the varsity soccer bench during that afternoon's debacle) saw
Danny sitting all by himself at a corner table, picking at
his food and looking really miserable. He walked over and sat down across the table. -
"Hey, Rossi, I'm sorry to hear about your piano."
Danny lifted his head. "Who the hell do they think they are?" he suddenly exploded.
"You want the truth?" Andrew asked. "They think they're God's gift to sophistication. But actually they're just a bunch of empty-headed preppies who wouldn't even be here if their parents hadn't sent them to expensive schools. A guy like you makes them feel insecure."
"Me?"
"Yeah, Rossi. You're what this place is all about. You've got one thing they can't buy, and it galls the hell out of them. They're jealous because you've got real talent." Danny was quiet for a moment. Then looked at Andrew and said softly, "You know, Eliot, you're a really good guy."
T
ed could not concentrate on Helen of Troy. Not that Professor Whitman's remarks about her appearance in Book Three of the iliad were not fascinating. But Ted
was distracted by something even more divine than the face that launched a thousand ships.
For more than a year now he had been staring at this girl. They had both started Ancient Greek together the previous fall, and Ted could still remember his first sight of her, as the soft morning sun shone through the windows of Sever Hall irradiating her amber hair and delicate features. She seemed like an image carved on an ivory brooch. The tasteful, unostentatious manner of her dress made him think of the
nymph in Horace's ode-simplex munditiis-embellished in simplicity.
He could recall the day-now thirteen months ago-when he
had first noticed Sara Harrison. Professor Stewart had asked for someone to conjugate paideuo in the imperfect and first aorist, and she had volunteered. She had been sitting timidly by the window in the very last row-quite the opposite of Ted, who always sat front and center. Though - she had been reciting correctly, her voice was so soft that Stewart had to ask her politely to speak louder. It was at this precise moment that Ted Lambros had turned his head and seen -the girl.
From then on, he altered his seating position to the far
right of the first row so that he could both gaze at Sara and
still be conspicuously placed to gain academic points. He
had a copy of the Radcliffe Register in his desk at home, and like a secret drunk he periodically indulged himself by
taking it out and gazing at her picture. He also studied the meager information printed with it. She was from Greenwich, Connecticut, and had attended Miss Porter's. She lived in Cabot Hall-in the unlikely event that he should ever get the courage to call her.
In fact, he wasn't brave enough even to attempt small talk with her after class. He had gone through two terms like this, concentrating equally on the intricacies of the Greek verb and the delicacies of Sara's face. But whereas he was aggressively bold when it came to answering grammatical
questions, he was pathologically shy about saying anything to the angelic Sara Harrison.
But then, something unprecedented occurred. Sara was unable to answer a question.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Whitman, I just can't get the hang of
Homer's hexameter."
"You'll catch on with a little practice," the professor replied kindly. "Mr. Lambros, would you scan the line please."
That is how it all began. For after class, Sara came up to
Ted. -
"Gosh, you scan so easily. Is there some secret to it?" He barely had the courage to reply.
"I'd be glad to help you if you'd like."
"Oh, thank you. I'd really appreciate that."
"How about a cup of coffee at The Bick?" -"Great," said
Sara.
And they walked out of Sever Hall side by side.
Ted found her problem at once. She had neglected to take account of the digamma, a Greek letter that existed in
Homer's alphabet but which had since been dropped and was not printed in the text.
"You just have to imagine where a word might have an invisible w in front of it. Like oinos, which would become
woinos, and would remind you more of 'wine,' which is what it actually means."
"You know, Ted, you're a terrific teacher."
"It helps to be Greek," he said with uncharacteristic shyness.
Two days later, Professor Whitman again called on Sara
Harrison to scan a Homeric hexameter. She did it
perfectly, and after doing so smiled gratefully across the room at her proud tutor. -
"Thanks a million, Ted," she whispered- as they walked from class. "How can I repay you?"
"Well, you could join me for another cup of coffee."
"With pleasure," she replied. And her smile made him slightly weak at the knees.
From then on, their meetings after class became a ritual
to which Ted looked forward like a pious m-onk anticipating matins. Of course the talk was general-mostly about their classes and especially Greek. Ted was too shy to make the slightest move that might change their relationship and lose this platonic ecstasy.
Still, they were helping each other with Whitman's course. Ted was understandably stronger on the linguistic side, but Sara knew the secondary literature. She had read Milman
Parry's "L'epithète traditionnelle dam Homère" (which did not exist in English), and could give Ted a fuller comprehension of Homer's formulaic style.
They both got A's and moved triumphantly to Creek Lyric Poetry with Professor Havelock. But the subject matter only intensified Ted's emotional state.
