Erich Segal - The Class

There was an awkward pause. Sara held back to let her husband speak up in defense of their Harvard classmate.

Then, seeing that Ted was having trouble finding an appropriate response, Sara mentioned casually, “Jason was The Class of ’58, with Ted and me.”

“Oh,” said Dotty Bunting. “Did you know him?”

“Not very well,” Sara replied, “but he dated a few girls from my dorm. He was very good-looking.”

“Oh,” said Dotty, wanting to hear more.

“Say,” Ken interrupted, “whatever happened to old Jason? His name seems to have disappeared from the pages of Tennis World .”

“The last I heard, he’d gone to live in Israel,” Ted answered.

“Indeed?” Bunting smiled. “He should be very happy there.”

Ted looked at Sara, his glance imploring her advice on what to say. This time, she too was at a loss. The best she could come up with was, “This dessert is marvelous. You must give me the recipe.”

Left for last because they seemed the toughest nuts to crack were Foley, the stone-faced archaeologist, and his equally impenetrable wife. Sara made countless attempts to fix a time with them. But they always seemed to have some previous engagement. At last, she verbally threw up her hands and said, “Please, name any night you’re free. It’s fine with us.”

“I’m sorry, dear,” Mrs. Foley said cheerfully, “we’re busy then.”

Sara hung up politely and turned to Ted. “What the hell, we’ve got three out of four. That ought to do it.”

Collegiality aside, Ted grew more and more to love the Canterbury way of life. He was pleased that Sara seemed to be adapting to rusticity as well as coming to appreciate the rich classics section of Hillier Library. She read all the latest journals from cover to cover and would even brief him over dinner on what was new in the ancient world.

The students were enthusiastic, and he felt the same toward them. And, of course, it didn’t hurt Ted’s ego that his course in Greek drama drew the largest crowd in the department.

Raves for his teaching soon reached the office of the dean. And Tony Thatcher thought it now opportune to sound out all the classicists about Ted’s tenure. He elicited affirmative responses from the Hellenist, the Latinist, and the historian. And from the archaeologist he even got a nod.

All would have come off without the slightest hitch had it not been for the affair with young Chris Jastrow.

In certain circumstances it might have been a touching sight — a muscular Adonis in an orange crew-necked sweater emblazoned with a C , sleeping like a mighty lion in the sun.

Unfortunately, this was in the middle of Ted’s Latin class. And he was anything but touched.

“Wake up, Jastrow!” he snapped.

Christopher Jastrow slowly raised his handsome head and looked at Ted with half-open lids.

“Yes, sir, Professor,” he mumbled with exaggerated deference. And removed his feet from the desk in front of him.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your siesta. But would you be kind enough to conjugate voco in the present passive?”

“ Voco ?”

“Yes, voco ,” Ted repeated. “As you may recall, it’s first conjugation. And I’d like to hear you go through it in the present passive.”

There was a slight pause.

“I’m afraid I didn’t get today’s assignment, sir.”

“What you’re saying is that you weren’t here last time and didn’t bother to ask anybody what to prepare.”

“Well —”

“Mr. Jastrow, I want to see you in my office this afternoon between four and five.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t make it, sir,” he answered courteously. “I’ve got practice.”

“Listen,” Ted warned sternly, “I don’t care if you’ve got a meeting with the President of the United States. You show up between four and five today — or else.”

And even though there was some ten minutes remaining, he could not continue teaching.

“Class dismissed,” he said, fuming.

As the students filed slowly toward the front and out the door, sophomore Tom Herman stopped at Ted’s desk and spoke sympathetically.

“Excuse me, Professor Lambros, would you be offended if I said something?”

“Tom,” Ted answered, “nothing you could say could possibly offend me any more than Jastrow’s attitude.”

“Well, that’s just it, sir,” Herman said diffidently. “Maybe you don’t know who he is.”

“I read the college paper,” Ted replied. “I know Jastrow’s our first-string quarterback. But I’m still going to bounce him from the class if he doesn’t start working.”

“Sir, with due respect, you can’t do that. I mean, without him we can’t win the Ivy title.”

Having spoken out bravely, he turned and quickly left the classroom.

Ted sat in his Canterbury office from four till half-past five that afternoon. Several students dropped by, some to question points that genuinely puzzled them. Some merely to gain points with him.

But Chris Jastrow was not one of them.

Ted threw on his (Harvard) scarf and coat and started down the hallway. He noticed that the Classics Department was still open and Leona, the secretary, was typing. He stuck his head inside.

“Hi, Lee, have you got time to do a short note for me?”

“Sure.” She smiled, then quickly rolled a fresh sheet of stationery into the typewriter and said, “Fire away.”

“To Anthony Thatcher, Dean of Humanities: Christopher Jastrow ’69 is currently failing intermediate Latin. His attitude is insouciant bordering on the arrogant. Barring some unforeseen miracle, there is no possibility of his being kept in the course past midterm. Yours truly, et cetera.”

Ted dictated this in one cathartic burst, his head in his hands. When he glanced up he noticed that Leona looked uneasy.

“Yes, I know who he is. But this is the Ivy League, we’ve got standards to maintain.” And as she typed the envelope he added, as if to absolve her of complicity, “I’ll put it under the dean’s door myself.”

He had no classes the next day, and so took full advantage of the rich facilities of the Canterbury Library to further his research.

He emerged after spending nearly eight hours abstracting the entire Fondation Hardt volume on Euripides, his green bookbag heavy with valuable copies of European journals that he — and Sara — would devour over the weekend.

Something made him glance up the hill at Canterbury Hall. There was no light on in the department office. What the hell, he thought, I might as well pick up my mail.

In addition to the routine correspondence there was a hand-addressed letter from the Department of Athletics.

Dear Ted:

I’d be grateful if you could drop by as soon as possible. I’m usually in my office till at least 7:30

P.M.

He had half-expected this. Glancing at his watch he saw there was still time to put this presumptuous bastard in his place tonight. He marched off toward the gym.

Chet Bigelow’s rugged features looked like they had been the model for the phalanx of trophies lined up on the desk that separated the two men.

“Well then, Professor,” he began, “I understand our boy Jastrow’s having difficulty with your Latin course. Perhaps you don’t realize the pressure our men are under during the season.”

“Frankly, Mr. Bigelow, that’s none of my concern. In fact, what puzzles me is why Jastrow’s taking Latin in the first place.”

“Why, Prof, you surely know the college rules as well as I. A guy’s gotta fill a foreign-language requirement to graduate. Right?”

“But why Latin? Why in the world did you have your precious quarterback take an ancient language that is probably twice as difficult as any modern one?”