Erich Segal - The Class

Naturally, with such a prestigious chair, the public notice was merely a formality to comply with the dictates of Washington. In practice, the system still worked in its time-honored way. The department met and made a short list of the most eminent Greek scholars in the world. And, since his book was causing a stir even in manuscript, Theodore Lambros’s name was among the leaders.

Again in compliance with the Equal-Opportunity directives, he would, like all other candidates, be required to visit Harvard and deliver a lecture.

“I know this is silly,” Cedric Whitman apologized on the phone. “After all, we’ve known you for years and heard you speak. But to follow the new rules an pied de la lettre you’ll have to give that obligatory ‘tryout’ talk.”

“That’s okay,” he responded, already mentally packing his bags for the triumphal return to Cambridge.

They then set a date for the lecture. Officially it would be an audition, but, at least in Ted’s mind, it would be his inaugural address.

“Among the many publications of tonight’s speaker, two stand out in particular: Tiemosyne , a brilliant study of the Sophoclean tragic hero, and The Poet of Paradox , his forthcoming analysis of Euripidean drama, which I have had the great pleasure of reading in manuscript.

“Tonight he will unravel the complexities of Euripides’ final play, Iphigenia at Aulis . It gives me enormous pleasure to present Professor Theodore Lambros.”

Ted rose, shook Whitman’s hand, and placed his notes on the lectern. As he adjusted the microphone, he glanced out at the spectators. And could not help thinking that he had never seen Boylston Hall so full.

Had his scholarly reputation preceded him? Or was it common knowledge that tonight’s audience would be getting a sneak preview of the next Eliot Professor of Greek?

He felt extraordinarily relaxed under what should have been extremely trying circumstances. For he had rehearsed this moment so many times in dreams it was already second nature.

The more he spoke, the less he had recourse to his notes. He began to look out into the audience, skillfully making eye contact with the more important people present, who included no less a dignitary than Derek Bok, the President of Harvard University.

He had just begun to discuss the bold visual symbolism in Clytemnestra’s entrance carrying the infant Orestes, when he suddenly lost his breath.

Perhaps the audience, enraptured by his dramatic presentation, did not notice. But Ted himself had seen a vision that shook him.

Could it be possible — or was he merely imagining that his former wife, Sara, was standing at the back, leaning against a post?

Though inwardly panicked, his powerful sense of survival enabled him to find his place in the manuscript and — albeit in a somewhat subdued voice — continue reading his lecture.

But he was keenly aware that his sudden shift of style and tone had broken the enchanted atmosphere.

And now he could not control a desperate urge to get the damn talk over with.

Maybe, he thought, if I reassure myself she isn’t really there, I can get back in gear. So, as he turned to his final page, he glanced beyond the farthest row.

Sara was right there. And looking more beautiful than ever.

But why? Why the hell is my ex-wife, who ought to be in Oxford, here in Boylston Hall?

And then with thoughts swifter than light, he exhorted himself like a Homeric hero. Get loose, goddammit, Lambros. Pull yourself together. This is your last chance to get everything you want in life.

And heroically, he did. He took a breath, slowed himself, ignored the final written paragraphs, and raised his head to paraphrase them. His concluding words were greeted with admiring applause.

Before they left, the President and deans came over to shake his hand. Then, while the senior members of the Classics Department waited discreetly in the back of the room, Sara approached the podium to greet her former husband.

“That was great, Ted,” she said warmly. “You’ve done a lot of terrific work on that last chapter.”

“Hey, I don’t get it,” he responded, trying to seem nonchalant. “Shouldn’t you be in England teaching?”

“Yes,” she answered. And then added with a curious admixture of timidity and pride, “But Harvard’s invited me to apply for the chair. I’m giving a seminar on Hellenistic poetry tomorrow morning.”

He was incredulous. “They’ve asked you to apply for the Eliot Professorship?”

She nodded. “I know it’s silly. Clearly it’ll go to you. I mean, just on your publications.”

“They flew you all the way over just on the basis of three articles?”

“Four, actually. And my book.”

“Book?”

“Yes, Oxford liked my thesis and the Press is bringing it out this spring. Apparently the Harvard Search Committee’s seen a copy.”

“Oh,” said Ted, the wind knocked from his sails, “congratulations.”

“You’d better go now,” she said gently. “All the bigwigs want to wine and dine you.”

“Yeah,” he said distractedly. “Uh — nice seeing you.”

The post-lecture reception for Ted was in a private room at the Faculty Club. He knew that it was a social gauntlet he had to run, both to remind his old friends and to convince those who had once rejected him that he was charming, learned, and collegial. That year at Oxford seemed to have enhanced his status — and improved his dinner conversation.

At a late point in the evening Norris Carpenter, the leading Latinist, thought he’d enjoy a bit of Schadenfreude at the candidate’s expense.

“Tell me, Professor Lambros,” he inquired with a Cheshire grin, “what do you think of Dr. James’s book?”

“You mean F.K. James on Propertius?”

“No, no. I mean the former Mrs. Lambros on Callimachus.”

“Well, I haven’t seen it yet, Professor Carpenter. I mean it’s just in galleys, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes,” the Latinist continued mischievously. “But such a penetrating work must have taken years of research. She must have, as it were, begun it under your principate. In any case, she sheds some fascinating new light on the relationship between Hellenistie Greek and early Latin poetry.”

“I’m looking forward to reading it,” Ted said politely, as he twisted inwardly from Carpenter’s sadistic verbal stilettos.

He spent the next day wandering aimlessly around Cambridge. The Square itself had been concreted beyond recognition since his college days. But the Yard had the same magical aura.

At four o’clock Cedric called him at the family home. He got to the point without delay.

“They’ve offered it to Sara.”

“Oh,” Ted gasped, as his blood ran cold. “Is her book really that good?”

“Yes,” Cedric acknowledged, “it’s a tremendous piece of work. But just as important, she was the right person at the right time.”

“You mean she’s a woman.”

“Look, Ted,” the senior professor explained, “I’ll grant that the Dean’s office is anxious to comply with the Fair-Employment legislation. But, frankly, it came down to weighing the merits of two equally gifted people —”

“Please, Cedric,” Ted implored, “you don’t have to explain. The bottom line is that she’s in and I’m out.”

“I’m sorry, Ted. I understand what a blow this is for you,” Whitman said softly as he hung up the phone.

Do you, Cedric? Do you understand what it’s like to work forty years of your goddamn life with only one goal? To give up everything, to resist any human involvements that might detract from your work? Do you understand what it means to sacrifice your youth for nothing ?