The Class

  “Well, check it out at your local newsstand, my friend. She’s the guest of honor at my studio this afternoon.”

  “Oh,” said Stuart Kingsley.

  Except for the occasional cocktail parties, the junior and senior members of the Harvard Classics Department almost never socialized. It was not merely a question of age differences, but the almost Calvinistic distinction between those who had tenure and those who did not.

  Assistant Professor Ted Lambros was therefore surprised when Cedric Whitman invited him to lunch at the Faculty Club, even though, as both he and Sara agreed, he was the most humane humanist they had ever known.

  After they ordered, the senior professor cleared his throat and said, “Ted, I got a phone call from Bill Foster, the new chairman at Berkeley. His department very much admires your book and wonders if you’d be interested in their tenure opening in Greek literature?”

  Ted did not know how to respond. For he could not sense precisely what lay behind the question. Was it an intimation that he was not going to be granted tenure at Harvard?

  “I—uh—I guess I should be very flattered.”

  “I should say,” Whitman replied. “Berkeley’s got one of the best departments in the world. They’ve certainly got some very distinguished scholars. Pragmatically speaking, their salaries are extremely generous. I took the liberty of telling Bill to write you directly. That’ll mean at least a nice invitation to go to California and lecture.”

  Ted felt like Aeschylus’ famous description of Agamemnon “struck deep with a mortal blow.” But he summoned the courage to ask.

  “Cedric, is this Harvard’s way of saying they won’t renew my contract? Please be frank, I can take it.”

  “Ted,” said Whitman without hesitation, “I can’t speak for the whole department. You know that John and I admire you enormously. And naturally, we’d like to keep you here. But this will ultimately come down to a vote, and heaven knows how the historians and archaeologists and people who are less familiar with your work might stand. If you got a formal offer from Berkeley, it might stimulate the uncommitted into feeling more possessive.”

  “So you think I should at least go out there?”

  “Take it from a veteran,” his mentor smiled, “an academic never gives up a free trip to anywhere halfway decent. And to California, well, res ipsa loquitur.”

  Sara was delighted to see him.

  “What a nice surprise,” she said as she skipped down the stone steps of the University Press and saw her husband. He kissed her perfunctorily but could suppress his fears no longer.

  “Cedric had some pretty gloomy words at lunch.”

  “They’re not renewing you?”

  “That’s the bitch of it,” he answered with frustration. “He evaded the whole Harvard issue. All he said was that Berkeley wants me for a tenure job.”

  “Berkeley’s got a fantastic classics department,” she replied.

  Ted’s heart stopped. This was not what he had hoped to hear.

  “So you think it’s the ax, huh?” he asked mournfully. When she did not reply, he added, “I really thought I had a shot at tenure here.”

  “Hell, so did I,” she answered honestly. “But you know how their system works. They almost never bring up someone through the ranks. They sort of send them off and see what kind of a reputation they build up. And if they grow, they pluck them back.”

  “But it’s in California,” Ted complained.

  “So what? Can’t we survive three thousand miles away from Harvard?”

  Two nights later, Bill Foster called and formally tendered the invitation to lecture. They agreed on a date close to Harvard’s Easter vacation.

  “We don’t usually do this,” he added, “but we’d like to include your wife as well. The folks at U.C. Press would like to meet her.”

  “Uh—that’s great,” said Ted, while inwardly he thought, They know all about me. I’m like a baseball player being traded. They’ve gone over my hitting and fielding—and probably even my team spirit. It intensified the feeling that, in some way, he had failed.

  On the last Sunday in March, Ted and Sara, having left their son in the care of his doting grandparents, boarded the late-afternoon flight to San Francisco.

  “Isn’t this exciting?” Sara bubbled as they fastened their seat belts. “Our first free trip, courtesy of your brain.”

  Ted looked at his watch three hours later. They had barely crossed half the continent.

  “This is ridiculous,” he said. “I mean, where the hell is this place? It’s incredibly far from civilization.”

  “Ted,” she chided affectionately, “stay loose. You may just discover something wonderful about the world.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the life of the mind does not cease at the borders of Massachusetts.”

