Erich Segal - The Class

“You’ve got to understand, Neddy,” he responded, “we have a kind of social obligation to lose to Yale every so often. I mean, it bolsters their inferiority complex.”

This flagrant Harvardian bullshit completely captivated the youngest Harrison.

“Wow,” Ned exclaimed, “but isn’t losing fifty-four to nothing going a little far?”

“Not at all,” Sara interposed. “The boys in New Haven were feeling really insecure this year. I mean, Harvard killed them in the Rhodes Scholarship department.”

“Which is a little more important than football,” added an amused Philip Harrison ’33.

“Actually, Ted,” remarked Mrs. Harrison with a sweetness that would put a diabetic into shock, “all my family is Yale. Is yours all Harvard?”

“Absolutely,” replied the well-prepared Ted Lambros.

Sara smiled inwardly and thought, The Greeks lead the WASPs one to nothing.

The first night set the pattern for the week that ensued. Mr. Harrison seemed interested and friendly. When they weren’t out chasing local debs, the older boys were offhandedly cordial. Young Ned, whose fondest dream was to be admitted to Harvard, was enchanted by his sister’s guest. And when Ted actually spent an entire hour helping him work on some Virgil, he would gladly have traded his two elder brothers just to have him in the family.

But then there was Daisy…

One night Ted was awakened by the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Harrison from the adjacent room. The conversation was heated and a few decibels above normal. To his discomfort, he was the subject of the argument — though never once referred to by name.

“But, Philip, his family owns a restaurant.”

“Daisy, your grandfather drove a milk wagon.”

“But he put my father through Yale.”

“And he is putting himself through Harvard. I don’t see what’s bothering you. The young man is perfectly —”

“He’s common, Philip. Common, common, common. Don’t you care at all for your daughter’s future?”

“Yes, Daisy,” said Mr. Harrison, lowering his voice, “I care very much.”

Their conversation then became inaudible, leaving Ted Lambros bewildered in the darkness of his bedroom.

On New Year’s morning, which would be their very last before returning to Cambridge, Philip Harrison asked Ted to join him for a walk in the woods.

“I think we should be frank with each other,” he began.

“Yes, sir,” Ted replied apprehensively.

“I’m not unaware of how my daughter feels about you. But I’m sure you’ve sensed that Mrs. Harrison is —”

“Dead against it,” Ted said quietly.

“Well, that’s putting it a bit strongly. Let’s say Daisy’s a bit reluctant to see Sara commit herself so soon.”

“Uh — that’s understandable,” Ted replied, careful not to say anything disloyal.

They walked a few paces in silence as Ted worked up the courage to ask, “How do you feel, sir?”

“Personally, Ted, I think you’re a bright, decent, and mature young man. But my opinion should have no bearing on the matter. Sara’s told me she loves you and wants to marry you. That’s good enough for me.”

He paused, then continued slowly, his voice shaking slightly, “My daughter is the most precious thing I have in the world. All I want in life is for her to be happy….”

“I’ll do my very best, sir.”

“Ted,” Mr. Harrison persisted, “I want you to swear that you’ll never hurt my little girl.”

Ted nodded, almost unable to speak.

“Yes, sir,” he said softly, “I promise.”

The two stood facing each other. And then, though neither moved, both men embraced in their imagination.

Maybe I do have a future as something after all. I could be a matchmaker. At least the one fix-up I have engineered in my life has resulted in marriage.

The ceremony took place this past Saturday at the First Unitarian Church of Syosset, Long Island. The bride — looking lovely — was none other than my buddy Jason Gilbert’s sister, Julie. The lucky guy was my old classmate Charlie Gushing, whom I had heretofore regarded as totally useless.

Obviously I was wrong about that, because he had succeeded in getting Julie pregnant the very first time they went to bed together.

Happily, the impending maternity was discovered at a very early stage so that things could be done comme il faut . She got her picture in The New York Times and Mrs. Gilbert arranged a lavish celebration with such grace — and speed — that her grandchild would be able to arrive “prematurely” without too many local tongues wagging.

Actually, invisible shotgun or not, I think the two of them suit each other. Julie is cute, but she’s not exactly Madame Curie. She was probably majoring in husband catching at Briarcliff anyway. And one may say she’s graduating with highest honors.

After all, “the Cush,” as we affectionately referred to him in prep school, is a real Boston Brahmin, with a pedigree extending back to colonial times. And the Gilberts make up in dynamism what they lack in patina. Jason’s dad is a real pioneer in the television industry and flies to Washington almost as often as the Eastern shuttle.

Moreover, if there was any tension on the part of either family because of the circumstances surrounding the nuptials, it was certainly not apparent. They made a handsome couple, and to their delight, old man Gilbert set them up in a very comfortable house in Woodbridge, so the Cush could finish his Yale studies in style.

What totally surprised me was that I kind of choked up at the wedding. I mean, Gush was the first one of our gang to go. Which made me think that maybe someday I might even take the plunge. Although what sensible girl would want to marry me?

Newall and Andrew were squeezed into Jason’s Corvette during the swift postnuptial ride back to Cambridge. Gradually, Andrew began to notice that Jason seemed gloomy. In fact, he had not smiled much during the whole affair.

“Hey, Gilbert,” Andrew said as they neared the Hartford Bridge, “you seemed pissed off.”

“I am,” Jason replied laconically, and accelerated.

“From that I understand you disapprove of the match.”

“You might say so,” he commented, gritting his teeth.

“On what grounds?” Newall inquired.

“On the grounds that Cushing is the closest thing to a total asshole that I’ve ever encountered.”

“Hey, Jace,” Newall remonstrated, “aren’t you being a bit severe?”

“Hell no,” he answered. “My sister’s barely eighteen. Couldn’t that dingbat have been a little more careful?”

“Maybe they love each other,” Andrew offered, his role in life being to discover silver linings in the cloudiest situations.

“Ah, come on,” Jason exploded, punching the dashboard with one hand, “they hardly know each other.”

“I think both parents were pleased,” Newall suggested.

“Sure,” Jason responded. “The one thing they have in common is an allergy to scandal.”

“Unless my eyes deceived me,” Newall said, “your dad really likes the Gush.”

“Yeah,” Jason answered sarcastically, “but mostly because his ancestors fought at Bunker Hill.”

“So did mine,” Newall added. “Is that why you like me, Gilbert?”

“No,” he replied, only half-joking. “I don’t like you at all, actually.”

“Danny, I think you’re making a very big mistake.”

Professor Piston had asked his prize pupil to come by the office to discuss his plans for next year.

“I’m sorry, Professor, but I just can’t see going through another year of studying.”