He laughed and quoted a little Greek epigram about honesty being a dangerous virtue, and, to my surprise, opened the door and ushered me in.

It was a beautiful room, not an office at all, and much bigger than it looked from outside-airy and white, with a high ceiling and a breeze fluttering in the starched curtains. In the corner, near a low bookshelf, was a big round table littered with teapots and Greek books, and there were flowers everywhere, roses and carnations and anemones, on his desk, on the table, in the windowsills. The roses were especially fragrant; their smell hung rich and heavy in the air, mingled with the smell of bergamot, and black China tea, and a faint inky scent of camphor. Breathing deep, I felt intoxicated. Everywhere I looked was something beautiful-Oriental rugs, porcelains, tiny paintings like jewels-a dazzle of fractured color that struck me as if I had stepped into one of those little Byzantine churches that are so plain on the outside; inside, the most paradisal painted eggshell of gilt and tesserae.

He sat in an armchair by the window and motioned for me to sit, too. "I suppose you've come about the Greek class," he said.

"Yes."

His eyes were kind, frank, more gray than blue. "It's rather late in the term," he said.

"I'd like to study it again. It seems a shame to drop it after two years."

He arched his eyebrows-deep, mischievous-and looked at his folded hands for a moment. "I'm told you're from California."

"Yes, I am," I said, rather startled. Who had told him that?

"I don't know many people from the West," he said. "I don't know if I would like it there." He paused, looking pensive and vaguely troubled. "And what do you do in California?"

I gave him the spiel. Orange groves, failed movie stars, lamplit cocktail hours by the swimming pool, cigarettes, ennui. He listened, his eyes fixed on mine, apparently entranced by these fraudulent recollections. Never had my efforts met with such attentiveness, such keen solicitude. He seemed so utterly enthralled that I was tempted to embroider a little more than perhaps was prudent.

"How thrilling," he said warmly when I, half-euphoric, was finally played out. "How very romantic."

"Well, we're all quite used to it out there, you see," I said, trying not to fidget, flushed with the brilliance of my success.

"And what does a person with such a romantic temperament seek in the study of the classics?" he asked this as if, having had the good fortune to catch such a rare bird as myself, he was anxious to extract my opinion while I was still captive in his office.

"If by romantic you mean solitary and introspective," I said, "I think romantics are frequently the best classicists."

He laughed. "The great romantics are often failed classicists. But that's beside the point, isn't it? What do you think of Hampden? Are you happy here?"

I provided an exegesis, not as brief as it might have been, of why at the moment I found the college satisfactory for my purposes.

"Young people often find the country a bore," said Julian.

"Which is not to say that it isn't good for them. Have you traveled much? Tell me what it was that attracted you to this place. I should think a young man such as yourself would be at a loss outside the city, but perhaps you feel tired of city life, is that so?"

So skillfully and engagingly that I was quite disarmed, he led me deftly from topic to topic, and I am sure that in this talk, which seemed only a few minutes but was really much longer, he managed to extract everything about me he wanted to know. I did not suspect that his rapt interest might spring from anything less than the very richest enjoyment of my own company, and though I found myself talking with relish on a bewildering variety of topics-some of them quite personal, and with more frankness than was customary-I was convinced that I was acting of my own volition. I wish I could remember much of what was said that day-actually, I do remember more of what I said, most of it too fatuous for me to recall with pleasure. The only point at which he differed (aside from an incredulous eyebrow raised at my mention of Picasso; when I came to know him better I realized that he must have thought this an almost personal affront) was on the topic of psychology, which was, after all, heavy on my mind, working for Dr. Roland and everything. "But do you really think," he said, concerned, "that one can call psychology a science?"

"Certainly. What else is it?"

"But even Plato knew that class and conditioning and so forth have an inalterable effect on the individual. It seems to me that psychology is only another word for what the ancients called fate."

"Psychology is a terrible word."

He agreed vigorously. "Yes, it is terrible, isn't it?" he said, but with an expression that indicated that he thought it rather tasteless of me even to use it. "Perhaps in certain ways it is a helpful construct in talking about a certain kind of mind. The country people who live around me are fascinating because their lives are so closely bound to fate that they really are predestined. But-" he laughed-"I'm afraid my students are never very interesting to me because I always know exactly what they're going to do."

I was charmed by his conversation, and despite its illusion of being rather modern and digressive (to me, the hallmark of the modern mind is that it loves to wander from its subject) I now see that he was leading me by circumlocution to the same points again and again. For if the modern mind is whimsical and discursive, the classical mind is narrow, unhesitating, relentless. It is not a quality of intelligence that one encounters frequently these days. But though I can digress with the best of them, I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive.

We talked a while longer, and presently fell silent. After a moment Julian said courteously, "If you'd like, I'd be happy to take you as a pupil, Mr. Papen."

I, looking out the window and having half-forgotten why I was there, turned to gape at him and couldn't think of a thing to say.

"However, before you accept, there are a few conditions to which you must agree."

"What?" I said, suddenly alert.

"Will you go to the Registrar's office tomorrow and put in a request to change counselors?" He reached for a pen in a cup on his desk; amazingly, it was full of Montblanc fountain pens, Meisterstucks, at least a dozen of them. Quickly he wrote out a note and handed it to me. "Don't lose it," he said, "because the Registrar never assigns me counselees unless I request them."

The note was written in a masculine, rather nineteenth-century hand, with Greek e's. The ink was still wet. "But I have a counselor," I said.

"It is my policy never to accept a pupil unless I am his counselor as well. Other members of the literature faculty disagree with my teaching methods and you will run into problems if someone else gains the power to veto my decisions. You should pick up some drop-add forms as well. I think you are going to have to drop all the classes you are currently taking, except the French, which would be as well for you to keep. You appear to be deficient in the area of modern languages."

