“You taught me how man makes himself eternal.” Elliot Norton, Lessons of the Masters (55)

“The artist is the creator of beautiful things.” Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (1)

On the opening page of Steiner we hear him ask, “What empowers a man or woman to teach another human being, where lies the wellspring of authority?”  Steiner’s answer to this is vast—

quite unending really.  One of the directions he takes this daunting question is toward the idea that the pursuit of the individual is to become eternal—to last beyond their physical body—to have their words memorized and recited, written and read—for their image to be made a masterpiece in which they will be viewed for ages to come as an object of beauty.  Through teaching, the master seeks to be the creator of not only their students, but of themselves.  Our master, the artist, desires to be made art. 

While the desire to be art, is quite a bold request, it is not one that has been kept silent.  Inherent to the master (at least in myth) seems to be need to make their desires known; to be blunt about it, in a poetic way.  Yeats gives us Sailing to Byzantium.        

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enameling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

My initial reaction to this was, why would anyone want to be made into art?  I do admire art and create it, yet I myself have not craved being carved out of marble.  There seemed to be something quite stifling, and in contrast to the real beauty of the master at their teaching.  For some reason though, I don’t think this is what is being said here.  The “art” that is being discussed is quite different.  Maybe one that is unavoidable to the true master.  So it is from here that I leap off into my final paper about the final lesson.  With these questions guiding me I begin:

Why do people desire to be art?

What does it mean to speak about a person’s life as a work of art?

Is such a state attainable or inevitably something to be pursued?

Can the “final lesson” (to seek eternal life) be articulated in a simple and coherent way?

What is the effect of the image on the master/disciple relationship?

How do disciples devote themselves to a master’s image?

What becomes of art?     

With the help of Steiner’s Lesson’s, Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray, Shakespeare’s A Winter’s Tale, Maugham’s The Moon and Sixpence, and Ovid’s Metamorphoses, I hope to start to uncover what is at the heart of the human desire to live a life as art and observe what then becomes a disciples devotion to the art. 

My head is swimming with images. 

Waking up, I find myself on cold gallows between two hanged men who look at me with ghastly stares; looking around, I find myself warmed by the company of a band of gypsies and an array of others gathered around a fire telling stories.  I cringe as I catch a glimpse of a collection of a hundred volumes composed over a lifetime, destroyed by rats.  I find myself curious at the image of the young boy peeking lovingly through the trees at a young girl enrobed in precious stones; this image brings me to Cleopatra’s boat lined with mother-of-pearl, in which she will sail to Antony.  A dwarf with a wooden leg hobbles across my thoughts, bringing along with it images of the pranks played by the Gypsy Chief in his youth.  There was the time he dressed-up and took the place of the young Elvira who was soon to be wed to the viceroy; knowing all along the severity of the repercussions if he was found out.  Once out of this situation, he again dressed as a young woman in a black veil, intending to play with the mind of the young father Sanudo by confessing his love—all in hopes to catch him falling to sin.

And who can free themselves from the image and the itchy feeling of the mole-of-a-man, Busqueros, poking his nose into the everyday life of Lope Soarez and ruining any chance at his happiness with Ines.  And then, budging himself into the life of a silent ink maker to unite him with a verbose wax maker—which brings about the death of the helpless Senor Avadoro.  After which, Busqueros smoothes over the situation by marrying the widow.

I can’t free myself of these images and I really don’t want to, no matter how disturbing some of them may be.  Each beautiful image can only be so beautiful because of the images that stand in the shadows, those that haunt us; these dark images create a backdrop to make the light images so much brighter.   We know when we have heard or read a good story.  It is the one that appears in our minds as we stand in line to buy a coffee or falls into dinner table discussions with friends who have no clue what you are talking about.  Going against the “brany” grain of Steiner, Dr. Sexson hands us a good story; an enjoyable one full of images we can’t help, but recall.  A story that we really get—one that makes me feel like I am a kid at summer camp again.  Why were we given the privilege of the company of a great story for so many nights over the past few weeks? 

