The Secret History Read Free Page A

literature you will need a modern language. There is still space left in my Elementary French class and some room in German and Italian. The Spanish—” he consulted his list—“the Spanish classes are for the most part filled but if you like I will have a word with Mr. Delgado.”
    “Maybe you could speak to the Greek teacher instead.”
    “I don’t know if it would do any good. He accepts only a limited number of students. A
very
limited number. Besides, in my opinion, he conducts the selection on a personal rather than academic basis.”
    His voice bore a hint of sarcasm; also a suggestion that, if it was all the same to me, he would prefer not to continue this particular conversation.
    “I don’t know what you mean,” I said.
    Actually, I thought I did know. Laforgue’s answer surprised me. “It’s nothing like that,” he said. “Of course he is a distinguished scholar. He happens to be quite charming as well. But he has what I think are some very odd ideas about teaching. He and his students have virtually no contact with the rest of the division. I don’t know why they continue to list his courses in the general catalogue—it’s misleading, every year there is confusion about it—because, practically speaking, the classes are closed. I am told that to study with him one must have read the right things, hold similar views. It has happened repeatedly that he has turned away students such as yourself who have done prior work in classics. With me”—he lifted an eyebrow—“if the student wants to learn what I teach and is qualified, I allow him in my classes. Very democratic, no? It is the best way.”
    “Does that sort of thing happen often here?”
    “Of course. There are difficult teachers at every school. And plenty—” to my surprise, he lowered his voice—“and
plenty
here who are far more difficult than him. Though I must ask that you do not quote me on that.”
    “I won’t,” I said, a bit startled by this sudden confidential manner.
    “Really, it is quite essential that you don’t.” He was leaning forward, whispering, his tiny mouth scarcely moving as he spoke. “I must insist. Perhaps you are not aware of this but I have several formidable enemies in the Literature Division. Even, though you may scarcely believe it,
here in my own department
. Besides,” he continued in a more normal tone, “he is a special case. He has taught here for many years and even refuses payment for his work.”
    “Why?”
    “He is a wealthy man. He donates his salary to the college, though he accepts, I think, one dollar a year for tax purposes.”
    “Oh,” I said. Even though I had been at Hampden only a fewdays, I was already accustomed to the official accounts of financial hardship, of limited endowment, of corners cut.
    “Now me,” said Laforgue, “I like to teach well enough, but I have a wife and a daughter in school in France—the money comes in handy, yes?”
    “Maybe I’ll talk to him anyway.”
    Laforgue shrugged. “You can try. But I advise you not to make an appointment, or probably he will not see you. His name is Julian Morrow.”
    I had not been particularly bent on taking Greek, but what Laforgue said intrigued me. I went downstairs and walked into the first office I saw. A thin, sour-looking woman with tired blond hair was sitting at the desk in the front room, eating a sandwich.
    “It’s my lunch hour,” she said. “Come back at two.”
    “I’m sorry. I’m just looking for a teacher’s office.”
    “Well, I’m the registrar, not the switchboard. But I might know. Who is it?”
    “Julian Morrow.”
    “Oh, him,” she said, surprised. “What do you want with him? He’s upstairs, I think, in the Lyceum.”
    “What room?”
    “Only teacher up there. Likes his peace and quiet. You’ll find him.”
    Actually, finding the Lyceum wasn’t easy at all. It was a small building on the edge of campus, old and covered with ivy in such a manner as to be almost