A Final French History Examination | Aleksandra Gruzinska

Ironies and Epiphanies

nounced a new policy: To avoid choosing majors immediately, all students would take the same courses for their first year. Since not taking calculus would preclude majoring in math or physics later, all must take that course. At lunch, Harold and his friend sat at a table with the math department chairman, and the friend introduced them. The chairman was desperate. As soon as he heard Harold was a mathematician, he asked, “Can you teach calculus? Do you want a job?” When Harold answered affirmatively, he said, “You’re hired!” Harold retired from there in his seventies, having led a happy life, teaching undergraduate courses while pursuing his interests in music and literature. I try to see him whenever we return to Philadelphia.

A Final French History Examination

Aleksandra Gruzinska

The month was June and the year 1951, time to graduate after five years at the Lycée français in Barcelona, Spain, with a degree in commerce (business.) I was scheduled to take the final oral examination in French History worth twenty points. Anything from sixteen points on could only be awarded to a professor. There was plenty of room between one and fifteen for the student to shine or fail, with ten points representing a modest but passing grade. The goal was to pass with or without glory, but pass with no less than the required minimum ten points.

I entered the examination room where three imposing intellectuals sat at a table ready to question one of my classmates. Mr. Deffontaines, a wellknown geographer, a world traveler and explorer, was an invited examiner. I approached the table, picked one of the slips containing a mysterious French history question. I then sat next to a window, opened the little paper and read it. I had ten minutes to prepare and ten minutes to present the 1870 War in France. My first impression was that the august body of three distinguished professors made a mistake and that no such war existed. I was ready to tell them so but decided to politely wait until they finished questioning another classmate. By not interrupting, I hoped not to increase his state of nervousness.

I had just lived through WWII and all its violence. For me, French history ended with Waterloo and the defeat of my preferred Romantic hero, Napoleon. Any violence that followed was too close for comfort and registered only superficially in my memory. Nonetheless, I retrieved the name of Napoleon

III, his relationship with Bismarck, the Depêche d’Ems with its declaration of war by France, and Napoleon III’s defeat in 1870. I desperately searched for other details. When my turn came to sit before the distinguished examination panel I had enough material to keep me going for three or four minutes at the most. The panel seemed satisfied. Unfortunately, it had at least six minutes, far too many, for questions. To the first one I responded “Je ne sais pas,” (I don’t know,) and “j’ai oublié,” (I forgot,) to the next one. They finally asked question number three, “Where was Napoleon III taken prisoner?” I tried to avoid repeating my first two answers, so I closed my eyes, bent my head in a meditative position and made an honest effort by uttering the first three elements of a sentence in French in the making, “C’est dans . . .,” it is in . . ., and I hoped for the name of the place to miraculously appear. I went on repeating “C’est dans…” several times, explored my memory without success. Finally, I opened my eyes and looked in despair at the distinguished examination members. They were all smiles. What encouragement on their part! What a magnificent panel I had! Closing my eyes again, I searched my memory in vain, concluding with several more c’est dans . . . . As I next opened my eyes, the panelists said “Merci, Mademoiselle, vous le dites, c’est assez, vous pouvez partir,” (Thank you Miss, you already said it, it’s enough, you may leave.) And they continued to smile.

What did I exactly say that satisfied the panelists? I refused to leave. I had to know and insisted on closing my eyes, searched my memory for the answer and continued to repeat a few extra “c’est dans.” This time, when I opened my eyes, the panelists seemed puzzled and I was politely escorted out of the room very unhappy and greatly puzzled myself.

I wasted no time to locate a Robert Dictionnaire Universel des Noms Propres, and looked up in the French dictionary the name of Napoleon III in the cultural section. He was taken prisoner in a city called Sedan which, spelled differently, is nonetheless pronounced exactly as C’est dans. The word remains imbedded in my memory forever. The panelists, however, were left with the impression that I had provided the correct answer, Sedan.

The next day, the surveillant, or supervisor, passing by me in the hall, said, “Quel mauvais examen d’histoire,” what a bad history exam! Nonetheless I met the goal: I passed, of course, without glory.

If there is a lesson to take away from this incident, my best advice to anyone, who is given ten minutes to discuss an examination topic, do your best to use the entire ten minutes in presenting your ideas, and leave no time for questions by the panelists.

Ironies and Epiphanies