The Class

by Erich Segal

Six days later, after four students were killed at Kent State University in a protest demonstration, a taxi driver appeared at George Keller’s home, bearing a battered suitcase.

  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 Teddies 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.
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br />   And Sara did derive some pleasure from the fact that Ted was having fun. Besides, she knew he would reciprocate next year when they returned to Canterbury and she started working for a doctorate at Harvard.

  Though students at St. Hilda’s College, the two girls lived in a small rented flat on Gresham Road. That February evening the festivities began with cheap white wine, then changed to even cheaper red to grace the execrable food the hostesses imagined was a gourmet meal.

  Cameron was the first to leave. His relationship with Heather was notorious in Oxford. They were most unfashionably faithful to each other. And so he always departed for home as early as good manners would allow. The students disappeared by casual attrition—for studies, assignations, pot, or simply sleep.

  At a little after ten, a hood in motorcycle gear materialized. Ted’s anxiety turned quickly to relief when he discovered it was Janie’s boyfriend Nick, a third-year student reading medicine at Trinity. She hurried for her helmet and they zoomed off toward The Perch for one quick drink before repairing to his rooms.

  Ted and Felicity were alone.

  He looked at her and wondered if she sensed his hunger for that youthful body.

  “I’ll help clear up,” he offered gallantly.

  “Thanks.”

  For an instant, he felt panicked and uncertain. Ted was suddenly aware that he had not touched another woman for nearly a decade.

  How do you start this sort of thing?

  As she was piling dirty dishes in the sink, he moved behind her and tentatively placed his arms around her waist. She took his hands and moved them up to clasp her breasts. Then, without further words, she turned and joined him in a fiery embrace.

  Ted got home after midnight. As he slipped into bed, Sara stirred and murmured, “How did it go, honey?”

  “Not bad,” he answered quietly. She fell asleep again.

  He remained awake for a long time and pondered the significance of what he had begun that night.

  The next day at breakfast—and at many meals thereafter—Ted kept wondering if it showed. Could Sara, who understood him so well, read his face, deciphering the hieroglyphics of his guilt?

  He felt noblesse oblige to show her amorous attention. He tried making love to her with increased ardor. But gradually he grew resentful of this obligation to display connubial affection.

  Sure, Sara deserved respect. She was a loyal wife. The mother of his son. And a true friend. But she was not exciting. Not merely now, when she had let herself put on some weight. But as far as he recalled, she had never been that sensual.

  Perhaps that was what had so drawn him to Felicity. She awakened in him dormant feelings he had thought forever gone. She was dynamic. Not just physically, but intellectually.

  And there was something else, although Ted did not realize it at first. The greatest thrill of all was that it was … illicit.

  After a while, he reassured himself that Sara had not noticed anything. Still, her very presence was an inconvenience. Assignations with Felicity had to be scheduled for afternoons or early evenings. Only rarely could they meet at night.

  Once he fabricated yet another college banquet. And Sara, faithful, trusting (boring), never even checked. Even her naive passivity started to annoy him.

  Felicity kept urging him to spend a weekend with her. But what pretext could he find? Oxford functions seemed to shut down automatically on Saturday and Sunday.

  Then Fate flashed him an amber light, suggesting he go forward—but with caution.

  Philip Harrison ’33, currently a high executive of the U.S. International Banking Commission, arrived in London on a ten-day visit for the government. Generous as usual, he took a suite at Claridge’s next to his own, so that his daughter, son-in-law, and beloved grandson could enjoy a break from academic tedium.

  As soon as her father had announced his visit, Sara began to check the theater listings in The Times. While her husband looked for a plausible excuse to free himself to spend the weekend driving through the romantic villages of Gloucestershire.

  Then he and Felicity could spend entire evenings in one of the historic Cotswold inns. And make some history themselves.

  Sara Lambros was happy to be staying at Claridge’s. Not that she particularly enjoyed elegant hotels, but quite simply because she reveled in the central heating.

  And the warmth of her father’s love.

  Philip Harrison could not help mentioning that his daughter looked pale. Her fire, he thought, was burning low. Indeed, it seemed as if her pilot light was all but extinguished. Sara blamed the frigid Oxford weather. And yet how could she explain the fact that Ted looked radiant?

  She argued that hard work obviously agreed with him. She recounted his triumph with the Philological Society and little Ted’s success at the local primary school. Now he’d taken up soccer.

  “You’re a real little jock, aren’t you?” his grandfather said, smiling affectionately.

  “And he’s not too bad at Latin either,” Sara added proudly. “The English really start them early.”

