Erich Segal - The Class

“Not professionally,” Sara answered shyly.

“My wife’s a bit modest. She’s got a magna in classics from Harvard.”

“Splendid.” And then he asked Ted, “What will you be speaking on?”

“Oh, I’m just trying out a few random ideas I’ve been germinating about Euripides’ influence on Lampros’s prize pupil.”

“I very much look forward to hearing it. When’s your talk?”

For a split second Ted hesitated. He was not sure he wanted so great a scholar to sit in judgment on his inchoate new theories.

Sara, on the other hand, had no such qualms. “It’s tomorrow at five in Dwinelle Hall,” she said.

The Englishman withdrew a fountain pen and a little Oxford diary to note the particulars.

Just then Bill Foster appeared. “Well, I see our two visiting classicists have met each other already,” he said breezily.

“ Three ,” the Englishman corrected him with an admonitory finger. “The Lambroses are both lamproi .”

After which the elder statesman rose, took his book (which happened to be his own edition of Thucydides), and wandered off toward the library.

As Bill Foster gave them a comprehensive walking tour of the campus, Ted had to admit to himself that it was beautiful. But still, the campanile and the late-nineteenth-century Spanish-style buildings somehow did not seem what a university should be like. He had always associated the pursuit of higher learning with Georgian architecture-like the grand towers of Lowell or Eliot House.

The library was undeniably impressive (and boasted shuttle-bus service colloquially known as the Gutenberg Express — direct to the Stanford University library). And all these quiet, solid structures stood in vivid contrast to the frenetic kaleidoscope of student activities concentrated — like the ancient Athenian agora — at a single, tumultuous spot in Sproul Plaza, between the Administration building and the Student Union.

After visiting an animated Latin class, the trio squeezed into a tiny health-food restaurant for a whole-earth lunch.

But something was obsessing Ted.

“What kind of a guy is Cameron Wylie?” he asked Bill, trying to act nonchalant.

“A tiger and a pussycat. He’s been absolutely terrific with our undergraduates. But when it comes to professors, he doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Last week, for example, when Hans-Peter Ziemssen came to lecture, Wylie made absolute mincemeat of him in the question period.”

“Oh Jesus,” muttered Ted.

He spent the next few hours in a blur of fear. Sara made him run through his entire lecture just for her. After which she said in all sincerity, “You’re ready, champ, you really are.”

“So was Daniel when he went into the lions’ den.”

“Read your Bible, honey. They didn’t eat him, if you recall.”

By the time he entered the lecture hail, Ted had resigned himself to what the Fates would bring.

There were about a hundred people scattered in the auditorium. To him they all seemed faceless, with three exceptions. Cameron Wylie and — two collie dogs. Dogs?

“Are you all set?” Bill Foster whispered.

“I think so. But, Bill, those uh — canine visitors? Is that —?”

“Oh, it’s usual at Berkeley.” Foster smiled. “Don’t worry. In fact, they’re some of my most attentive students,”

He then mounted the podium and introduced today’s guest speaker.

The applause was polite.

All alone now, Ted began by conjuring a striking picture.

“Imagine Sophocles — an established playwright already in his forties, who had even defeated the great Aeschylus in dramatic competition — sitting in the theater of Dionysus, watching the maiden production of a new young author named Euripides …”

The audience was in his hands. For his words had transported them back to fifth-century B.C. Athens. They felt as if they were going to hear about living playwrights. And indeed, when Ted Lambros spoke of them, the Greek tragedians were very much alive.

As he concluded, he glanced at the clock on the far wall. He had lectured for exactly forty-nine minutes. Perfect timing. The applause was universal — and palpably genuine. Even the two dogs seemed to approve.

Bill Foster went up to shake his hand and whispered, “Absolutely brilliant, Ted. Do you think you have the strength for a question or two?”

Ted was trapped, knowing that if he refused, it would reveal a kind of academic pusillanimity.

Like a nightmare coming true, the first hand raised was that of Cameron Wylie. Well, thought Ted, it can’t be any worse than all the questions I’ve dreamed up myself.

The Englishman stood up. “Professor Lambros, your remarks are most stimulating. But I was wondering if you saw any significant Euripidean influence in the Antigone ?”

Blood began to flow again in Ted’s veins. Wylie had actually thrown a compliment and not a javelin.

“Of course, chronologically it’s possible. But I don’t share any of the nineteenth-century Jebbsean romanticized views of Antigone .”

“Quite right, quite right,” Wylie concurred. “The romantic interpretations are all silly nonsense — and have no basis in the text.”

As Wylie sat down with an approving smile, Ted recognized a frizzy-haired girl in the back row, frantically waving her hand.

She rose and began to declaim. “I think we’re all missing the point here. Like I mean, bow are the guys you’ve been discussing relevant to now? I mean, I haven’t heard the word politics mentioned once. I mean like, what was these Greeks’ position on free speech?”

The audience groaned. Ted heard an “Oh shit” from somewhere in the crowd.

Bill Foster motioned to him that he could ignore the question if he wished. But Ted was high on approbation, and chose to address himself to the student’s query.

“To begin with,” he observed, “since every Greek drama was performed for the entire population of the polls, it was inherently political. The relevant issues of the day were so important to them that their comic poets spoke of nothing else. And there were no restrictions on what Aristophanes and company could say — that’s the Greek notion of parrhesia . In a sense, their theater is an abiding testimony to the democracy they helped invent,”

The questioner was stunned. First by the fact that Ted had taken her seriously — for she had intended to stir up a little intellectual anarchy — and second by the quality of his answer.

“You’re cool, Professor,” she mumbled and sat down.

Bill Foster stood, glowing with pleasure.

“On that stirring note,” he announced, “I’d like to thank Professor Lambros for a marvelous talk which was both logical and philological.”

Ted felt triumphant.

The reception in their honor was held at the Fosters’ house in the Berkeley Hills. Everyone who was anyone in academia in the Bay Area seemed to be there, not to mention a certain distinguished professor from Oxford.

The mood was festive and the talk was all of Ted.

“I hear your lecture was even more exciting than our last student riot,” Sally Foster joked. “I’m sorry I had to miss it. But somebody had to stay here and prepare the goodies. And Bill insisted that my tacos would entice you to come to Berkeley.”

“I’m already enticed,” said Sara Lambros, smiling happily.

Sensing that her casual remark had made Ted slightly uneasy, Sally quickly added, “Of course, I’m not supposed to say that sort of thing, am I? I always put my foot in my mouth. Anyway, Ted, I’m under strict orders to see that you keep circulating among the various literary lights.”

And there was indeed a high-voltage group of San Francisco intellectuals. Ted noticed Sara in animated conversation with a character who looked amazingly like the beat poet Allen Ginsberg. And on second glance, it was Ginsberg.