After that moment he never once looked down at his prepared text, He simply rhapsodized about the greatness of Homer, his style, the oral tradition and early Greek concepts of heroism.
Before he knew it, the class was nearly over.
“Hey,” he said with a smile, “I guess I got a little carried away. I should stop here and ask if you have any questions.”
A hand shot up in the back row.
“Have you read Homer in Greek, Mr. Lambros?” asked a young, bespectacled Cliffie.
“Yes,” Ted answered proudly.
“Could you possibly recite a bit of it in the original, just so we could get a feel of how it sounded?”
Ted smiled. “I’ll do my best.”
Now, though he had the Oxford texts on the table, he found himself passionately reciting the beginning of the iliad from memory, putting special stress on words they might possibly comprehend — like heroon for “heroes” in line four. He reached the crescendo at line seven, emphasizing dios Achilleus, “godlike Achilles.” Then he paused.
To his utter amazement, the tiny class applauded. The bell rang. Ted felt a sudden surge of relief, elation, and fatigue. He had no idea how it had gone until assorted comments filtered to him as the students left the room.
“God, we lucked out,” he heard one say.
“Yeah, this guy is dynamite,” said another.
The last thing Ted heard — or thought he did — was a female voice offering the opinion, “He’s even better than Finley.”
But surely that was the figment of a tired imagination. For John H. Finley, Jr., was one of the greatest teachers in Harvard history.
Jason Gilbert made the first months of his Sheldon Fellowship for traveling a balanced combination of culture and sport. He took part in as many European tournaments as he could, but gave almost as much time to museum going as he did to tennis playing.
Though forbidden by the terms of his award from doing formal academic work, he spent the winter researching a Comparative Study of International Skiing — with special emphasis on the slopes of Austria, France, and Switzerland.
When his enthusiasm for the sport began to defrost, he headed for Paris, city of a million sensuous attractions. He knew no French but was fluent in the international language of charm, and never had to look very far to find a female guide.
Almost within hours he befriended an art student named Martine Pelletier, while she was admiring a Monet in the Jeu de Paume, and he was admiring her legs.
As they strolled the boulevards together, Jason marveled at the Parisian way of life, and stopped to examine the multitude of posters plastered all over the street kiosks advertising cultural offerings. He was struck by one announcement in particular:
Salle Pleyel.
Pour la premiere fois en France (a jeune sensation américaine
DANIEL
ROSSI
pianiste
“Hey,” he said proudly to Martine, “I know that guy. Shall we go and hear him?”
“I would adore it.”
And so by a harmonious cadence of fate, Jason Gilbert was present in the auditorium when Danny Rossi made his triumphant Paris debut.
Backstage, Jason and Martine had to push their way through a stampede of reporters and assorted sycophants to get close enough to attract Danny’s attention. The star of the evening was delighted to see a classmate, and welcomed Jason’s attractive companion in swift, fluent, and courtly French.
Jason proposed that they all go out for dinner, but Danny was committed to a private party to which, unfortunately, he was unable to invite them.
Later that evening, as they were sharing thick onion soup in Les Halles, Martine asked Jason, “I thought this Danny Rossi was your friend.”
“What makes you think he isn’t?”
“Because he asked me to go to Castels tonight — without you.”
“That cocky little runt, he thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”
“No, Jason,” she smiled, “you are that. He is only Cod’s gift to music.”
By late April 1959, Jason had had his fill of the memorabilia of things past and was burning to get back to the tennis courts. Regarding it as a kind of farewell tour, he had booked himself in as many international competitions as he could wangle.
And yet even this aspect of his journey turned out to be educational. For he was learning how very far he was from being the best tennis player in the world. He could never get past a quarter final, and he began to reckon it a minor triumph if he won so much as a single set against a seeded player.
At the Gstaad International Tennis Tournament in mid-July, he had the dubious honor of drawing as his first opponent Australia’s Rod Layer. Jason succumbed to the indomitable left-hander in straight sets, but was graceful in defeat.
“Rod,” he commented as they shook hands afterward, “it was a real honor to be creamed by you.”
“Thanks, Yank. Good on you.”
Jason walked slowly off court shaking his head and wondering why he had been so slow that afternoon — or the ball so fast. A tall young woman with a chestnut ponytail approached him to offer friendly consolation.
“You weren’t very lucky today, were you?” Her English had a strange, charming accent.
“I wasn’t until now,” he replied, “Are you here to play?”
“Yes, I am in the ladies’ singles tomorrow afternoon. I was just going to ask if you wanted to join up for the mixed doubles on Friday.”
“Why? You’ve just seen how badly I play.”
“I’m not that good either,” she answered candidly.
“That means we’ll probably both be killed.”
“But we could still have fun. Isn’t that what really counts?”
“I was brought up to think that winning was all that mattered,” Jason said with lighthearted honesty. “But I’m revising my theories. So why not? It would be a pleasure to be defeated in your company. By the way, what’s your name?”
“Fanny van der Post,” she replied, offering her hand. “I’m a university player from Holland.”
“I’m Jason Gilbert, who, as you saw, is barely good enough to be a ball boy for Rod Layer. Can we discuss our court strategy over dinner tonight?”
“Yes,” she answered. “I’m staying at the Boo Hotel in Saanen.”
“What a coincidence,” Jason remarked. “So am I.”
“I know. I saw you in the pub last night.”
That evening, they drove in Jason’s rented VW Beetle to a three-hundred-year-old inn in Chloesterli.
“My God,” said Jason, as they sat down, “this place is older than America.”
“Jason,” Fanny smiled, “almost everything in the world is older than America. Haven’t you noticed that?”
“Yeah,” he acknowledged, “this whole trip has been kind of a steamroller for my ego. I feel born yesterday and two feet tall.”
“I tell you, Jason,” she said with a twinkle, “if you really want to learn what it’s like to be small, come to Holland. Once upon a time we were a big world power — we even owned Central Park. Now our only claim to fame is that we gave the world Rembrandt and the English word for ‘cookie.’ ”
“Are all the Dutch so self-deprecating?”
“Yes. It’s our sly way of being arrogant.”