Erich Segal - The Class

“But with Nadia Boulanger, Danny, that is hardly what you call drudgery. One might even say that woman is modern music. Remember, most of the major composers of our time have studied at the ‘Boulangerie.’ ”

“But what if I just put it off for, say, a year or so? I mean, Mr. Hurok has got all these fantastic offers for me from major orchestras —”

“Aha, so you’re hungry for the sound of applause, Danny,” Piston answered knowingly. “I wish you wouldn’t be so impetuous. Once you start traveling on that circuit, you’ll be caught up in the whirlwind and never slow down again to study.”

“But that’s a chance I’m willing to take. Anyway, even if this sounds a little arrogant, I think I could start writing on my own.”

The music chairman hesitated. But Danny sensed that he was holding back, and forced the issue.

“Do I take it, sir, that you don’t think I’m ready as a composer?”

“Well,” Piston said slowly, searching for the words that would put it most delicately, “most of the people who went to Nadia, Copland for instance, were already full-blown artists. Yet she brought out something more in them, enriching everything they wrote thereafter …”

“I don’t think you quite answered my question,” Danny said politely.

“Well,” Piston replied, lowering his gaze, “I think a teacher’s obligation is to tell the truth. That is an imperative of education.”

He paused and then pronounced his verdict.

“Danny, that you are a great pianist everybody knows. And that with the years you’ll grow into a fine conductor I have not the slightest doubt. But at this stage, your compositions are still — how can I put it? — raw material. I mean, fine ideas, but without sufficient discipline. That’s why I feel so strongly that you spend a year with Nadia.”

Danny’s ego was jolted. The professor was talking almost like that Crimson reviewer.

He looked at Walter Piston and thought inwardly, What good did Boulanger do you?

Your symphonies aren’t that great. And when’s the last time that an orchestra asked you to be their soloist? No, Walter, I think you’re just a little jealous.

I’m going to give the Boulangerie a miss.

“I’m sure I’ve hurt your feelings,” Piston said solicitously.

“No, no. Not at all. You told me what you thought, and I appreciate your being honest with me.”

“Then will you think about it once again?” the chairman asked.

“Of course,” Danny said diplomatically. Then rose and walked from the office.

He could not even wait to get back to his room and so he called New York from a booth in Harvard Square.

“Mr. Hurok, you can book me anyplace on earth as long as the piano’s tuned.”

“Bravo,” the impresario exulted. “I’ll fix you one exciting year.”

And thus, whether courageous or foolhardy, Danny Rossi had chosen to lead The Class. To be the first to dive from the cozy, amniotic safety of Harvard into the icy, shark-infested waters of the Real World.

Like the stretto in a fugue, spring term accelerated the tempo of a melody already racing to its conclusion. May seemed to enter even before April ended. Those who had just completed senior theses barely had time to catch their breaths before taking General Examinations.

Some of The Class availed themselves of this, their final opportunity to have a nervous breakdown.

On the afternoon of his General Exams in History and Lit., Norman Gordon of Seattle, Washington, was found wandering on the banks of the Charles — providentially by his own tutor.

“Hey, Norm, did you finish writing this early?”

“No,” replied the senior who had kept a straight-A average till now, a manic glow in his eyes. “I’ve decided that I don’t like my major at all, In fact, I’m planning not to graduate. I’m going out west to start a cattle ranch.”

“Oh,” said the tutor, then gently led him to the Health Department.

And psychiatry picked up where education had left off.

But in a sense young Gordon had succeeded in his unconscious aspiration: he had managed to avoid having to leave the four-walled shelter of a paternal institution.

“It was a brilliant piece of work,” said Cedric Whitman, as he met with Sara in Boylston Hall for their last tutorial. “I don’t think I’m being indiscreet if I tell you that my view is shared by everyone in the department who read it. Actually, I’d go as far as to say it’s got the makings of a doctoral dissertation.”

“Thank you.” Sara smiled shyly. “But, as you know, I’m not going to graduate school.”

“That’s a pity,” Whitman replied. “You’ve got a really original mind.”

“I think one classicist in the family is enough.”

“What do you intend to do then, Sara?”

“Be a wife — and a mother, eventually.”

“Does that exclude everything else?”

“Well, I feel I should be helping Ted as much as I can. And it would be easier if I had some kind of nondemanding job. I’ll — be studying shorthand at Katie Gibbs this summer.”

Whitman could not fully mask his disappointment.

Sara sensed this and was slightly defensive.

“It isn’t that Ted would mind,” she offered. “It’s just that —”

“Please, Sara,” the professor responded, “you don’t have to explain. I understand completely.” And inwardly he thought, It’s obvious that Ted would mind.

He rose to shake hands and wish her well.

“It’s a nice thing to know that you and Ted will still be around Cambridge.

Perhaps we will have a chance to have you over to the house. In any case, I’ll venture a sibylline prediction. I’d say you’ll both soon be wearing a Phi Beta Kappa key.”

Whitman’s prediction proved accurate. For on May 28, when America’s oldest academic-honor society announced its annually elected senior members, Ted and Sara were among the chosen.

So was Danny Rossi (no surprise, for he would be graduating summa ), and George Keller, for whom certain of the normal criteria had been waived. But then his senior thesis had won the Eliot (sic) Prize as best essay of the year in social sciences. And Dr. K. had composed a most persuasive letter emphasizing George’s staggering achievements in so short a time.

Jason Gilbert won no academic kudos. But he continued his distinguished career on the tennis court. He inspired his charges to trample Yale for the third year in a row. And, as an index of the relative significance of sport and intellectual achievement, Jason was elected by a landslide to be senior-class marshal. As such he would lead their procession on Commencement Day.

He also won the Bingham Prize as the most courageous athlete.

But the notion of a surfeit when it comes to honors is unthinkable for Harvard men. And thus to no one’s great surprise Jason won a Sheldon Fellowship as well, an award given to students for specialized achievements. It subsidizes a year of travel — with the proviso that the recipient do no formal studying. Mr. Sheldon knew how to fulfill an undergraduate’s fantasy.

Even the Marine Corps was impressed with all the decorations Jason had received and willingly postponed his tour of duty so he could enjoy the Sheldon first.

(“Actually, it’s a pretty convenient time,” his commanding officer jested. “We seem to be between wars at the moment.”)

All this heightened prominence brought Jason’s name to the attention of some undergraduates who normally would never read the Crimson sports page. It even caused an unexpected visitor to knock on his door early one evening.

“Yeah, can I help you?”

“Hey, what brings the Human Dictionary to my room? Run out of words?”