I remember the Geometer discussing his system and how he says that “the man who has seen the whole world through the eyes of travelers and has read about all the events of history really has an infinity of images in his head… and if he combines ideas, associates them and compares them, then this man really has knowledge and intellect” (426).  Dr. Sexson has been speaking to us about value of being able to memorize and orally pass on these memories—an art that is being lost.  Steiner has shared his thoughts on how “that which we know by heart will ripen and deploy within us,” as “the memorized text interacts with our temporal existence, modifying our experiences” (32).   For no one can “uproot the remembered poem” (32).

Maybe, we were in a way handed a great story to awaken within us childhood memories of being told a story before bed.  My mom wove for my brother and I the tale of Dawn Shabonn each night.  I remember Dawn’s house made out of one giant log and the children who snuck out of their house to visit her.  I remember how amazing I thought my mother was for creating each of these as I lay looking up at her.  These made up stories stand stronger in my mind than most real things that happened at that age.  

Was reading The Manuscript a way for us to recall what we as teachers and writers living at this time, don’t take time for? The Manuscript Found in Saragossa was a tale of tales remembered; a story beautifully choreographed by a man recalling tales of people recalling tales.  The band of travelers in the story don’t have books with them; all they can rely on are the stories that people provide.  And the stories that are provided are full of imagery that take people to other places and times that they would have never been otherwise.  Maybe Dr. Sexson wants us to ask ourselves, are we as teachers neglecting to take our students places through imagery we create?  Are we forgetting to create and tell stories?  Can we take notes from the Gypsy Chief, the Geometer and the Wandering Jew as to the pricelessness of our memory capabilities?  We as humans need images to be able to enhance our intellect.  We can provide images and enhance lives if we remember them and tell them to others.  And it seems that we remember best when we are told a good story like this one.    

Plato makes it very apparent in his, Symposium, that all those who precede Socrates in their “praises of love” are neatly tailoring their speeches as to best serve themselves.  While some of the listeners poke fun at some of the speeches, when each takes their turn, they too, apply love to their own needs and are, in a way, left blind by their own desires.

Phaedrus, the moderator for the evening, talks about love as a way to “gain virtue and blessedness” (12).  Pausanias’s speech is made to gain him the attention of one member of his audience in particular—Agathon, as an attempt to express to him that there is common love and then there is heavenly love and that his is surely the latter.  Eryximachus wants love to find companionship with his own professional practice of medicine.  He shares that medicine is “guided everywhere by the god of love” (21).  Aristophanes, the comedian, fittingly tells a comic tale of people looking for their other halves as a way to become whole and near the end moves the conversation forward toward the more serious idea of what Love’s nature is.   And Agathon, who has the added pressure of Socrates beside him, yet plenty of confidence to counter it, praises the beauty and high moral character of love with his poetic words; a beauty he was known for possessing.     

While the speakers can’t be blamed for talking about what they knew best, I got the feeling that Socrates, as Plato’s hero, was removed from all this—that he was able to show love with a clarity that was absent of his own marks.  How is a person able to objectively view love?  Possibly through the use of conversation with his “priestess,” Diotima.  Did Plato place Diotima in the story as a way to remove Socrates from his humanity?  We already get the picture throughout the story that Socrates is unlike any other man—even being labeled as a god by Alcibiades, to which Socrates asks him to “hold [his] tongue” (64).  He is seen as being able to drink bottomless glasses of wine and not be drunk, walk on ice and not experience pain, stand in one place for hours and not tire, and stay up an entire night and not be lethargic.  So Socrates needs to not only uphold his legendary reputation, he also needs to be the true master by appearing to know “nothing.”  While his method of “praising” love may desire to seek truth and is markedly different from all other speeches given, it is still a method that is innate to Socrates —within his own comfort zone and allows him to fulfill his own needs, just as the speeches before him do.  

