The Class

by Erich Segal

  “Of course, Sara,” Bunting quickly said apologetically. “But Gilbert—which was probably not his name for very long—was one of those, you know, Jewy characters.”

  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, filming.

  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.

  Your friend,

  Chet Bigelow

  (Head Football Coach)

  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 languag
e that is probably twice as difficult as any modern one?”

  “It’s not hard if you’ve got the right teacher,” Bigelow explained.

  “What?”

  “Most of your classics boys have been terrific to us over the years,” Chet reminisced. “I mean, Henry Dunster’s absolutely fantastic. And, of course, we’ve played ball with him, too.”

  “Coach Bigelow, I’m afraid you’re losing me.”

  “All right, Teddie, lemme put it another way. If you suddenly got a lot more students taking Latin, you’d have to hire a lot more teachers. Am I right?”

  “I don’t like your insinuation,” Ted said with disgust.

  “Just what do you imagine I’m insinuating, Prof?”

  “Naturally, I’m just a dimwit from Harvard. But it seems to me you’re suggesting that if the football team increases our enrollments by sending us warm bodies, we should be so grateful that we should let them sail through without doing any work.”

  There was a pause. The coach stared silently at Ted. And then he smiled.

  “You clearly know the game, Professor. Now I suggest you go out and play by the rules. For, from what I gather, you do not yet have tenure at this place. And just like we need a good season, you need a good season.”

  Ted stood up.

  “If you want a war, Coach,” he whispered, “you’re gonna get one. Tomorrow’s the midterm exam. And if Jastrow flunks, he’ll be out on his ass.”

  “Have it your way, Teddie. Just remember you’re dealing with a man who’s undefeated in six seasons.”

  At the exam next morning, Jastrow did not appear at all. As soon as it was over, Ted Lambros stormed over to Barnes Hall and requested an audience with the Dean of Humanities. “Tony, I’m sorry to barge in on you like this.”

  “That’s all right,” the dean replied. “In fact, you might say your visit has been heralded.”

  “Coach Bigelow?”

  He nodded. “Yes, Chet’s a bit overprotective of his boys. Anyway, sit down and tell me about it.”

  Thatcher listened as Ted went on like a prosecuting attorney. A frown gradually appeared on his face. There was a moment of silence before he commented, “Look, Ted, I don’t think flunking Jastrow’s the most prudent way of handling this.”

  “Do you see any alternative?”

  The dean turned his chair ninety degrees and gazed out over Windsor Green. “Well,” he mused, “as John Milton so eloquently put it, “They also serve who only stand and wait.’ ” He then swiveled back and looked at Ted.

  “Milton was blind when he wrote that. But I’m not.”

  Dean Thatcher gave this response careful thought, then smiled benignly.

  “Ted, I want to talk to you for a moment off the record. You know how highly I regard you. And I feel you’re at the start of an extremely promising academic career.”

  “What could this possibly have to do with my professional future?”

  The administrator replied, unblinking, “Everything.”

  “Can you explain that, please?”

  “Listen,” the dean replied patiently, “you don’t seem to understand. If Jastrow can’t play, my head’s right there on the block with yours.”

  “Why? You’re a full professor. You’ve got tenure.”

  “I’ve also got three kids and a mortgage. They could freeze my salary forever. You’ve got to realize that Canterbury alumni are a very powerful group. And they feel pretty strongly about this place.”

  “And its football team,” Ted added sarcastically.

  “Yes, dammit, and its football team!” the dean shot back with exasperation. “Can’t you fathom that every time we beat Yale or Dartmouth, our grads interpret it as a sign that we’re superior in other ways as well? And let me tell you, the Monday after one of those victories, checks pour in like manna from heaven. An undefeated season can literally mean millions of dollars. And I’m not going to sit by and let a sanctimonious punk like you mess up the system. I mean, you don’t seem particularly grateful to be here.”

  “Why should I be grateful, dammit?” Ted retorted. “I’ve already published more than the rest of the department put together.”

  The dean shook his head. “You amaze me. You still have no idea what it takes to get ahead in the academic world.”

  “I’m a good teacher and I’ve written an important book. I should think that would suffice.”

  Tony Thatcher grinned. “It didn’t suffice for Harvard, did it? I mean, they didn’t seem to want to make a professor out of a Cambridge townie. And, frankly, neither do some of our boys.”

  Ted had been in street fights. He had been kicked and punched and bruised. But now he felt inwardly lacerated. While he had already seen that a provincial place like Canterbury judged him on social grounds, he never would permit himself to think that his rejection at Harvard had been on anything other than academic criteria.

