- 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 Sophotles. 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 II visit some classes if you like."
"Yes," Ted replied, "I'd like that." -
"I'd enjoy that too," Sara chimed in.
"Achja," 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.
"Aba," 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 flakes with one hand, -and with the other holding an Oxford Classical text.
"Do you see what 1 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 respecffully. 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 1.20, 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 shuttle-bus service-colloquially known as the Gutenberg
Express- direct to the Stanford University libraiy). 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 hail, Ted had resigned himself to what the Fates would bring.
There were about a hundred people scattered in the audi-
torium. 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 s.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 myseW.
The Englishman stood up. "Professor Lambros, your remarks are most stimulating. But I was wondering if you saw any significant Eunpidean 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 Anti gone ."
- "Quite right, quite right," Wylie concurred. "The romantic