Erich Segal - The Class

It was not long thereafter that President Pusey bade The Class of ’58 rise to its feet and its representatives mount the steps of Memorial Church to join “the fellowship of educated men.”

First Marshal Jason Gilbert walked to the podium to accept the symbolic diploma for all of them.

Sitting near the stage in a section reserved for relatives of the participants, Jason’s father overheard a female voice exclaim, “He looks just like something out of Scott Fitzgerald.”

Mr. Gilbert turned to caution his wife not to speak so loudly. But in doing so, he realized that Betsy was crying and the compliment had been articulated by another woman sitting in their row. And he smiled and thought, There’s no prouder father in this whole damn place.

He was not correct, of course. There were nearly a thousand fathers of The Glass of ’58 among those present, all of whom were sharing what they thought was the zenith of euphoria and pride.

Four years earlier, 1,162 young men had entered Harvard with The Class of ’58. Today, 1,031 of them received diplomas. Just over ten percent had failed to stay the course. In ancient Roman terms, they had been decimated.

Some who had flunked out along the way might perhaps come back in a later year and finish their degrees. Still others had surrendered their ambition to be Harvard men either by giving up their sanity or taking their own lives. But no one thought of them today, for this was a time for congratulation, not compassion.

Not even Jason gave a thought to David Davidson, his freshman roommate, who was still resident in Massachusetts Mental Hospital, undaunted by his temporary setback, still dreaming of future scientific glory.

Half an hour later, The Class broke into smaller groups to have luncheon in their houses.

Back at Eliot, Art and Gisela Rossi’s meal with Danny would be simultaneously a farewell. For he’d be leaving the next morning to return to Tanglewood — as soloist this summer. And after that to Europe to begin the concert tour that Hurok had arranged.

His mother couldn’t keep from asking why Maria was not there. For she had really liked the girl.

Art Rossi was more understanding. “Come on, honey,” he whispered, “she was probably just a passing fancy. Dan’s too young and clever to let himself get hooked so soon.”

Danny kept up the charade and smiled. Though inwardly he was aggrieved that when he’d asked her to be his date “just for old times’ sake,” Maria had declined.

George Keller had resigned himself to eating lunch alone on a courtyard step. Clearly, no one near and dear to him was that day present. Then Andrew Eliot approached him. “Hey, George,” he said good-naturedly, “do me a favor, huh? Come on over to our table and talk to some of my stepsisters. I mean, I can’t remember half their names but some of them are cute.”

“Thank you, Andrew, that is most cordial. I’d be ravished to join you.”

As George rose to walk to the Eliot family table in the courtyard of the house called Eliot, with his classmate Andrew of that same name, the latter whispered to him, “George, your English is terrific. But don’t say ‘ravished.’ Say my sister — any one of them — is ravishing.”

Later in the afternoon, the separation was complete. They now divided into a thousand atoms, going off at varied speeds in differing directions.

Would they ever come together as a unity again?

Had they ever been one?

Ted and Sara got married today. I was best man — probably on the grounds that I had been their landlord for so long. (“If this were the Middle Ages, you’d be entitled to droit du seigneur ,” Sara joked.)

It was a simple affair for complex reasons. To begin with, Sara was Episcopal and Ted, of course, Greek Orthodox. Not that the Lambros family was making any sacramental demands, mind you. But Daisy Harrison seemed to have thought it best to have the ceremony on more or less neutral grounds: in Appleton Chapel, at the back of Mem. Church, under the aegis of the distinguished George Lyman Buttrick, Preacher to the University.

This, as I interpreted Daisy’s strategy, solved a multitude of problems while preserving at least a shimmer of class.

Naturally she had always dreamed of marrying off her only daughter in Christ Church, Greenwich, that extraordinarily imposing sanctuary built to the glory of God — with considerable help from some local worshippers of Mammon.

But two things had precluded this pomp and ceremony. For one, she was not all that eager to parade her in-laws before le tout Greenwich. For another, Sara said she would get married there only over her dead body (which would take some of the joy out of the occasion).

Thus, it boiled down to the intimacy — but unmistakable patina — of Harvard’s chapel, the exquisite singing of the University Choir, and, perhaps most important, a short guest list, almost exclusively students.

Let posterity record that I did not forget the ring. In fact I guarded it with my life during the twenty-four hours it was in my possession, since it was a Lambros family heirloom from the Old Country.

I stood in a unique position, able to watch both participants and audience, and thus could note the more intense pockets of emotion. It came as no surprise that Mrs. Lambros did most of the crying. And of Sara’s entire family, only one person had difficulty holding back the tears. Phil Harrison himself.

I guess I shouldn’t have expected Sara’s mother to be sentimental. And she wasn’t. In fact, she sort of acted as if Ted’s family were merely poor relatives one simply had to invite. I heard her remark to Mrs. Lambros, “I hope you appreciate that your son is marrying into one of the oldest families in America.”

Daphne translated this to her mother and then gave Mrs. Harrison the response, “Mama says you carry your age very well.”

Something may have been lost in translation, but it certainly wasn’t love.

For the reception Daisy hired an opulent suite at The Ritz. To add to the ecumenical nature of the occasion, the sparkle she chose was Dom Perignon, a sort of homage to the Catholic inventor of champagne. Anyway, the blessed bubbles from Dom’s discovery filled every glass, and quite soon every head.

I think Mrs. Harrison was surprised by several things that afternoon. The first was that the whole Lambros family came attired in recognizably Western garb (a great deal of it Brooks Brothers via Joe Keezer). According to Sara, she had expected them to show in babushkas, or whatever Greek peasants wear.

Secondly, the grossest behavior of the occasion was, hands down, that of her own elder sons. For Phippie and Ev rather recklessly thought they would take on the mighty imbibers of Eliot House in a sport of which we are clearly the masters.

They found, to their chagrin (and no doubt subsequent headaches), that there is not enough champagne in France, much less Boston, to bring a hollow-legged drinker like Newall to his knees. Even Jason Gilbert, who is always in training, is a veritable sponge when it comes to champers.

Anyway, feeling that my obligations as best man superseded even the rare opportunity of unlimited vintage quaffing, I remained (relatively) sober so I could dislodge my duties to the very end.

This gave me a chance to chat with Old Man Harrison, who, by happy coincidence, was celebrating his Twenty-fifth Harvard Reunion concurrent with our commencement. He said he’d found the whole occasion deeply moving.