  But he was suddenly uncertain about everything. He didn’t know whether to stay or leave. And so he remained frozen in his chair awaiting—fearing—what Thatcher would say next.

  Finally, the dean addressed him in soft, paternal tones. “Ted, let me tell you what’s going to happen. You’re going to pass Chris Jastrow. And he, in turn, is going to pass for innumerable touchdowns—to the delight of our generous alumni. Now, of course, you and I are aware that the boy doesn’t know the first thing about Latin. But we also know that in the scheme of things, it isn’t all that important. What matters is that nobody rocks the boat. That way, everybody’s future is brighter—including yours.”

  He rose and held out his hand in amical valediction.

  “I’m sorry,” Ted said quietly, “but you still haven’t convinced me.”

  “Professor Lambros,” the dean responded cordially, “let me leave you with one little thought. If we should deny you tenure at the end of this year, you might not find another teaching job anywhere.…”

  “That’s a crock.”

  “No, that’s a fact. Because no matter how much you’ve published, the dean of wherever you apply is going to check with us for a character reference. You know, to find out if you’re ‘collegial.’ ” He paused and then added almost in a whisper, “Need I say more?”

  “No,” Ted answered, barely able to hear his own voice.

  Sara was livid.

  “They can’t do this to you. It’s cruel, it’s barbaric—and it’s totally unethical.”

  “You’re right. But it’s also frighteningly possible.”

  He was sitting on their dilapidated couch utterly bereft of confidence. Sara had never seen him so shaken.

  She sat down and put her arms around him. “Ted, Canterbury’s not the end of the world. There are other schools that would kill to get you, even if these guys here say you’re a total shit.”

  He lowered his head for several minutes.

  At last he spoke. “Suppose they’re not bluffing? Suppose Tony Thatcher does have the power to blacklist me? What then?”

  Sara Lambros thought for a moment and carefully weighed every syllable of her reply.

  “Ted, I love you because you’re brave and good and honest. And I’ll stick by you no matter what happens. Isn’t that enough?”

  He raised his head and looked at her. “I can’t lie to you, Sara. I’ve never been so scared in all my life.”

  Before either of them could say another word, their little son burst joyfully into the room. “Daddy, Daddy,” he chirped and ran to his father’s arms. “Jamie Emerson tried to beat me up again.”

  “Again?” Ted asked bemusedly, as he continued to embrace his son.

  “Yeah,” said the boy, “but this time I did what you told me. I punched him right back in the belly. It made him cry.”

  Ted smiled and thought to himself, At least there’s one fighter in the family.

  They barely spoke at dinner. Sara assumed her husband was just emotionally spent and was thankful for the respite. She was somewhat surprised when he stood up and reached for his pa
rka.

  “Where’re you going?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, I thought I’d walk to Canterbury Hall. It’s such a nice place when nobody’s around. I want to grade those exams tonight—so I can exorcise this whole business.”

  “Good idea,” she answered, sensing that he had regained some confidence. “I can sit here and abstract one or two pieces from Wege zu Euripides.”

  He kissed her on the forehead. “Sara, you are the Tenth Muse.”

  “Thanks, sport, but I’m happy just being plain Mrs. Lambros. Now go off, do your homework, and come back to my loving arms.”

  He sat in his tiny office and looked out over Windsor Green. A preview of snows to come had powdered its broad surface, which glowed softly in the moonlight. Now and then students passed, and the air was so still he could hear their laughter from afar.

  The bell tolling ten o’clock admonished him to complete his task. He turned back to the pile of bluebooks on his desk and set about transcribing the results for submission to the dean’s office. They hadn’t been bad. A handful of A’s, two C’s, and the rest varying shades of B. All in all, something a language teacher could take pride in.

  Of course, there was the no-show of a certain football player. But that was quite another matter.

  It took him less than two minutes to enter the grades. Now only the space following Christopher Jastrow ’69 remained—like the new snow outside—fresh, clean, and unsullied. Blank.

  What should it be—F, Incomplete, or ABX (meaning absent from the exam)? Any of these would put the quietus on the little bastard’s football career.

  He sat there, staring at the paper, writing nothing.

  At first he had no notion of what he was going to do. But then gradually it dawned on him that he had left the house and gone to his lonely, underheated cubicle for a definite reason. To get away from Sara. To elude the beacon of her conscience.

  Sara was unable to understand the kind of fear that gripped him. Her family had status, substance, and security. He still felt like an immigrant, desperately needing roots in his new country. Perhaps her forebears had made compromises in generations past. But they were buried deeply now in the unshakable foundation of her respectability.