  As they disembarked in San Francisco, they were met by a middle-aged academic and a younger colleague holding, as a sign of identification, a copy of Lambros on Sophocles. Ted’s mood, which had changed from glum to numb during the last few hours of the journey, lifted at this gesture of respect.

  Bill Foster greeted them warmly and introduced Joachim Meyer, a papyrologist, recently transplanted from Heidelberg to California. They were both enormously cordial and in the baggage area insisted on carrying the suitcases out to their car.

  Though it was early evening Berkeley’s main street was swarming with activity.

  “I seem to see a lot of hippies,” Ted observed with a tinge of disapproval.

  “I can hear some nice music,” said Sara.

  Bill Foster picked up on Ted’s remark.

  “Don’t get the wrong impression, Ted. These students may walk around in jeans instead of tweeds, but they’re the brightest kids you’ll ever meet. They drive you crazy with their penetrating questions. Keeps you intellectually on your toes. We’ll visit some classes if you like.”

  “Yes,” Ted replied, “I’d like that.”

  “I’d enjoy that too,” Sara chimed in.

  “Ach ja,” Meyer said cordially. “I know you are an enthusiast for Hellenistic poetry, Sara.”

  Just then they reached the end of the avenue and Bill Foster announced, “Meyer and I will drop you at the new Faculty Club. I suggest, if you aren’t too tired, that you stroll down Telegraph Avenue and have a beer at some place like Larry Blake’s. Just sort of get a feel of the place at night.”

  “They’re super people, don’t you think?” asked Sara as they were unpacking a few moments later. “I mean so easygoing and friendly. You’d never guess from the way he talks that Meyer was a full professor at thirty-one. And for a German he seems very un-Teutonic. Maybe they’ve California’d him up.”

  “Come on,” said Ted, “they’re just romancing us. You notice that they even knew about your undergraduate thesis.”

  “I noticed and I liked it,” Sara answered. “Don’t you enjoy being seduced?”

  “Well, I’m not seduced yet,” Ted replied dourly.

  “Well, keep an open mind, and let’s check out Telegraph Avenue.”

  At first it appeared that nothing was going to please him. Not the lively streets, the bookshops, or the colorful minstrels with their guitars. But after merely one block, Sara perceived that one aspect of this vibrant place had finally caught her husband’s interest.

  “Aha,” she smiled, “at least you dig some of the scenery.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We’ve just passed six girls without bras and you enjoyed half-a-dozen healthy gawks, Dr. Lambros. And don’t tell me I’m wrong, because I’ve been watching your face.”

  “You are wrong,” said Ted, tight-lipped. “There were at least seven.” And he smiled, at last.

  Because of the three-hour time difference, they awoke extremely early and assumed they would be first in the Faculty Club dining room. They were mistaken.

  For there was already someone seated at a corner table spooning some species of breakfast fla
kes with one hand, and with the other holding an Oxford Classical text.

  “Do you see what I see?” Sara whispered. “We are sharing this entire dining room with the Regius Professor of Greek at Oxford.”

  “Jesus, you’re right. It’s Cameron Wylie. What the hell is he doing here?”

  “Same as we,” Sara smiled, “eating breakfast. Also, isn’t he giving this year’s Sather lectures?”

  “Hey, that’s right. Something on Homer and Aeschylus. Do you think we’ll get a chance to hear him?”

  “Why don’t you go over, introduce yourself, and ask?”

  “I can’t,” Ted protested, suddenly timid. “I mean, he’s such a great man.”

  “Come on, you blustering Greek. What’s happened to your usual bravado? Or would you prefer I went as your emissary?”

  “No, no, no, I’ll be all right. I just don’t know how to begin,” Ted answered, rising reluctantly.

  “Try ‘hello.’ That’s a time-honored opener.”

  “Yeah,” Ted countered laconically, his sense of humor completely dampened by his sudden social insecurity.

  He listened nervously to the sound of his own steps as they traversed the floor of the empty dining room.

