Erich Segal - The Class

It was Ken O’Brien, who had gone to Cambridge Latin with him, and who was both soaked and sloshed.

Before Ted could respond, he felt a gush of wetness on his head. A baptism of beer. As the liquid oozed slowly down onto his best tweed jacket, Ted angrily lashed out at Ken, catching him squarely on the chin. But in doing so he lost his balance and fell to the ground. Or, as it had become, a lake of beer.

He couldn’t stand it any longer. Although O’Brien, whom he’d knocked onto his knees, kept calling almost amicably to please continue fighting, Ted splashed, sick at heart, out of Mem Hall. Never looking back.

The Harvard-Radcliffe Orchestra holds an annual concerto contest to determine the most talented soloist in the community. The competition is held in the winter so that the victor, usually a senior or grad student, can highlight the orchestra’s spring concert.

But there are always eager beavers who try to get their names down early. And Don Lowenstein, the president, has to employ tactful diplomacy to discourage them from screwing up in public.

But his freshman visitor this afternoon, slight, bespectacled, and red-haired, would not be dissuaded.

“Look,” Lowenstein somewhat condescendingly explained, “our soloists mainly go on to be professionals. I’m sure you were a whiz in high school, but —”

“I’m a professional,” interrupted Danny Rossi ’58.

“Okay, okay, don’t get excited. It’s just this competition’s unbelievably intense.”

“I know,” Danny answered. “If I don’t measure up, that’ll be my problem.”

“Let’s settle this right now. Come downstairs and let me listen to you.”

When he returned nearly an hour later, Donald Lowenstein was in a mild state of shock. Sukie Wadsworth, the vice-president, was now in the office and looked up as he walked in and flopped behind his desk. “Sukie, I’ve just heard this year’s concerto winner. And let me tell you, this freshman Rossi is a genius.”

Just then the subject of his praise walked in.

“Thanks for your time,” Danny said. “I hope you think I’m good enough to join the competition.”

“Hello,” said the Radcliffe girl, taking the initiative. “I’m Sukie Wadsworth, the orchestra V.P.”

“Uh — nice to meet you.” He hoped she didn’t notice how he was staring at her from behind his lenses.

“I think it’s very exciting that we’ll have a freshman in the contest this year,” she added brightly.

“Well,” Danny said shyly, “I may just end up embarrassing myself.”

“I doubt it.” Sukie smiled, dazzling him further. “Don tells me that you’re very good.”

“Oh. Well — uh — I hope he’s not just being polite.”

There was a sudden awkward pause. And in that briefest of intervals, Danny resolved to make a heroic attempt at impressing this lovely creature.

Of course he’d fail, as usual. But then he tried to tell himself that the law of averages might be on his side.

“Uh, Sukie, would you like to hear me play?”

“I’d love to,” she replied enthusiastically, and took Danny by the hand as they went out to find a practice room.

He played a Bach partita and a lightning-fast Rachmaninoff. Inspired by the feminine proximity, his technique was even more impressive than before, but he didn’t glance at her for fear of losing concentration.

And yet he sensed her presence. Oh, how he sensed her presence.

At last he looked up. She was leaning over the piano, her low-necked blouse offering a view of great aesthetic interest.

“Was I any good?” he asked, slightly breathless.

A broad smile crossed her face.

“Let me tell you something, Rossi,” she began, moving close enough to place her hands on his shoulders. “You are without doubt the most fantastic guy I’ve ever had the pleasure of being in a room with.”

“Oh,” said Danny Rossi, looking up at her, nervous raindrops forming on his brow. “Say — uh — would you like to have a cup of coffee sometime?”

She laughed.

“Danny, would you like to make love right now?”

“Right here?”

She began to unbutton his shirt.

Danny had always hoped that women ultimately would discover that his brilliant execution of a keyboard passage could be just as stimulating as the execution of a gridiron pass. At last it had happened.

And football players never get to play encores.

What makes Harvard — and, I have to admit, Yale — different from every other university in America is its so-called college system.

Around 1909, Cambridge was turning from a village into a real city, and though some students lived in dorms, Harvard men were scattered everywhere across town. The poorer guys rented cheap hovels along Mass. Avenue, while the overprivileged ones (like my father) lived in really posh apartments in the area then called the Gold Coast (near Mt. Auburn Street). This dispersion was symptomatic of a rigid social separation that perpetuated lots of prejudice.

President Lowell thought that it was wrong for undergraduates to live in these hermetic cliques. So he championed the idea of copying Oxford and dividing the university into smaller colleges that would be a mixture of all types.

The process works like this. First they admit all of us freshmen into dormitories in the Yard so that — in principle — we get to meet the different kinds of guys that make up one whole class. After a year of this enlightening experience we’re supposed to have found our new diverse and fascinating friends. At which point we’ll be ready to spend our next three years down by the river in those exciting little colleges that Harvard snobbishly calls simply “houses.”

Actually, for some guys this arrangement has some educational value. Jocks from Alabama find themselves applying to a house along with pre-med types, philosophers, and would-be novelists. And when it does work, this setup really can enrich a person’s life as much as any academic course.

But this is far less true where preppies are concerned. Variety is not the spice of our lives. We’re like bacteria (though slightly brighter). We flourish in our own special environment. So I’m sure the university was not surprised when Newall, Wigglesworth, and I decided to perpetuate our roommatehood for three more years.

Originally, we had wanted to have Jason Gilbert join with us as a foursome. He’s a really good guy and would help to keep things lively. Also, Newall figured we might profit from the surplus of his feminine admirers. But that was secondary.

Dick asked him on the bus back from the squash match against Yale (which we won). But Jason was reluctant. He had had such unbelievable bad luck with roommates that he’d made up his mind to apply to live alone next year. Though sophomores rarely get this privilege, Gilbert’s proctor promised to write a letter of support for him. And Jason suggested that we all select the same house as our first choice so that we could have our meals together and he’d be nearby for our multitudinous impromptu parties.

Now our only problem was where to apply.

Though there are seven houses, only three of them are really socially acceptable. For despite this bull about democracy, most of the masters want to give their house a distinctive tone, and thus try to select a preponderance of certain types, who reciprocally gravitate toward them.

A lot of guys choose Adams House (named after good old Johnny, Class of 1755, the second U.S. President), perhaps because it had once been Gold Coast apartments. Also, not inconsequentially, it has a chef who once worked in a fancy New York restaurant (a factor not to be ignored when you consider three full years of breakfast, lunch, and dinner).