A story about outmoded and severe prep school instruction pops up on my twitter feed. It puts me in mind of a few memories of my own, albeit nothing quite so severe. Here is one.
The year is 1993 (late) or 1994 (early). We have been learning Latin for over a year, having started in ‘B Block’ (aka year 6) the previous academic year. The first thing our eccentric and sharp-witted teacher has taught us is the present tense of the first conjugation verb, amo. In our first lesson, we have transcribed this precisely (and neatly) into our brand new Latin Grammar books (which we have been instructed to adorn with red tape on the front cover). We bring these books to each lesson.
The atmosphere in our classroom is always intense, with hardly a word out of place from pupils. We cover lots of stories, lots of grammar, and lots of vocabulary. I enjoyed the subject immensely and found it came to me pretty naturally. Probably the emphasis on precision, the clarity of delivery, and the high standards in class helped a great deal. When I left the school aged 13 I realised I was ahead of schedule on the way to Latin GCSE.
My experience is not shared by everyone. One boy in the class, in our second year of study, is struggling with a passage of unseen translation. He is mistranslating a present tense verb. Our teacher tries to send him back to fundamentals. ‘What did we learn in our first week of Latin?’ he asks him. ‘Conjugate amo!’ The poor pupil grudgingly attempts to oblige. The subject has not come naturally to him at all, nor – I guess – has he worked on it much. ‘amo…. [long pause]…. amamus?’ The second word is said in an unsure, questioning tone, of the sort this teacher despises. He expects you to know your stuff or to admit you don’t (and say so).
Chaos ensues. Teacher snaps pencil and leaps up from his chair. Chair flies backward, tipping onto the floor. Teacher storms round the room, passing all our desks, making his way all the way to the door to the classroom. With enormous energy, he takes hold of the classroom door, and slams it shut, full force.
Most of us pupils have been trying to avoid eye contact, knowing that any small titter could set the whole room off. But the high drama of the moment has intensified further. Just as our teacher reaches the door (issuing a flow of condemnatory phrases as he makes his way there), we become conscious that some people have appeared in the corridor just outside the door. It is the Headmaster and some prospective parents. The full force of the door’s slam is delivered at precisely the moment the Head turns to enter the room. Comedy blends instantly with tragedy: terror about what could now unfold grips the room. Could we somehow be held responsible for this moment of absurdity?
There is a pause. After 20 seconds or so, the Head opens the door, fixing the teacher with a hard stare, while attempting to make some smalltalk about Latin in the school. We boys fix our stares into our books, trying desperately to avoid eye contact with each other or anyone else. I sneak a look up: the visiting parents look embarrassed. Somehow a minute or two passes, and the Head finally leaves.
The whole scene had been too perfect. The snapped pencil, the slammed door, the Head’s untimely arrival. We talk about it for months afterwards, as most 11 year olds would. As for the first conjugation verb, I’m not sure the pupil in question ever managed to master it.
And as for audeo being semi-deponent, it was cheering to note that some posters on twitter pointed out that some speakers of Latin did not treat it as such. Sometimes real Latin was not as precise as the modern grammar books would have us believe.
