with intelligent people is the best of all worlds And I will tell them of some of the boys I have known, boys who have gone on to be – some of them – signifi cant in their communities and their professions, some of them writers. Especially the writers.

The school bell struck the hour. Into Peter’s mind sprang the horse from the book of Job1. ‘Ha Ha, He sayeth among the trumpets (a bell will do as well) and he smelleth the battle afar off’. He picked up his books and his last set of papers and walked through the golden May morning toward his last class. As he strode down the hall towards Room 14, his classroom for over 20 years, soon to be someone else’s, “sounds of revelry by night” (Byron, wasn’t it). A loud pop. That would be young Cluett jumping on an empty milk carton. He opened the door. Butch, who had been standing on a chair a split second before, was in the air; beneath his descending feet a milk carton. Gravity operated strictly as usual and the carton burst, “not with a bang but a splatter.” (Try that on, Mr. Eliot). For the irrepressible Cluett had slipped in a full milk carton for the empty one and milk was everywhere. Roars of laughter, immediately repressed. Awesome silence. “Butch, get a mop and clean up this mess. Phillips, get a wad of paper towel out of the boys’ room … In the janitor’s closet, Butch; where else? … How did this happen? Cluett? … You don’t know? Then it is the first time … Butch, no. You aren’t mopping it up. You’re just spreading it around … Ed, get him a half bucket of water … You other guys, swab the milk off your clothes or you’ll smell like a barnyard in distress … Now, Butch, wring out the mop … Grab it by the end and twist its tail. Put some muscle in it, Butch – like this. Now sozzle it in the bucket, twist its tail again and mop ... towards the middle, boy.” In due course the bucket and mop were washed out and returned, and the class settled to something like normal, having learned about mopping up if not about literature. Peter – Mr. Floyd – passed out the papers, the last lot. The last one went to Cluett. On his way back to the desk, Peter drew breath to say, “Gentlemen, you may be aware that this is my last opportunity to address a class – any class –” but as he turned to speak, Billy Edwards’ hand was up. “Sir, you wrote on my paper, ‘Intentional fallacy.’ I didn’t do anything wrong on purpose.” “Probably not, Billy, but you said the poet intended something for which there was no basis in the poem. You were writing about “Dust of Snow.”

The way a crow Shook down on me A dust of snow From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart A change of mood, And saved some part Of a day I had rued.

“And if I remember correctly, you said the poem was a prophecy of doom, death and destruction because a crow is black and snow is cold, white and sterile. Where did you get all that?” “From a book in the library.” “Likely. And the book went on to say that hemlock was the poison Socrates drank. This hemlock is a totally different plant altogether. When you read a poem, or anything else, read what is on the page. If the poet intends a secondary or symbolic meaning, he will say so.” Once wound up, Peter rushed on just as he always had.

“’So leaf subsides to leaf. “’So Eden sank to grief’ … He tells you right there that he is talking about human experiences that

don’t last: discovery, love, ecstasy – as well as about spring leaves.” Johnny Cluett spoke up. “What about ‘Stopping By Woods?’ That is just a story about how an old guy stopped and watched it snow and then went home. That’s all there is to that.” “What makes you think he was an old guy, Johnny? Anyway, up to the last line, you are about right. A very observant, sensitive man on his way home at night stops to watch the snow. So does his horse, but the horse is a good deal less sensitive and observant than the man. You, Johnny, are no horse, but on the contrary, you too are an observant and sensitive man. Up to the last line, there is little more; but the repetition of the last line asks the observant, sensitive man ‘What miles do I have to go? What promises do I have to keep? What sleep?’ The repetition makes the traveler’s experience our experience, for we are all travelers. There is magic in the repetition of that last line, Johnny, magic.” And the bell rang! A scraping of chairs and a jumble of questions all at once: “Sir, will there be any grammar on the exam? Will spelling count? Will we have to know about the first half year? Is it all essay questions? Any True-False? Will you scale the grades? How much does it count?” Peter tried to sort out the questions, answered “Yes” to most of them and to Phillips, last to leave, “No, I will not be teaching next year.” “Well, thank you, sir,” said Phillips; and again, “Thank you sir.” Peter sat down, overcome, in his chair in the empty classroom. “It’s the repetition that does it,” he thought as quiet fell over him. “The boy got it. In the repetition is the magic.”