Erich Segal - The Class

But on the way to his eleven-o’clock lecture, the adrenaline began to flow in him again. What the hell, he thought, I’m not going to give these kids a bum deal just because those bastards kicked me where it hurts.

Fortunately, he had a subject he could dig into — Euripides’ tragedy Hippolytus . He could speak about the injustice of the gods.

Ted took the podium and gave one of the most stirring lectures of his life.

The students applauded — a rare occurrence in the middle of a semester.

Screw the garbologists. I’d like to see those fogies set a class on fire like that. No, dammit, they may have crumpled my career like a paper cup, but they won’t crush me.

His son greeted him at the door. Here, Ted thought, is at least one guy who still thinks I’m terrific.

He kissed Sara, and while she prepared dinner, went through the ritual of putting his son to bed. The high point was Ted’s off-key rendition of “ Nani to moro mou, nani ,” a Greek lullaby.

Then he sat down at the kitchen table with Sara and gradually removed the mental armor he had worn all day.

“Do you feel wretchedly terrible, or just terribly wretched?” she asked gently.

“Well, I got through the first day of being a nonperson without punching anybody or throwing myself into the Charles.”

“That’s good,” she said, smiling.

The telephone rang.

“I’m sorry, Ted, I forgot to take it off the hook when we sat down. Let me get rid of whoever it is.”

But Sara did not hang up immediately. “It’s Robbie Walton,” she called out. “I think you should speak to him. He’s really upset for you.”

Ted nodded and went to the phone. When Rob, the first graduate student whose thesis he had directed, had left Harvard to begin an instructorship at Canterbury College, he had vowed eternal gratitude.

“How could Harvard do this to you?” Rob said with anguish.

“Listen, it’s the breaks of the game. Let this be a lesson to all of us.”

“Anyway, I’ll bet you’ve got a million alternatives. At least you deserve to.”

“I’ve got a couple,” Ted answered noncommittally. “How are things at Canterbury, Rob?”

“Not bad. Some of the kids are really bright — and the place is unbelievably gorgeous. The Classics Department is a little quiet, though. I mean, they haven’t got anybody like Ted Lambros.”

“Maybe that’s because they haven’t asked,” Ted replied, only half in jest.

“You mean you’d actually consider coming up here?”

“Frankly, at this point, I’m not really sure what I want. I’m gonna just play it by ear for a while.”

Suddenly Bobbie grew excited.

“Hey, listen, if you’re at all serious about Canterbury, I’ll tell the dean first thing in the morning. My God, he’ll go bananas!”

“Well,” Ted answered casually, “it might be interesting to see what would happen if you mentioned it. Thanks, Rob.”

“What kind of Machiavellian mischief are you up to now?” Sara asked when he sat down again.

“Honey, that little maneuver is called keeping your options open.”

“I’d call it dirty pool.”

“Sara, haven’t you learned by now? ‘Dirty’ is the only way to play the academic game.”

Robbie called two days later. He was exultant. “I knew it,” he effused. “I gave your book to Tony Thatcher — he’s Dean of Humanities — and it really turned him on. He told me to arrange a date with you for a guest lecture. How’s Wednesday the fourteenth?”

“Fine,” Ted replied, trying to underplay his satisfaction, “that sounds fine.”

In the next few days Ted devoured all the information he could obtain about Canterbury College. Founded in 1772, it was one of the oldest colleges in America. And unlike Harvard and Yale, which acquired their names from mere commoners, it had a noble cachet. The college was established on the order of Frederick Comwallis, Archbishop of Canterbury under King George III, to train ministers for the colonies.

But to Sara, Canterbury had always been merely a football rival from the wilds of Vermont. Though she had heard how pretty its campus was, she had never heard particular praise for its classics department.

If she had dared to speak with total candor, Sara would have confessed that she actually liked Berkeley even better than Harvard. But the idea of going to Canterbury seemed to lift Ted’s spirit so. After all, here he would be the undisputed king of the mountain. Sara’s only misgivings — unspoken, of course — were about having to live on that mountain.

After a leisurely afternoon drive, they checked in at the rustic but elegant Windsor Arms and went immediately to sit on its front porch to gaze at the fairyland spread out before them, Directly ahead, across the lush town green, stood Hillier Library, its white Georgian tower stretching proudly toward a cloudless sky.

“Gosh, Sara, it’s even more imposing than Eliot House, isn’t it?”

“No,” she replied, “but it is beautiful.”

Just then Robbie arrived and greeted them effusively. He was wearing an orange blazer, white button-down shirt, and rep tie.

“I’ve been designated your official guide,” he said. “We’ve got plenty of time for a thorough tour and a cup of tea before your lecture.”

Rob was an ardent convert to the Canterbury way of life.

“Breathe that air,” he urged. “It’s the purest stuff you’ve ever had in your lungs. No city pollution out here.”

“No city, either,” Sara added matter-of-factly.

Later, as they neared Canterbury Hall, Robbie grew uneasy. “Uh — Ted, I — uh — I hope you don’t mind if there isn’t a huge crowd.”

“That’s okay. I’d be happy to talk just to you and Sara.”

“You may well,” Rob mumbled, now patently embarrassed. “I mean, I announced your talk to my own classes, but they didn’t get the posters up till kinda late.”

“How late?” Ted inquired.

“Uh — this morning, I’m afraid,” Bobbie replied as they reached the main entrance of the building.

Sara Lambros began to think dark thoughts.

The large lecture room was sprinkled with fewer than two dozen people. Ted had difficulty masking his disappointment.

“Don’t worry,” Rob whispered, “the dean and provost are out there — and that’s what really counts.”

“What about members of the department?”

“Oh sure,” Rob answered quickly, “a couple of them are here too.”

Both Ted and Sara knew what this meant. Some of the professors — who needed no poster to inform them of this occasion — had chosen to boycott his talk.

Though his former student was warmly eloquent in introducing Ted, Sara could not help but wonder why the department hadn’t chosen someone senior to present him. He was, after all, the author of what the American Journal of Philology had praised as the most important Sophoclean book of the decade.

Ignoring the emptiness of the auditorium, Ted gave his lecture with quiet confidence.

At the end, the happy few clapped energetically.

An elegant gentleman with graying temples was the first to offer his hand.

“I’m Tony Thatcher, Dean of Humanities,” he said, “and I very much enjoyed your presentation. Could we have breakfast at, say, eight tomorrow?”

“Fine,” Ted replied.

He then turned to answer a few student questions, after which Robbie introduced a youngish academic with horn-rimmed glasses and Clark Gable mustache.

“Ted, this is our Latinist and chairman, Henry Dunster. He’ll be taking you to dinner.”

“How do you do, Professor Lambros,” said Dunster in a deep baritone that sounded like it had its own echo chamber. “I suppose you could use a nice dry martini about now.”