Socrates uses two techniques to appear as if it is not his knowledge, but the knowledge of others he is calling on to make his “praise.”  He first questions Agathon.  Although it is Socrates whom everyone knows is wisely crafting the questions, it is still the answers that come from Agathon.  Socrates, in a way, is pointing out that these were things that Agathon already knew, he just didn’t see them.  Socrates concludes this part of his speech by stating that it really wasn’t his idea that Love needs good and beautiful things; it was just the truth and adds that “it is not hard at all to contradict Socrates” (44).  Again, Socrates tries to renounce his role of the “master who knows all”.

Next, Socrates places himself in the role of the disciple with Diotima as master—sharing with the group that she used the same argument he used against Agathon.  Here we hear Socrates asking questions such as “What’s that?” and “What do you mean?”  Questions that any child could ask and most adults would be afraid to ask.  Through his story of his conversation Diotima, we as readers, as well as everyone else in the group, now has the chance to see Socrates as a learner, a very vulnerable position to be in; yet as is made clear at one point in his storytelling in which Diotima refers to Aristophane’s story that was told earlier in the evening, we and everyone else know that this is a story that Socrates produced.  Now we see him as the master again, despite his “attempt” to be viewed differently. 

Plato wanted it to be known that Socrates knew what was up. Socrates himself points to the theme of self-serving speeches at the conclusion of Agathon’s speech when he shares his “confusion” for the method of giving praise which was taking place in which the speaker was appearing to “make the rest of us think he is praising Love—not that he actually praise him;” all as a way to make Love seem out of reach to the listener, but something that was well known to the speaker (38).  While Socrates introduces a completely different approach to praising Love it is still in a way that makes it appear to be something Socrates knows well and works to serve his image of the master.

Maybe Plato sees the master Socrates at his work though.  He places one last speaker, Alchibades, after Socrates.  Who speaks after the master?  Alchibades comes to the party, late, drunk and not quite on his own two feet.  He comes to sit on the couch with Agathon and is disturbed when he finds Socrates there and immediately becomes jealous.  A suggestion comes up to allow Alchibades to make a praise as well—however while the object of praise for the evening had been Love, he is asked to make a praise of Socrates—which for Alchibades apparently was Love. 

His speech starts out as sounding like anything but praise for Socrates, as he recounts all the times his attempts at getting Socrates to show him the signs of a lover failed.  He goes as far as to say he would be happier if Socrates were dead.  He points out what we see in Socrates’ earlier in the story—that Socrates “likes to say that he is ignorant and knows nothing” (68).  It is not only Alchibades pointing this out, it is Plato.  It is not until the very last few sentences that Alchibades speaks that we hear, that Socrates’ arguments are “truly worthy of a god” and “of the greatest—importance for anyone who wants to become a truly good man” (75).

Out of all the speeches, Alcibade, the man who came in late and drunk, had the most selfless speech on love of them all.  Did Plato place this here because it was not a speech on love it was love?  Are his last words a warning from Plato as to the danger of being a blind disciple: “Remember our torments; be on your guard: don’t wait, like the fool in the proverb, to learn your lessons from your own misfortune” (75). 

Reading Steiner’s Afterword, I became very aware of several things; one, being that we would be putting this book down soon and two, that Steiner is confronting what all masters at some point face: a world that may be changing without them.  Still he says hopefully, "Life as we know it could not carry on without [masters and disciples]."  And then adds: "But there are significant changes underway" (179).  And with this, before we put his book down, he will have his final lesson.
This brings me back to childhood for a moment.  My dad liked to read us a short story called "The Last Class" by Alphonse Daudet.  Like many fables "intended" for children, it carried a pretty heavy message—one that I scarcely could grasp at the time.  After reading the afterword, and feeling sentimental about Steiner’s last words, I decided to revisit this short French tale that takes place in 1873 prior to the Prussian occupation of Alsace and Lorrain, and really read it.  And read it—with the idea in mind that it is not just the teacher’s last class; it is the final class of Steiner’s master. 

Our disciple in this story is a young boy name Frantz who is faced with the decision between skipping school to be a part of the lovely day brimming with sunshine and blackbirds or attending school to be examined on his knowledge of the participle.  Frantz feels his master’s pull however, and opts for the participles—and once his mind is made up, he doesn’t meander, he books it to school (this is dedication!).  It is the adults along the way who tell him he doesn’t need to rush—school’s not going anywhere.

