Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

Unfamiliar with early Christian literature, the young man told me that he would like to learn more about the fascinating ascetic personages of the Wild East. I promised to fill him in at a later date, but quickly inserted an account of the historical anti-Vigoleis, the pious Roman deacon Arsenius, renowned for his erudition and appointed by Emperor Theodosius as tutor for his son Arcadius. Theodosius was in such awe of this priest, who was reputed to be of saintly character, that the prince was allowed to receive instruction from him only while standing upright. Arcadius, already the recipient of the title Augustus, regarded this decree as a humiliation and sought to eliminate the palace pedagogue. Arsenius escaped princely vengeance by fleeing into the desert. In this story the roles were reversed, I explained, adding that Mister Hutchinson had nothing to fear. I had no intention of doing away with him. “But please, remain seated. Now where were we?”

“All the pictures,” he said in English.

“Oh yes, all the pictures had to go…” So then my walls were completely bare. The next things to be jettisoned were the drapes, the pipe holders, the bridal wreaths, my diplomas, the cuckoo clocks; and then the chests of drawers, the stands for the flower pots — everything flew out the window. My young friend could surely understand that this process did not occur without instances of controversy. But in order to maintain the integrity of the German spirit I assured him that my enraged erstwhile landlady on Klinkhammer Street in Münster, who sued me for “environmental vandalism and property damage,” was a shameful exception to the rule.

Here in this room and at this very time, I now explained, I had again taken extreme measures, acting, as it were, as a Simeon/Vigoleis in this century of ours that shows so little inclination to asceticism. Continuing with legendary comparisons I said that at the birth of my radical pedagogical method I had performed a Caesarian section. “In this space, dear Hutchinson, you will be confronting only yourself, your chair, and your teacher. I ask you to convince yourself that your chair and your teacher are the sole remaining necessary props for this system of teaching. It is my hope that in the course of time even these two annoying objects can be sublimated, so that we can eventually attain a Paradisiacal setting for modern linguistic pedagogy — Adam prior to the creation of woman, given over exclusively to monologue.”

The historic era we are living in, I explained in concluding this private tutorial, was no longer tolerant of the ambulatory method of teaching and learning. This was particularly true of thickly populated areas where tramways and subways effectively deprived peripatetic candidates of the necessary ascetic environment.

The American, accustomed to traffic accidents in his home country, agreed that this was a perilous state of affairs.

And finally: taking notes on your knee, a technique enforced by my method — the youth became quite skilled at this, like a born aphorist — was by no means to be regarded as such an inconvenience as it might at first appear. It was, after all, the pupil’s own knee that would serve as the writing surface. With this sophistical capstone I closed the final overarching vault of my Single-Chair Method.

The American, who is now doubtless well past 39, slapped his thigh with glee and gave me a round of unphilosophical applause. Then he jumped up and began a long harangue, forgetting that our peripatetic lingua franca was supposed to be German. He would immediately have to send a report on my method to a professional journal in the States. He would broadcast my name in the American scholarly community, and I myself would have to cross the ocean and introduce my method at American colleges.

“Just a moment, my friend! Your perceptiveness reflects your overall receptivity to the general precepts of our Western culture. But we must not inhibit the growth of our pedagogical seedlings by premature publication. We are not insured against the hailstones of stupidity. My method still has certain points of weakness: its cranial fontanelle hasn’t yet closed. What is more, I myself intend to write a monograph on the Single-Chair Method. It will be published by a university press in Münster with a foreword by Rudolf Pannwitz, who has already declared himself in favor of my system. Afterwards, my friend, you will be at complete liberty to report to the world concerning your meetings with me and my chair.”

Our hour-long tutorial had stretched into two or three hours, and we were both at full speed. The young man donned his fur coat with panache and returned to the Hotel Príncipe, and then he came back regularly for more lessons, each time likewise with panache. He learned with extreme rapidity. Our conversations dealt with increasingly wide-ranging and complex subjects; no topic was too intimidating for us — which is of course what doing philosophy is all about. Yet as if we had made a tacit agreement, the pedagogical system that gave rise to these successful colloquies never again came up for discussion. We were like lovers who keep their secret to themselves, like conspirators, like mystagogues who do not need so much as a twinkling of the eye to keep the magic alive.

To lend some kind of purpose to our free-wheeling digressions, we decided that we should select a text, on the principle that the student could best reach his goal by a process of reading and interpretation. I suggested Schopenhauer’s “Aphorisms on Wisdom,” for one thing aiming to show the American that there were German philosophers who wrote in a style that was readily accessible, if not fully comprehensible, to anyone. In addition, Schopenhauer’s subjects touched on ultimate truths, which meant that we would not be setting limits to our peripatetic urges. I recommended the pocket-sized Reclam volume, in case Hutchinson was not prepared to purchase all of Schopenhauer in the Grand Duke Wilhelm Ernst Edition.

With this practical suggestion, my attempt at educating the future student of Jaspers and Heidegger came to an end. George Brewis Hutchinson never again found his way to the Street of the General. Our single chair occupied its space in a more orphaned condition than ever before. Likewise orphaned was Vigoleis’ wallet, and this was a cause of concern to both of us. What had happened? Had my promising pupil burst a vein in his lung? Had he engaged in less intellectual pursuits and received a fatal stab wound at the hands of a femme fatale ? In common erotic matters the fellow was not choosy, but he was still insufficiently familiar with the customs of a country where a beautiful lady’s stocking could conceal a dagger. Had his father’s bank cut off his allowance overnight? We pondered these questions intensely, but my pupil remained among the missing.

This is what had taken place: from our apartment to the bookstore was but a stone’s throw, hardly a three-minute walk across the Apuntadores and past Doña Angelita’s little shop where Hutchinson liked to stop, buy a little something, and admire the pretty clerk. Still glowing from our intellectual ruminations, still walking on air from our tutorial, the youth entered the bookstore and ordered Schopenhauer in the thin-paper Insel Edition, bound in leather. This was, incidentally, the largest order ever placed at that establishment. The owners beamed, and inquired whether their customer was satisfied with his teacher.

The American, too, was beaming. Satisfied? Why, he was at a loss for words to express his gratitude for having referred him to such a unique pedagogue. There was surely no more fitting referral on the whole island, or in the whole world! This Single-Chair Method was the wave of the future. Hamilton, Jacotots, Berlitz, Toussaint-Langenscheidt, Gaspey-Otto-Sauer — clumsy amateurs, all of them! The modest abode on General Barceló would in future times carry a plaque that said, VIGOLEIS TAUGHT HERE.