Erich Segal - The Class

Inside he found a pile of shirts, ties, and other clothes that he had left at Cathy’s place. There was also a page onto which she had neatly pasted newspaper photographs of the four victims.

Her message was simple and direct: “These are your children, Dr. Keller.”

If Alice found her Wonderland by entering the looking glass, Ted Lambros first spied his as he was peering through the dusty windows of a British Rail carriage as it slowed down just before Oxford station.

On that same chilly autumn day, Cameron Wylie took the Lambros trio on a walking tour of a university which had been conducting classes more than three full centuries before Columbus found America. Some of the original colleges, like Merton and St. Edmund’s Hall, still had portions from the late 1260s. And there was also a vestige of the Middle Ages in Exeter, Oriel, and “New” College.

Magdalen, a relative newcomer from the fifteenth century, was Oxford’s jewel, with its exquisite gardens bordering the river Cherwell. It even had a deer park, which made little Ted feel like he was in a fairy tale.

And finally, Christ Church, dominated by the huge octagonal Tom Tower built by Christopher Wren (an imitation of which adorned Harvard’s Dunster House). This was Wylie’s college, where he had arranged temporary Common Room privileges for Ted.

“What do you think, kiddo?” Ted asked his son, as they stood in the Great Quadrangle.

“It’s all so old, Daddy.”

“That’s the best atmosphere for getting new ideas,” Sara commented.

“Quite right,” said the Regius Professor.

They then proceeded in his Morris Minor to the small terraced house in Addison Crescent that was to be their lodgings for the year.

Confronted with the fading greens and browns and tired furniture, the only comment Sara could manage was, “Oh, Professor Wylie, it’s so quaint.”

“All credit to my wife,” he answered gallantly. “Heather tracked it down. You have no notion of how grotty so many flats are here in Oxford. She’s filled the fridge with some basics, just to tide you over till she drops in tomorrow morning. Now I must take my leave, I’ve got a pile of galleys to correct.”

Sara cooked eggs and sausages for dinner, sang young Ted to sleep, and then descended to the sitting room.

“It’s cold as hell in here,” she commented.

“All three of these electric bars are blazing,” Ted replied and pointed to the orange-glowing fireplace.

“That looks like a dilapidated toaster.” Sara frowned. “And it’s just about as warm.”

“Come on, honey,” Ted cajoled, “where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Frozen,” Sara answered, as she opened up the sherry Mrs. Wylie had thoughtfully provided for them, “Couldn’t Heather have found us someplace that had central heating?”

“Hey look,” Ted reasoned, “I’ll grant this isn’t Buckingham Palace, but it’s only a couple of minutes from Teddie’s school, and we can walk right into town.” And then he noticed. “Hey, why have you got your hat and gloves on? Are you going somewhere?”

“Yeah. To bed. I’m not a polar bear.”

The next morning Ted met Wylie at the entrance to the Bodleian and the professor introduced him to an elderly librarian who then made Ted recite the ancient “Readers’ Oath” aloud.

“I hereby undertake not to remove from the Library, or to mark, deface, or injure in any way, any volume, document, or other object belonging to it or in its custody; not to bring into the Library or kindle therein any fire or flame.…”

Of course, no books could be borrowed from this hallowed repository. Even Oliver Cromwell himself, when he was ruler of the land, was not allowed this privilege.

So for most of his daily work Ted used the collection at the Ashmolean Museum. Here each morning he would pass imposing Greek statuary on his way to the stuffy room that housed the classics of the classics — and indeed some of the men who’d written them.

One afternoon that first week he bought himself a Christ Church scarf on Broad Street, He wanted to be just as Oxonian, or more, as anyone in Oxford.

Several times a week he lunched in College with Cameron — they were now on a first-name basis. Here he met not only scholars in his field but luminaries from the other disciplines as well.

It was soon clear to all the classicists from other colleges that this young American was Wylie’s special protégé. And, therefore, on the evening of Ted’s lecture to the Philological Society, they came ready to attack.

The talk was splendid. By far the best he’d ever given. And Wylie leapt to his feet and trumpeted, “I think that the Society has just heard a most distinguished presentation. And if Professor Lambros is not too fatigued, perhaps he’d entertain one or two questions.”

Four hands shot up, all brandishing invisible knives.

The “inquiries” were really probes to see if Ted had substance as a scholar. But, like Horatius at the bridge, he staunchly held them off, decapitating Tarquin after Tarquin. And with it all he never lost his winsome smile.

The warm applause was but a tiny index of his victory. For nearly every don attending waited patiently to shake his hand — and offer invitations to have lunch with them .

Several hours later, Ted and Sara were walking homeward, arm in arm, intoxicated by his triumph.

“ Onoma tou Theou ,” she rhapsodized in loving imitation of his mother. “You were unbelievable. I wish the guys at Harvard could have heard you here tonight.”

“Don’t worry,” Ted replied, with newly bolstered self-assurance, “they’ll hear about it soon enough.”

By January, when Hilary term began, Ted Lambros was almost a fixture on the Oxford scene. So much so that the head of the University Press always tried to sit near him at High Table, to win his next book for OUP.

Wylie, who was himself revising the Oxford edition of Euripides, offered a special seminar for graduates as well as postgraduates on the Alcestis . And he asked Ted to collaborate with him.

In retrospect, there was an element of irony in the choice of play. For Euripides’ heroine nobly sacrifices herself to save her husband, and thereby perpetuates their marriage. Whereas the seminar itself led to the death knell of Ted’s relationship with Sara.

Perhaps it was inevitable. For his great success at Oxford had aroused in him a wild cerebral ecstasy. He felt intellectually priapic.

The object of his affection — or, as he unconsciously considered it, the prize for his achievements — was an auburn-haired, nineteen-year-old undergraduate named Felicity Hendon.

Two things made her conspicuous at the seminar. First, her splendid command of Greek, which was exceptional even by Oxford’s high standards. And then her body, whose slender sensuality was noticeable even beneath her loosely flowing — and short — academic gown. Ted had difficulty taking his eyes off her legs.

Felicity had come to Oxford to make intimate acquaintance with the noblest minds. In truth, her initial reason for taking the seminar was to attempt to seduce the Regius Professor himself.

Yet, there was Ted. An academic old enough to qualify as “senior” in her estimation, but who still possessed what she acknowledged as the vestiges of youthful vigor.

And with it all, Ted thought he was seducing her .

The whole adventure started with an unpretentious gathering to which Felicity and Jane, her roommate, asked the nine students and two teachers from the seminar. Like almost every Oxford invitation, it implicitly excluded wives.

Sara had grown used to this inequity, though she continued to resent it. She knew Ted enjoyed visiting those High Tables at the different colleges. Especially when they were black-tie evenings. He, who once would cringe at fastening his bow tie to go out and wait on tables, now was thrilled to don the very same cravat to go to academic dinners with his penguin-suited fellow Fellows.