  “Excuse me, Professor Wylie, I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I just wanted to say how much I admire your work. I thought your article on the Oresteia in last year’s JHS was the best thing ever written on Aeschylus.”

  “Thank you,” said the Englishman with undisguised pleasure. “Won’t you join me?”

  “Actually, my wife and I were wondering if you wouldn’t join us. She’s over there.”

  “Ah yes, I couldn’t help but notice her when you walked in. Thank you, I’d be delighted.” He stood, picked up his bowl and his Oxford text, and followed Ted to their table.

  “Professor Wylie, this is my wife, Sara. Oh, and I forgot to mention I’m Theodore Lambros.”

  “Hello,” said the Englishman as he shook Sara’s hand and sat down. Then he turned to Ted. “I say, you’re not the Sophocles man, are you?”

  “Actually, yes,” Ted answered, near vertiginous at the recognition. “I’m out here to give a lecture.”

  “I thought your book was first-rate,” Wylie continued. “Blew a lot of dust off Sophoclean scholarship. I’ve put it on the Oxford Mods list already. Actually, I was delighted to see someone with your surname write a book on Sophocles. It seemed so appropriate.”

  Ted could not understand the connection but was loath to appear obtuse before so august a scholar. Sara leapt into the breach and sacrificed herself on the altar of naïveté.

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you, sir,” she said respectfully.

  The don was happy to expound. “Why, as your husband knows, a chap called Lampros was Sophocles’ dance and music teacher.”

  “What a coincidence,” replied Sara, genuinely charmed by this amusing tidbit. Then she posed the question she knew Ted burned to ask: “Could you tell me the source for that?”

  “Oh, a veritable cornucopia,” replied the Regius Professor. “Athenaeus I.20, references in the vita and a few other bits and pieces. Must have been a good man, this Lampros. Aristoxenus ranks him with Pindar. Of course, there’s that fragment of Phrynichus which is too silly to take seriously. Are you a Hellenist as well, Mrs. Lambros?”

  “Not professionally,” Sara answered shyly.

  “My wife’s a bit modest. She’s got a magna in classics from Harvard.”

  “Splendid.” And then he asked Ted, “What will you be speaking on?”

  “Oh, I’m just trying out a few random ideas I’ve been germinating about Euripides’ influence on Lampros’s prize pupil.”

  “I very much look forward to hearing it. When’s your talk?”

  For a split second Ted hesitated. He was not sure he wanted so great a scholar to sit in judgment on his inchoate new theories.

  Sara, on the other hand, had no such qualms. “It’s tomorrow at five in Dwinelle Hall,” she said.

  The Englishman withdrew a fountain pen and a little Oxford diary to note the particulars.

  Just then Bill Foster appeared. “Well, I see our two visiting classicists have met each other already,” he said breezily.

  “Three,” the Englishman corrected him with an admonitory finger. “The Lambroses are both lamproi.”

  After which the elder statesman rose, took his book (which happened to be his own edition of Thucydides), and wandered off toward the library.

  As Bill Foster gave them a comprehensive walking tour of the campus, Ted had to admit to himself that it was beautiful. But still, the campanile and the late-nineteenth-century Spanish-style buildings somehow did not seem what a university should be like. He had always associated the pursuit of higher learning with Georgian architecture—like the grand towers of Lowell or Eliot House.

  The library was undeniably impressive (and boasted shuttlebus service—colloquially known as the Gutenberg Express—direct to the Stanford University library). And all these quiet, solid structures stood in vivid contrast to the frenetic kaleidoscope of student activities concentrated—like the ancient Athenian agora—at a single, tumultuous spot in Sproul Plaza, between the Administration building and the Student Union.

  After visiting an animated Latin class, the trio squeezed into a tiny health-food restaurant for a whole-earth lunch.

  But something was obsessing Ted.

  “What kind of a guy is Cameron Wylie?” he asked Bill, trying to act nonchalant.

  “A tiger and a pussycat. He’s been absolutely terrific with our undergraduates. But when it comes to professors, he doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Last week, for example, when Hans-Peter Ziemssen came to lecture, Wylie made absolute mincemeat of him in the question period.”