  “I guess they’re still culturally more advanced than we are,” her father observed. “Their theater certainly is. I had to resort to my contacts at the Embassy just to get us four seats to Olivier’s Othello.”

  “Oh, Daddy, I’ve been dying to see it. When are we going?”

  “The best I could do was the Saturday matinee.”

  “Oh gosh,” Ted responded anxiously, “Saturday’s gonna be a problem for me. You know I’ve almost finished the first draft of my Euripides book.…”

  “Yes, Sara told me. Congratulations.”

  “Well, Cameron Wylie called me last night and said he wanted to spend the whole weekend going over it with me. I didn’t even have a chance to mention it to Sara.”

  “Oh, Daddy,” little Ted complained, “I like it here in London.”

  “Well, you can stay with Mummy and Grandpa,” he reassured his son. And then turned to Mr. Harrison. “I’m really sorry, but it was an opportunity I just couldn’t pass up. Don’t you agree, honey?”

  Though deeply hurt, she was forced to play the reluctant accomplice.

  “I guess Ted’s right,” she said loyally. “How long will you be gone?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be back in London in time for dinner Sunday night.”

  The seven-hundred-year-old George Inn in the Cotswold town of Winchcombe was once used by pilgrims to St. Kenelm’s tomb.

  This weekend it was playing host to a twentieth-century couple on an extremely secular journey.

  “What do you think?” Felicity asked, as she unpacked a small bottle of vodka and began to pour it into the hotel glasses.

  “It’s sort of a medieval version of a motel,” he answered.

  Ted felt decidedly uneasy. Winchcombe was a relatively short drive from Oxford and someone might chance to see them. And more importantly the early pangs of conscience he had felt now blossomed into full-fledged qualms.

  He could not silence an inner voice that kept reiterating, Lambros, what you’re doing’s called adultery. And it’s a sin. You have a wife and kid. And what about those sacred vows you took?

  Ah yes, but that was long ago. And in another country. And besides, the wench has changed. And dammit, the times have changed as well.

  “Ted, where are you?”

  Felicity’s voice shattered his ethical reverie. And for the first time he became aware that her hands were exploring intimate areas of his anatomy.

  “Are you having second thoughts—or cold feet?” she inquired coquettishly.

  “Neither,” he replied, to convince her if not himself.

  “Hey,” she coaxed. “Then will you take your clothes off and give me a little proof of your enthusiasm?”

  Zippers glided open. She stood enticingly before him, Aphrodite in a medieval inn.

  He could think of nothing else as she now beckoned him to bed.

  They drove back Sunday afternoon and reached Oxford just as darkne
ss was approaching. And it was not merely chance that made him choose the Folly Bridge for her to drop him, so he could wend his way discreetly homeward in the dusk.

  For throughout their wildly carnal weekend, whenever the ecstasy abated, Ted had been unable to fight off the demons of remorse. Despite inward invocations of the New Morality, his conscience was still rooted firmly in the fifties. And he already felt that he would have to pay a price for his brief moment of adventure.

  But he never dreamed that it would be so soon.

  The moment he opened the door of Addison Crescent, he found the incarnation of the Furies waiting for him.

  “You left the house unlocked,” said Cameron Wylie, his face half in shadows.

  “Yeah,” said Ted distractedly. “Uh—I’m sorry I kept you waiting, but I didn’t know you were coming—”

  “Nor did I,” the Regius Professor answered, traces of displeasure in his voice. “I tried ringing you, then came round to leave a note. But then I saw the door was open and I assumed you’d be arriving about now. So I waited.”

  There was a sudden silence. And then Wylie burst out angrily, “You bloody fool. You bloody, stupid fool.”

  “I’m sorry, Professor, I don’t understand,” Ted stammered, instinctively demoting himself back to pupil’s status.

  “I don’t care about your morals, Lambros. I just gave you credit for more common sense. I’ll grant adultery’s as popular at Oxford as any place on earth. But most of those who practice it don’t play with undergraduates. That girl’s nearly half your age.”

  The sanctimonious dressing-down began to anger Ted. He gathered courage for a quiet counterattack.

  “Is that what you came to see me about?”

  “No,” Wylie responded, “that was just my prologue. Sara rang me, wanting to speak to you.”

  Oh shit, he thought. I knew I should have telephoned.

  “She was very apologetic,” Wylie continued. “But it was an emergency.”

  Ted suddenly grew anxious. “Did something happen to her father?”

  “No,” Cameron replied. “It’s your son. He was taken very ill. They rushed him into hospital. When Sara phoned she was at her wit’s end.”