Erich Segal - The Class

Sarà Lambros was awakened by muffled sounds from the other room. She squinted sleepily at the bedside clock. It was just after 6:00 A.M.

“Ted, what the hell are you doing?”

“Getting dressed, honey. Sorry I disturbed you.”

“Do you know what the time is?”

“Yeah, I’d better hurry.”

“But where are you going at this hour?”

“The Square. Gotta get to the newsstand before any of the students are up.”

“What on earth for?”

Ted came back into the bedroom. He was unshaven, dressed sloppily in a grungy army-surplus jacket with a woolen cap.

“Are you going out like that? You look like a bum.”

“Great, Sara. That’s the whole point. It’s absolutely crucial that nobody recognizes me buying the Confy Guide .”

Sara sat up laughing.

“Is that it? Come on, Ted. You know everybody on the faculty reads it.”

“I know, I know. But have you ever actually seen one in a professor’s hands?”

“No. And I’ll be damned if I can figure out how they get a hold of it. I’ve a strong suspicion they might send their wives, And I’ll gladly shill for you during my lunch hour.”

“God, no, I can’t wait that long. I’ve gotta know the verdict. I’m going now.”

He kissed her quickly on the cheek and headed out. As he strode rapidly toward Harvard Square he began to sweat, After all, this was September, the first day of the new term. And he was dressed for the middle of winter.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the huge pile of shiny black-covered magazines. They had probably just been delivered. First he glanced left and right to make sure the coast was clear. Then he casually picked up a New York Times and swiftly snatched a copy of The Harvard Crimson Confidential Guide to Student Courses , immediately burying it in the paper. Having carried the exact change in his hand, he quickly paid and was off.

Unable to bear the tension of the journey home, he hastened around the kiosk into one of the telephone booths. He pulled out the magazine, his fingers nervously groping for the classics evaluations.

First he looked at Greek A. It was an auspicious start: “Dr. Lambros is a marvelous guide through the intricacies of this difficult language. He makes what could be a boring task an absolute delight.”

Then Latin 2A: “Students taking this course will be well advised to opt for Dr. Lambros’s section. He is arguably the liveliest teacher in the department.”

He closed the book, shoved it back into the Times , and let out an inner whoop of joy. By that afternoon everybody at Harvard would have — just as clandestinely — read those student critiques.

He was made in the shade. If there had been any doubt of his being promoted to assistant professor that spring, this would dispel it. All those hours he’d spent in preparation had not been in vain.

Wait till Sara sees this.

He left the phone booth and began a homeward sprint. Suddenly a familiar voice hailed him.

“Theodore.”

He skidded to a stop and whirled to see that it was John Finley, who — what rotten luck — was probably taking his early-morning constitutional.

“Uh-hello, Professor Finley. I-uh-was just jogging on the river to get fit for the new term.”

“Splendid, splendid,” the great man replied. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

“Thanks, sir,” Ted blurted and whirled again to escape.

“Oh, and, Ted,” Finley called after him, “congratulations on your marvelous reviews.”

I don’t think I’ll ever be the same after yesterday. The newspapers are calling what happened in Dallas a “Greek tragedy,” but to me it’s an American tragedy. In fact, it’s something I feel so closely that I would almost call it a death in the family.

I think everybody — rich and poor, black and white, but especially those of us who had so identified with him because he was young and a Harvard man — is stunned by Jack Kennedy’s assassination.

Here we were just getting set for the upcoming Harvard-Yale game, half-expecting the President himself to show up at the last minute in an army helicopter, and the next thing we know he’s dead.

I’m not alone in looking up to him as some kind of gallant knight. He had a kind of aura that changed the atmosphere of the whole country. He made us feel proud. Dynamic. Full of hope. It looked like the beginning of a new and glorious chapter in our history.

But what really shakes me is that he was killed for no apparent reason. Here was a guy whose ship had been torpedoed in the war and who not only survived but saved one of his crewmen as well. If he had died defending some principle, it might have at least made some sense.

I think from today my whole generation will change its outlook on life. I doubt if success can mean the same to any of them.

Look — Kennedy won every prize. The sweet fruition of an earthly crown. And yet they’ll bury him with fully half a life still left unlived.

Danny Rossi was in Tanglewood when he learned that Maria had given birth to a girl.

He was, of course, planning to be at her bedside and had merely flown off for twenty-four hours to conduct a single concert. But little Sylvie (they had discussed names in advance) decided to arrive early.

Mr. and Mrs. Pastore were already with Maria when Danny entered the hospital room bearing armfuls of flowers.

He exchanged hugs with them, kissed the glowing mother, whispered a few affectionate words in her ear, and hurried to the neonatal ward to peer through the large glass pane at his new daughter.

At first he could not find her. By an unconscious reflex his eyes kept glancing at the cots with blue blankets. At last a helpful nurse picked Sylvie up and brought her to the window. Now he could see traces of Maria — and of himself — in her features.

“Even better than creating a symphony, eh, Mr. Rossi?”

It was their obstetrician, who happened to be passing by on his rounds.

“Oh yes,” Danny quickly agreed as he shook the doctor’s hand. “Thanks for everything. Maria says you were great.”

“My pleasure. And don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

“What?”

“Having a daughter. Most men secretly want boys — at least the first time. But I know Sylvie, will bring you a great deal of happiness.”

Danny thought about the doctor’s words and felt relieved. During the flight home he had been unable to suppress the tinges of disappointment that Maria had not produced a son. He had hoped for an heir to continue the musical tradition he was establishing. After all, there were so few world-class women pianists. And the only time a female got to lead musicians was when twirling a baton. He had not considered that a girl might become a prima ballerina.

Sylvie was christened three weeks later and the Rossis had two hundred guests to their home for a champagne brunch. The Philadelphia papers published large photographs of their orchestra’s popular associate director with his lovely wife and new child. Danny was exhilarated. Being a father seemed to elevate him to a new status.

Yet, something puzzled him. Maria didn’t want a nanny. The most she would agree to was a nurse for the first few weeks. After that, she wanted to raise Sylvie on her own.

“Danny, I’ve spent the last nine months reading books about child care. I don’t want some starched-apron biddy telling me I don’t know how to be a mother.”

“But you’ll be exhausted,”

“Not if you help a little.”

“Sure,” he smiled, “but I’ve got a helluva concert schedule.”