Erich Segal - The Class

After one of these mini-tutorials, he looked at her with unadulterated affection and said, “Sara, where the hell would I be without you?”

“Oh, probably out seducing some attractive graduate student.”

“Don’t you even joke like that,” Ted whispered, reaching over to caress her.

With Sara’s help and encouragement, Ted successfully jumped all the examination hurdles and began a thesis on Sophocles. As a reward he was made a teaching fellow in Finley’s Humanities course.

He tossed and turned but still could not get back to sleep.

“Darling, what’s the matter?” Sara asked, placing her hand gently on his shoulder.

“I can’t help it, honey. I’m so damned scared about tomorrow.”

“Hey,” she said soothingly, “it’s understandable — the first class you’ve ever taught in your life. It would be unnatural if you weren’t nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” he replied, “I’m absolutely catatonic.” He sat up on the side of the bed.

“But, darling,” she reasoned, “it’s only a Hum Two discussion. The kids will be more frightened than you. Can’t you remember your first freshman section?”

“Yeah, I guess. I was a scared little townie. But they say the damn undergraduates are getting smarter and smarter. And I keep having this ridiculous fantasy that some world-famous professor is going to decide to drop in unannounced tomorrow.”

Sara glanced at the alarm clock. It was nearly 5:00 A.M., and there was no point in trying to talk Ted into going back to sleep.

“Hey, why don’t I make some coffee and listen to what you plan to say? It could be a kind of dress rehearsal.”

“Okay,” he sighed, relieved to be liberated from the prison of his bed.

She quickly made two large mugs of Nescafé and they sat down at the kitchen table.

At seven-thirty she began to laugh.

“What the hell’s the matter? What did I do wrong?” Ted asked anxiously.

“You crazy Greek.” She smiled. “You’ve just talked brilliantly about Homer for nearly two hours. Now, since all you’ve got to do is kill fifty minutes, don’t you think you’re adequately prepared to confront your first freshmen?”

“Hey,” he smiled, “you’re some good psychologist.”

“Not really. I just happen to know my husband better than he knows himself.”

The date, the time, and the place of Ted’s first class are indelibly engraved in his memory. On Friday, September 28, 1959, at 10:01 A.M., he entered a discussion room in the Alston Burr Science Building. He unpacked a ridiculous number of books, all with carefully marked passages he could read aloud should he run out of ideas. At 10:05 he wrote his name and office hours on the blackboard and then turned to confront the students.

There were fourteen of them. Ten boys and four girls, their spiral notebooks open and pencils ready to transcribe his every syllable. Jesus, he suddenly thought, they’re going to write down what I say! Suppose I make some incredible mistake and one of the kids shows it to Finley? Worse still, suppose one of them with a million years of prep-school Classics catches me right here? Anyway, Lambros, it’s time to start.

He opened his yellow notepad to his meticulously outlined remarks, took a breath, and looked up. His heart was beating so loud that he half-wondered if they could hear it.

“Uh — just in case somebody thinks he’s in a physics class, let me start by saying that this is a Hum Two section and I’m your discussion leader. While I’m taking your names down, you can learn mine. I’ve written it on the board. It happens to be the Greek word for ‘brilliance,’ but I’ll leave you guys to make up your minds about that after a few weeks.”

There was a ripple of laughter. They seemed to like him. He began to warm to the task.

“This course deals with nothing less than the roots of all Western culture, and the two epics ascribed to Homer constitute the first masterpieces of Western literature. As we’ll see in the weeks to come, the Iliad is the first tragedy, the Odyssey our first comedy…”

After that moment he never once looked down at his prepared text, He simply rhapsodized about the greatness of Homer, his style, the oral tradition and early Greek concepts of heroism.

Before he knew it, the class was nearly over.

“Hey,” he said with a smile, “I guess I got a little carried away. I should stop here and ask if you have any questions.”

A hand shot up in the back row.

“Have you read Homer in Greek, Mr. Lambros?” asked a young, bespectacled Cliffie.

“Yes,” Ted answered proudly.

“Could you possibly recite a bit of it in the original, just so we could get a feel of how it sounded?”

Ted smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

Now, though he had the Oxford texts on the table, he found himself passionately reciting the beginning of the iliad from memory, putting special stress on words they might possibly comprehend — like heroon for “heroes” in line four. He reached the crescendo at line seven, emphasizing dios Achilleus , “godlike Achilles.” Then he paused.

To his utter amazement, the tiny class applauded. The bell rang. Ted felt a sudden surge of relief, elation, and fatigue. He had no idea how it had gone until assorted comments filtered to him as the students left the room.

“God, we lucked out,” he heard one say.

“Yeah, this guy is dynamite,” said another.

The last thing Ted heard — or thought he did — was a female voice offering the opinion, “He’s even better than Finley.”

But surely that was the figment of a tired imagination. For John H. Finley, Jr., was one of the greatest teachers in Harvard history.

Jason Gilbert made the first months of his Sheldon Fellowship for traveling a balanced combination of culture and sport. He took part in as many European tournaments as he could, but gave almost as much time to museum going as he did to tennis playing.

Though forbidden by the terms of his award from doing formal academic work, he spent the winter researching a Comparative Study of International Skiing — with special emphasis on the slopes of Austria, France, and Switzerland.

When his enthusiasm for the sport began to defrost, he headed for Paris, city of a million sensuous attractions. He knew no French but was fluent in the international language of charm, and never had to look very far to find a female guide.

Almost within hours he befriended an art student named Martine Pelletier, while she was admiring a Monet in the Jeu de Paume, and he was admiring her legs.

As they strolled the boulevards together, Jason marveled at the Parisian way of life, and stopped to examine the multitude of posters plastered all over the street kiosks advertising cultural offerings. He was struck by one announcement in particular:

Salle Pleyel.

Pour la premiere fois en France (a jeune sensation américaine

DANIEL

ROSSI

pianiste

“Hey,” he said proudly to Martine, “I know that guy. Shall we go and hear him?”

“I would adore it.”

And so by a harmonious cadence of fate, Jason Gilbert was present in the auditorium when Danny Rossi made his triumphant Paris debut.

Backstage, Jason and Martine had to push their way through a stampede of reporters and assorted sycophants to get close enough to attract Danny’s attention. The star of the evening was delighted to see a classmate, and welcomed Jason’s attractive companion in swift, fluent, and courtly French.

Jason proposed that they all go out for dinner, but Danny was committed to a private party to which, unfortunately, he was unable to invite them.