It began with the passionate verses of Sappho, which they took turns reading and translating as they sat across the scratched laminated table. -
"'There are those that say that the most beautiful thing on the dark earth is a multitude of horsemen'"
"'Others say it is an armada of ships.'"
"'But I say it is the one you love.'"
And so on all the way through Sappho Fragment 16.
"That's fantastic, isn't it, Ted?" exclaimed Sara. "I
mean, the way a woman expresses her emotion by saying that it surpasses all things that are important in the world of men. It must have been pretty revolutionary stuff in those days."
"What amazes me is how she can display her feelings
without any embarrassment. That's tough for anybody-man or woman." He wondered if she sensed that he - was also speaking of himself.
"More coffee?" he asked.
She nodded and rose. "It's my round."
As she started toward the counter, Ted thought fleetingly
of asking her to have dinner some night. And then immediately lost heart. Besides, he was indentured to The Marathon -from five till ten-thirty every day of the week. And he was
certain she had a boyfriend. A girl like -that could have her pick of anyone.
To welcome the arrival of spring, Professor Levine gave
Ted's Latin class an unscheduled reading of the glorious hymn Pervigilium Veneris. Though celebrating a new springtime for all lovers, it ends on a touching elegiac note. The poet laments: -
lila cantat, nos tacemus: quando ver venit meum? Quando fiam uti chelidon at tacere desinam?
Songbirds sing, must I be silent? When 1 pray will my spring come?
When will I be like the swallow, singing forth no longer dumb?
ANDREW ELIOT'S DIARY
November 4, 1955
Long before I came to Harvard I dreamed of being a chorus girl.
Not only is it a lot of laughs, but it's also a great way to meet women.
For over a century now the Hasty Pudding Club has been producing an annual all-male musical comedy. The authors are usually the best wits in the college (that's how Alan J. Lerner '40 trained to write My Fair Lady).
But the show's legendary status is not due to the quality of the script, but rather the quantity of the chorus line.
For this unique corps de ballet is peopled by brawny preppie jocks in drag, kicking up their hairy muscular legs.
After its Cambridge run, this mindless and fairly gross extravaganza makes a brief tour of cities selected
- for the hospitality of their alumni and, most important, the nubility of their daughters.
I remember years ago, when my dad first took me to one of these productions, thinking the thundering hoof beats of the can can guys would quite literally bring
- down the house. They made that whole wooden building on
Holyoke Street tremble.
This year's production (the 108th) is called A Ball for Lady Godiva-which should give you some idea of the refined level of its humor.
Anyway, the first afternoon of tryouts looked like an elephants' convention. I mean, some of the football players made a crewman like Wigglesworth seem sylphlike by comparison. There was no question that all these mastodons were dying to be one of Lady Godiva's chambermaids-which is how they were going to dress this year's Rockettes.
I knew the competition would be rough, so I worked out with weights (toe raises and squats) to beef up my leg
muscles in hopes of getting them to look incongruous enough to make the grade~
We each got about a minute to sing something, but I think the whole issue was decided in the split second when we were asked to roll up our trousers.
They called us alphabetically, and, with knees knocking, I walked up on stage to sing a snatch of "Alexander's Ragtime Band" in my very lowest baritone.
I sweated for two days waiting for them to post the cast
list this afternoon.
It contained two surprises.
Neither Wig nor I got to be chambermaids. Mike-to his eternal glory-captured the coveted role of Fifi, Lady Godiva's debutante daughter.
And J-O shame!-was cast as Prince Macaroni, one of the suitors for his hand. -
"Great," Mike enthused, "I'm actually rooming with one of my costars."
I was not amused. I was thinking that I'd failed again. I wasn't even man enough to be a girl.
I
t was the usual Friday night at The Marathon. Every table was packed with chattering Harvard men and their dates. Socrates urged his staff to hurry along since there
was a vast crowd of people standing outside waiting their turn. Up front near the cashier's desk there seemed to be some argument going on. Socrates called across -to his elder son in Greek, "Theo, go and help your sister."
Ted hastened to the rescue. As he approached, he could
hear Daphne protesting, "Look, I am terribly sorry but you must have misunderstood. We never take reservations on the weekends."
But the tall, supercilious preppie in the Chesterfield
coat seemed quite adamant that he had booked a table for 8:00
P.M. and was not about to stand outside on Mass. Avenue with
(in so many words) the hoi polloi. Daphne was relieved to see her brother arrive.
"What's going on, sis?" Ted asked.
- "This gentleman insists he had a reservation, Teddy. And you know our policy about weekends."
"Yes," Ted responded, and turned immediately to the protesting client to explain, "we would never-"
He stopped in mid-sentence when he noticed who was standing next to the irate, distinguished-looking man.
"Hi, Ted," said Sara Harrison, who was manifestly
embarrassed at her escort's rudeness. "I think Alan's made a