Erich Segal - The Class

At about ten o’clock Jason, Andrew, and Dickie Newall were weaving their way back to Eliot House when something occurred to the captain-elect.

“Hey,” he remarked, “I didn’t see Anderson at dinner. Did he duck the party or something?”

“C’mon, Jason,” Newall responded with liquid lightheartedness, “you know Tod’s not a member of the Pudding.”

“How come?” asked Jason, surprised that such a popular athlete should not be in the eating society that took almost a third of all upperclassmen.

“Haven’t you noticed that Anderson’s a Negro?” Newall chided.

“So what?” said Jason.

“Come on, Gilbert,” Dickie continued, “the Pudding’s not that liberal. I mean, we’ve still got to keep somebody out.”

Thus, even on the night of such personal triumph, Jason Gilbert was once again reminded that although all Harvard undergraduates are equal, some are more equal than others.

Professor Samuel Eliot Morison was among the most eminent members of the Harvard faculty, and by far the most prolific. Renowned for his many volumes of naval history and his chronicles of Harvard, this distinguished gentleman was also, as his middle name suggests, vaguely related to the Eliot in The Class of ’58.

Andrew had been gliding along for almost three years now, flitting like a bee from major to major (English, American studies, even Ec. for a few silly weeks). But now his senior tutor sent him an ultimatum: he had to choose a subject and stick to it. Knowing that he had to graduate from Harvard with a degree in something , he was panicked into seeking professional advice.

Gathering his courage, he wrote Professor Morison a note. And was agreeably surprised to receive an immediate invitation to visit the great man in his map-lined office deep in the stacks of Widener.

“What a real pleasure,” he remarked as they shook hands. “I see before me living proof that old John Eliot’s line is vibrant still. I knew your father when he was an undergraduate and tried to get him to help me a bit with my colonial history. But I guess the banking branch seduced him.”

“Yes,” Andrew averred politely, “Dad is sort of fond of money.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” said Morison, “especially since so much Eliot philanthropy has helped to build this college. My own namesake, Samuel Eliot, endowed the first professorship of Greek back in 1814. Tell me, Andrew, what’s your major?”

“That’s just it, sir. I’m a junior and I still haven’t made up my mind.”

“What do you think you’ll be doing after college?”

“Well, naturally, I’ll have to do some military service —”

“The Eliots have long served with honor in the navy,” he commented.

“Yes, sir, Admiral Morison,” Andrew replied. But did not tell him that that was why he was thinking of the army.

“And after that?”

“I guess Dad expects me to be some sort of banker.” After all, he thought, I’m coming into so much dough in four years I’ll at least have to visit where the bonds are kept. That’s sort of banking, isn’t it?

“Well, then,” said Morison, “you’ll have a fine vocation. Now you ought to choose a major that will give you some enriching avocation. Have you ever thought about the history of your own family?”

“Dad never lets me forget it,” Andrew responded with honesty and some discomfort. “I mean, while I was still in diapers he was already lecturing me about our noble heritage. To be frank sir, it’s a bit off-putting. I mean, over pablum I was hearing about John Eliot, the Apostle to the Indians, and greatgranddad Charles, the famous Harvard President. I was practically smothered by the foliage on our family tree.”

“But you’ve just leapfrogged several centuries,” the admiral remarked. “What about the Revolutionary War? Do you know where all the Eliots were during ‘the times that tried men’s souls’?”

“No, sir. I just assumed they were shooting off their muskets around Bunker Hill.”

Now the professor smiled. “Then I think I have some enlightenment for you. The eighteenth century Eliots were splendid diarists. And we have records in their very words of what they saw and did during the Revolution.

“Andrew, I can think of nothing more exciting, especially for an Eliot, than studying what Harvard graduates were up to at that time. It could be a splendid topic for a senior thesis.”

At this point Andrew had to confess. “Sir, I think I should tell you that my grades are not exactly at the honors level. They’d never let me write a dissertation.”

The great historian smiled.

“Then you can have the essence of true education, Andrew. I’ll arrange for you to have tutorial with me, and we’ll go through the Eliot diaries together. Grades won’t enter into it. Just reading them will be their own reward.”

Andrew left Morison’s office almost breathless with elation. Now there was a chance that in addition to receiving a diploma, he might even get an education.

Danny Rossi was torn.

At times he desperately wanted the rehearsals of Arcadia to end, so the damn ballet would be performed and close. Then he would never have to see Maria again.

At other times he wished the preparations would go on forever. Six afternoons a week in February and March he had to sit for several hours at the keyboard as Maria put the ballet on its feet. Drilling the dancers, demonstrating the movements, and often coming over to lean on the piano and ask the composer’s advice.

It was that damn blue leotard of hers. No, how could he blame the garment when what was driving him crazy was the body it so tantalizingly accentuated.

Perhaps the worst part of all was when they would go out for a bite afterward to discuss how the ballet was going. She was so warm and friendly, and their conversations would go on for hours. Agonizingly, these evenings grew more and more to seem like dates. Yet Danny knew they weren’t.

Once, when she had Asian flu, he went to visit her in the Infirmary and brought a flower. He sat down by her bed and tried to cheer her up with silly anecdotes. She laughed a lot and, when he rose to leave, said, “Thanks for coming, Danny. You’re a pal.”

That’s all he was, goddammit, just a lousy pal. And yet how could it be otherwise? She was beautiful and confident — and tall. And he was none of these.

And worst of all, what pretext could he possibly invent to see her once the performances had ended?

Opening night finally arrived. All the self-styled Harvard cognoscenti assembled in Radcliffe’s Agassiz Theater to sit in judgment on Maria Pastore’s choreography and Daniel Rossi’s score.

Danny was too involved conducting to notice how it was going, although at several points the audience burst into applause. Was it for the music or the dance?

Since most of the performers were abstemious, the party was held in an adjacent rehearsal room, where brackish KoolAid punch was served and a few daring souls drank beer.

Harvard theatrical premieres are just like those on Broadway in one respect. The performers all sit up waiting for the reviews. The only difference is that in Cambridge they merely keep vigil for the verdict of the Crimson .

At about eleven, someone sprinted in with Sonya Levin’s comments for tomorrow’s Crime . For a journal by implicit policy supercilious, the review began with some pretty enthusiastic remarks about Maria’s choreography, which was deemed “dynamic and imaginative, with touches of lighthearted invention.”

Then Miss Levin turned her attention to Danny Rossi. Or rather her guns. In her opinion,

the music, though ambitious and energetic, was, to