  “Oh Jesus,” muttered Ted.

  He spent the next few hours in a blur of fear. Sara made him run through his entire lecture just for her. After which she said in all sincerity, “You’re ready, champ, you really are.”

  “So was Daniel when he went into the lions’ den.”

  “Read your Bible, honey. They didn’t eat him, if you recall.”

  By the time he entered the lecture hall, Ted had resigned himself to what the Fates would bring.

  There were about a hundred people scattered in the auditorium. To him they all seemed faceless, with three exceptions. Cameron Wylie and—two collie dogs. Dogs?

  “Are you all set?” Bill Foster whispered.

  “I think so. But, Bill, those uh—canine visitors? Is that—?”

  “Oh, it’s usual at Berkeley.” Foster smiled. “Don’t worry. In fact, they’re some of my most attentive students.”

  He then mounted the podium and introduced today’s guest speaker.

  The applause was polite.

  All alone now, Ted began by conjuring a striking picture.

  “Imagine Sophocles—an established playwright already in his forties, who had even defeated the great Aeschylus in dramatic competition—sitting in the theater of Dionysus, watching the maiden production of a new young author named Euripides.…”

  The audience was in his hands. For his words had transported them back to fifth-century B.C. Athens. They felt as if they were going to hear about living playwrights. And indeed, when Ted Lambros spoke of them, the Greek tragedians were very much alive.

  As he concluded, he glanced at the clock on the far wall. He had lectured for exactly forty-nine minutes. Perfect timing. The applause was universal—and palpably genuine. Even the two dogs seemed to approve.

  Bill Foster went up to shake his hand and whispered, “Absolutely brilliant, Ted. Do you think you have the strength for a question or two?”

  Ted was trapped, knowing that if he refused, it would reveal a kind of academic pusillanimity.

  Like a nightmare coming true, the first hand raised was that of Cameron Wylie. Well, thought Ted, it can’t be any worse than all the questions I’ve dreamed up myself.

  The Englishman stood up.
“Professor Lambros, your remarks are most stimulating. But I was wondering if you saw any significant Euripidean influence in the Antigone?”

  Blood began to flow again in Ted’s veins. Wylie had actually thrown a compliment and not a javelin.

  “Of course, chronologically it’s possible. But I don’t share any of the nineteenth-century Jebbsean romanticized views of Antigone.”

  “Quite right, quite right,” Wylie concurred. “The romantic interpretations are all silly nonsense—and have no basis in the text.”

  As Wylie sat down with an approving smile, Ted recognized a frizzy-haired girl in the back row, frantically waving her hand.

  She rose and began to declaim. “I think we’re all missing the point here. Like I mean, how are the guys you’ve been discussing relevant to now? I mean, I haven’t heard the word politics mentioned once. I mean like, what was these Greeks’ position on free speech?”

  The audience groaned. Ted heard an “Oh shit” from somewhere in the crowd.

  Bill Foster motioned to him that he could ignore the question if he wished. But Ted was high on approbation, and chose to address himself to the student’s query.

  “To begin with,” he observed, “since every Greek drama was performed for the entire population of the polis, it was inherently political. The relevant issues of the day were so important to them that their comic poets spoke of nothing else. And there were no restrictions on what Aristophanes and company could say—that’s the Greek notion of parrhesia. In a sense, their theater is an abiding testimony to the democracy they helped invent.”

  The questioner was stunned. First by the fact that Ted had taken her seriously—for she had intended to stir up a little intellectual anarchy—and second by the quality of his answer.

  “You’re cool, Professor,” she mumbled and sat down.

  Bill Foster stood, glowing with pleasure.

  “On that stirring note,” he announced, “I’d like to thank Professor Lambros for a marvelous talk which was both logical and philological.”

  Ted felt triumphant.

  The reception in their honor was held at the Fosters’ house in the Berkeley Hills. Everyone who was anyone in academia in the Bay Area seemed to be there, not to mention a certain distinguished professor from Oxford.