It is on his path to school that he observes a gathering around the town bulletin board—the one that always bears the bad news.  But with the thought of facing Monsieur Hamel’s iron stick, and even worse, his disappointment, he hurries past.

Once in the classroom, he expects to receive what he thinks he deserves, but instead finds the class is silent "like a Sunday morning," and that Monsieur Hamel is not the least bit upset.  As the Monsieur speaks gently to him, Frantz notices he is wearing his finest clothing and that there are adults from the town perched on benches in the back, notebooks in hand. 

The Monsieur ascends his platform and informs the class that this will be his last class as there is no more French to be taught; from now on, only German.  And that a new teacher will be taking his place.  At this, thoughts fly through Frantz’s head—he doesn’t know how to write yet and may ever know now.  How could they!  Guilt and regret burden his young body—why did he ever miss class or not pay attention?  His heavy books seemed now "like old friends—from whom [he] should be terribly grieved to part."  It all became clear now, to little Frantz, what it all meant. 

And as Monsieur Hamel begins to speak to the class, he too questions aloud the times that opportunities to study were missed for other activities.  He takes the chance to share life lessons with the class—things he had always felt were important, but somehow, he felt, never got relayed in his daily lessons.  The class was never more attentive and the teacher was never so patient.   He puts words to his innermost thoughts on the importance of their French tongue as "it was the most beautiful language in the world, the most clear, the most substantial; [and] that…[they must] never forget it, because [according to Monsieur] when a people falls into servitude, "so long as it clings to its language, it is as if it held the key to its prison.""

From time to time during the during the writing lesson, Frantz looks up at his teacher and imagines what is happening behind his pensive stare at the objects on his desk.  All those years of teaching to come to this, he thinks.

The fable comes to a close as the clock strikes twelve and the master rises one last time "pale as death."  Unable to speak, he writes his last words on the blackboard.  And not being able to turn around to look at his class one last time, he dismisses them with his hand.

George Steiner, almost seventy years after Daudet’s story of Frantz, finds himself as a child, leaving France a month before the Nazi occupation of Paris.  Steiner in his 2007 interview, reports that even in New York City he remained faithful to his native French language by attending a French Lycee.  And in his final thoughts in Lessons of the Masters this tone of longing for things past, but also recognizing what is to come, rings through.  The "sovereignty of the scientific," the "patriarchal structure inherent in the relations of the Master to the disciple…receding," and the current "age of irreverence," as Steiner calls it, are all taking the ideas of the master and disciple to new places.  Still Steiner doesn’t leave us here.  He tells us after all of our hand wringing and confusion that teaching is "satisfaction beyond compare" and that "there is no craft more privileged" (183,84).  Steiner had a lot of other things to say in this book—rightfully so, he was engaged in his argument—but this is what Steiner has been wanting to sing all along.  And like Monsieur Hamel, he says what he has been meaning to say and then leaves us with only writing—admitting that "argument should end in poetry" (184).

Why is it that we don’t get to the heart of our lessons until we are at the end?  The last day of class I would always read my class the Nelson Mandela speech containing Marianne William’s "It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us."  As they would walk out the door I would hand them a rose (and thinking of this now, after reading Steiner, I wonder what this meant?).  Why is it that I never read this at the beginning?  What might happen differently if I did?  Do I fear what could happen if I am too "real" with my students or is there something to be said for having to build up to what I will only know at the end?  The fable of "The Last Class" speaks to the power that every lesson holds in our memories; the teacher and the student both are caught at the end wondering why they ever took study for granted, why they never said what their intentions meant.  Frantz loved his teacher enough to miss a beautiful day for a participle exam; Monsieur Hamel loved his students enough he shared his love for his language with them.   Despite all that I may have thought Steiner was getting at when I first started reading this book, at the end, I am wondering why I didn’t really get it in the beginning.  Then again, I don’t think Steiner intended us to really get it right away.