Chapter 1
Date: 2015-10-07; view: 675.
Erich Segal. Love Story
What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died? That she was beautiful. And brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach.And the Beatles. And me. Once, when she specifically lumped me with thosemusical types, I asked her what the order was, and she replied, smiling,"Alphabetical." At the time I smiled too. But now I sit and wonder whethershe was listing me by my first name-in which case I would trail Mozart-or bymy last name, in which case I would edge n there between Bach and theBeatles. Either way I don't come first, which for some stupid reason bothershell out of me, having grown up with the notion that I always had to benumber one. Family heritage, don't you know? In the fall of my senior year, I got into the habit of studying at theRadcliffe library. Not just to eye the cheese, although I admit that I likedto look. The place was quiet, nobody knew me, and the reserve books wereless in demand. The day before one of my history hour exams, I still hadn'tgotten around to reading the first book on the list, an endemic Harvarddisease. I ambled over to the reserve desk to get one of the tomes thatwould bail me out on the morrow. There were two girls working there. One atall tennis-anyone type, the other a bespectacled mouse type. I opted forMinnie Four-Eyes. "Do you have The Waning of the Middle Ages?" She shot a glance up at me. "Do you have your own library?" she asked. "Listen, Harvard is allowed to use the Radcliffe library." "I'm not talking legality, Preppie, I'm talking ethics. You guys havefive million books. We have a few lousy thousand." Christ, a superior-being type! The kind who think since the ratio ofRadcliffe to Harvard is five to one, the girls must be five times as smart.I normally cut these types to ribbons, but just then I badly needed thatgoddamn book. "Listen, I need that goddamn book." "Wouldja please watch your profanity, Preppie?" "What makes you so sure I went to prep school?" "You look stupid and rich," she said, removing her glasses. "You're wrong," I protested. "I'm actually smart and poor. "Oh, no, Preppie. I'm smart and poor." She was staring straight at me. Her eyes were brown. Okay, maybe I lookrich, but I wouldn't let some 'Cliffie-even one with pretty eyes-call medumb. "What the hell makes you so smart?" I asked. "I wouldn't go for coffee with you," she answered. "Listen-I wouldn'task you." "That," she replied, "is what makes you stupid." Let me explain why I took her for coffee. By shrewdly capitulating atthe crucial moment-i.e., by pretending that I suddenly wanted to-I got mybook. And since she couldn't leave until the library closed, I had plenty oftime to absorb some pithy phrases about the shift of royal dependence fromcleric to lawyer in the late eleventh century. I got an A minus on the exam,coincidentally the same grade I assigned to Jenny's legs when she firstwalked from behind that desk. I can't say I gave her costume an honor grade,however; it was a bit too Boho for my taste. I especially ~gthed that Indianthing she carried for a handbag. Fortunately I didn't mention this, as Ilater discovered it was of her own design. We went to the Midget Restaurant, a nearby sandwich joint which,despite its name, is not restricted to people of small stature. I orderedtwo coffees and a brownie with ice cream (for her). "I'm Jennifer Cavilleri," she said, "an American of Italian descent." As if I wouldn't have known. "And a music major," she added. "My name is Oliver," I said. "First or last?" she asked. "First," I answered, and then confessed that my entire name was OliverBarrett. (I mean, that's most of it.) "Oh," she said. "Barrett, like the poet?" "Yes," I said. "No relation." In the pause that ensued, I gave thanks that she hadn't come up withthe usual distressing question: "Barrett, like the hall?" For it is my special albatross to be relatedto the guy that built Barrett Hall, the largest and ugliest structure inHarvard Yard, a colossal monument to my family's money, vanity and flagrantHarvardism. After that, she was pretty quiet. Could we have run out of conversationso quickly? Had I turned her off by not being related to the poet? What? Shesimply sat there, semi-smiling at me. For something to do, I checked out hernotebooks. Her handwriting was curious-small sharp little letters with nocapitals (who did she think she was, e. e. cummings?). And she was takingsome pretty snowy courses: Comp. Lit. 105, Music 150, Music 201- "Music 201? Isn't that a graduate course?" She nodded yes, and was not very good at masking her pride. "Renaissance polyphony." "What's polyphony?" "Nothing sexual, Preppie." Why was I putting up with this? Doesn't she read the Crimson? Doesn'tshe know who I am? "Hey, don't you know who I am?" "Yeah," she answered with kind of disdain. "You're the guy that ownsBarrett Hall." She didn't know who I was. "I don't own Barrett Hall," I quibbled. "My great- grandfather happenedto give it to Harvard." "So his not-so-great grandson would be sure to get That was the limit. "Jenny, if you're so convinced I'm a loser, why did you bulldoze meinto buying you coffee?" She looked me straight in the eye and smiled. "I like your body," shesaid. Part of being a big winner is the ability to be a good loser. There'sno paradox involved. It's a distinctly Harvard thing to be able to turn anydefeat into victory. "Tough luck, Barrett. You played a helluva game." "Really, I'm so gladyou fellows took it. I mean, you people need to win so badly." Of course, an out-and-out triumph is better. I mean, if you have theoption, the last-minute score is preferable. And as I walked Jenny back toher dorm, I had not despaired of ultimate victory over this snotty Radcliffebitch. "Listen, you snotty Radcliffe bitch, Friday night is the Dartmouthhockey game" "So?". "So I'd like you to come." She replied with the usual Radcliffe reverence for sport: "Why the hell should I come to a lousy hockey game?" I answered casually: "Because I'm playing." There was a brief silence. I think I heard snow falling. "For which side?" she asked.| <== previous lecture | | | next lecture ==> |
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