Erich Segal - The Class

In a matter of seconds there was a crowd around the dismembered instrument. Danny was the first to arrive and reacted as though someone in his family had been murdered.

(“Christ,” Newall reported, “I’ve never seen a guy get so upset about a piece of wood.”)

The perpetrators of the assault were immediately convoked in the senior tutor’s office, where Dr. Porter threatened them with expulsion and ordered them to pay for a new piano as well as for the broken window. Moreover, they were commanded to march over and apologize.

But Rossi was still in a fury. He told them they were a bunch of uncivilized animals who didn’t deserve to be at Harvard. Since Dr. Porter was right there, they grudgingly agreed with him. As they departed, the clubbies vowed revenge on the “little Italian wimp” who had caused them so much embarrassment.

That night at dinner, Andrew Eliot (who had been warming the varsity soccer bench during that afternoon’s debacle) saw Danny sitting all by himself at a corner table, picking at his food and looking really miserable. He walked over and sat down across the table.

“Hey, Rossi, I’m sorry to hear about your piano.”

Danny lifted his head. “Who the hell do they think they are?” he suddenly exploded.

“You want the truth?” Andrew asked. “They think they’re God’s gift to sophistication. But actually they’re just a bunch of empty-headed preppies who wouldn’t even be here if their parents hadn’t sent them to expensive schools. A guy like you makes them feel insecure.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, Rossi. You’re what this place is all about. You’ve got one thing they can’t buy, and it galls the hell out of them. They’re jealous because you’ve got real talent.”

Danny was quiet for a moment. Then looked at Andrew and said softly, “You know, Eliot, you’re a really good guy.”

Ted could not concentrate on Helen of Troy. Not that Professor Whitman’s remarks about her appearance in Book Three of the Iliad were not fascinating. But Ted was distracted by something even more divine than the face that launched a thousand ships.

For more than a year now he had been staring at this girl. They had both started Ancient Greek together the previous fall, and Ted could still remember his first sight of her, as the soft morning sun shone through the windows of Sever Hall irradiating her amber hair and delicate features. She seemed like an image carved on an ivory brooch. The tasteful, unostentatious manner of her dress made him think of the nymph in Horace’s ode — simplex munditiis — embellished in simplicity.

He could recall the day — now thirteen months ago — when he had first noticed Sara Harrison. Professor Stewart had asked for someone to conjugate paideuo in the imperfect and first aorist, and she had volunteered. She had been sitting timidly by the window in the very last row — quite the opposite of Ted, who always sat front and center. Though she had been reciting correctly, her voice was so soft that Stewart had to ask her politely to speak louder. It was at this precise moment that Ted Lambros had turned his head and seen the girl.

From then on, he altered his seating position to the far right of the first row so that he could both gaze at Sara and still be conspicuously placed to gain academic points. He had a copy of the Radcliffe Register in his desk at home, and like a secret drunk he periodically indulged himself by taking it out and gazing at her picture. He also studied the meager information printed with it. She was from Greenwich, Connecticut, and had attended Miss Porter’s. She lived in Cabot Hall — in the unlikely event that he should ever get the courage to call her.

In fact, he wasn’t brave enough even to attempt small talk with her after class. He had gone through two terms like this, concentrating equally on the intricacies of the Greek verb and the delicacies of Sara’s face. But whereas he was aggressively bold when it came to answering grammatical questions, he was pathologically shy about saying anything to the angelic Sara Harrison.

But then, something unprecedented occurred. Sara was unable to answer a question.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Whitman, I just can’t get the hang of Homer’s hexameter.”

“You’ll catch on with a little practice,” the professor replied kindly. “Mr. Lambros, would you scan the line please.”

That is how it all began. For after class, Sara came up to Ted.

“Gosh, you scan so easily. Is there some secret to it?”

He barely had the courage to reply.

“I’d be glad to help you if you’d like.”

“Oh, thank you. I’d really appreciate that.”

“How about a cup of coffee at The Bick?”

“Great,” said Sara.

And they walked out of Sever Hall side by side.

Ted found her problem at once. She had neglected to take account of the digamma, a Greek letter that existed in Homer’s alphabet but which had since been dropped and was not printed in the text.

“You just have to imagine where a word might have an invisible w in front of it. Like oinos , which would become woinos , and would remind you more of ‘wine,’ which is what it actually means.”

“You know, Ted, you’re a terrific teacher.”

“It helps to be Greek,” he said with uncharacteristic shyness.

Two days later, Professor Whitman again called on Sara Harrison to scan a Homeric hexameter. She did it perfectly, and after doing so smiled gratefully across the room at her proud tutor.

“Thanks a million, Ted,” she whispered- as they walked from class. “How can I repay you?”

“Well, you could join me for another cup of coffee.”

“With pleasure,” she replied. And her smile made him slightly weak at the knees.

From then on, their meetings after class became a ritual to which Ted looked forward like a pious monk anticipating matins. Of course the talk was general — mostly about their classes and especially Greek. Ted was too shy to make the slightest move that might change their relationship and lose this platonic ecstasy.

Still, they were helping each other with Whitman’s course. Ted was understandably stronger on the linguistic side, but Sara knew the secondary literature. She had read Milman Parry’s “ L’epithète traditionnelle dans Homère ” (which did not exist in English), and could give Ted a fuller comprehension of Homer’s formulaic style.

They both got A’s and moved triumphantly to Creek Lyric Poetry with Professor Havelock. But the subject matter only intensified Ted’s emotional state.

It began with the passionate verses of Sappho, which they took turns reading and translating as they sat across the scratched laminated table.

“ ‘There are those that say that the most beautiful thing on the dark earth is a multitude of horsemen’ ”

“ ‘Others say it is an armada of ships.’ ”

“ ‘But I say it is the one you love.’ ”

And so on all the way through Sappho Fragment 16.

“That’s fantastic, isn’t it, Ted?” exclaimed Sara. “I mean, the way a woman expresses her emotion by saying that it surpasses all things that are important in the world of men. It must have been pretty revolutionary stuff in those days.”

“What amazes me is how she can display her feelings without any embarrassment. That’s tough for anybody — man or woman.” He wondered if she sensed that he was also speaking of himself.

“More coffee?” he asked.

She nodded and rose. “It’s my round.”

As she started toward the counter, Ted thought fleetingly of asking her to have dinner some night. And then immediately lost heart. Besides, he was indentured to The Marathon from five till ten-thirty every day of the week. And he was certain she had a boyfriend. A girl like that could have her pick of anyone.