I was astonished. "I can't drop all my classes."

"Why not?"

"Registration is over."

"That doesn't matter at all," said Julian serenely. "The classes that I want you to pick up will be with me. You will probably be taking three or four classes with me per term for the rest of your time here."

I looked at him. No wonder he had only five students. "But how can I do that?" I said.

He laughed. "I'm afraid you haven't been at Hampden very long. The administration doesn't like it much, but there's nothing they can do. Occasionally they try to raise problems with distribution requirements but that's never caused any real trouble. We study art, history, philosophy, all sorts of things. If I find you are deficient in a given area, I may decide to give you a tutorial, perhaps refer you to another teacher. As French is not my first language, I think it wise if you continue to study that with Mr. Laforgue. Next year I'll start you on Latin. It's a difficult language, but knowing Greek will make it easier for you. The most satisfying of languages, Latin. You will find it a delight to learn."

I listened, a bit affronted by his tone. To do what he asked was tantamount to my transferring entirely out of Hampden College into his own little academy of ancient Greek, student body five, six including me. "All my classes with you?" I said.

"Not quite all of them," he said seriously, and then laughed when he saw the look on my face. "I believe that having a great diversity of teachers is harmful and confusing for a young mind, in the same way I believe that it is better to know one book intimately that a hundred superficially," he said. "I know the modern world tends not to agree with me, but after all, Plato had only one teacher, and Alexander."

Slowly I nodded, trying as I did so to think of a tactful way to withdraw, when my eyes met his and suddenly I thought: Why not? I was slightly giddy with the force of his personality but the extremism of the offer was appealing as well. His students-if they were any mark of his tutelage-were imposing enough, and different as they all were they shared a certain coolness, a cruel, mannered charm which was not modern in the least but had a strange cold breath of the ancient world: they were magnificent creatures, such eyes, such hands, such looks-sic oculos, sic ille manus, sic ora ferehat. I envied them, and found them attractive; moreover this strange quality, far from being natural, gave every indication of having been intensely cultivated. (It was the same, I would come to find, with Julian: though he gave quite the opposite impression, of freshness and candor, it was not spontaneity but superior art which made it seem unstudied.) Studied or not, I wanted to be like them. It was heady to think that these qualities were acquired ones and that, perhaps, this was the way I might learn them.

This was all a long way from Plano, and my father's gas station. "And if I do take classes with you, will they all be in Greek?" I asked him.

He laughed. "Of course not. We'll be studying Dante, Virgil, all sorts of things. But I wouldn't advise you to go out and buy a copy of Goodbye, Columbus" (required, notoriously, in one of the freshman English classes) "if you will forgive me for being vulgar."

Georges Laforgue was disturbed when I told him what I planned to do. "This is a serious business," he said. "You understand, don't you, how limited will be your contact with the rest of the faculty and with the school?"

"He's a good teacher," I said.

"No teacher is that good. And if you should by chance have a disagreement with him, or be treated unjustly in any way, there will be nothing anyone on the faculty can do for you. Pardon me, but I do not see the point of paying a thirty-thousand-dollar tuition simply to study with one instructor."

I thought of referring that question to the Hampden College Endowment Fund, but I said nothing.

He leaned back in his chair. "Forgive me, but I should think the elitist values of such a man would be repugnant to you," he said. "Frankly, this is the first time I have ever heard of his accepting a pupil who is on such considerable financial aid. Being a democratic institution, Hampden College is not founded on such principles."

"Well, he can't be all that elitist if he accepted me," I said.

He didn't catch my sarcasm. "I am willing to speculate that he isn't aware you are on assistance," he said seriously.

"Well, if he doesn't know," I said, "I'm not going to tell him."

Julian's classes met in his office. They were very small classes, and besides, no classroom could have approached it in terms of comfort, or privacy. He had a theory that pupils learned better in a pleasant, non-scholastic atmosphere; and that luxurious hothouse of a room, flowers everywhere in the dead of winter, was some sort of Platonic microcosm of what he thought a schoolroom should be. ("Work?" he said to me once, astonished, when I referred to our classroom activities as such. "Do you really think that what we do is work?"

"What else should I call it?"

"I should call it the most glorious kind of play.") As I was on my way there for my first class, I saw Francis Abernathy stalking across the meadow like a black bird, his coat flapping dark and crowlike in the wind. He was preoccupied, smoking a cigarette, but the thought that he might see me filled me with an inexplicable anxiety. I ducked into a doorway and waited until he had passed.

When I turned on the landing of the Lyceum stairs, I was shocked to see him sitting in the windowsill. I glanced at him quickly, and then quickly away, and was about to walk into the hall when he said, "Wait." His voice was cool and Bostonian, almost British.

I turned around.

"Are you the new neanias?" he said mockingly.

The new young man. I said that I was.

"Cubitum eamus?"

"What?"

"Nothing."

He transferred the cigarette to his left hand and offered the right one to me. It was bony and soft-skinned as a teenage girl's.

He did not bother to introduce himself. After a brief, awkward silence, I told him my name.

He took a last drag of the cigarette and tossed it out the open window. "I know who you are," he said.

Henry and Bunny were already in the office; Henry was reading a book and Bunny, leaning across the table, was talking to him loudly and earnestly.

"... tasteless, that's what it is, old man. Disappointed in you. I gave you credit for a little more savoir faire than that, if you don't mind my saying so...."

"Good morning," said Francis, coming in behind me and closing the door.

Henry glanced up and nodded, then went back to his book.

"Hi," said Bunny, and then "Oh, hello there" to me. "Guess what," he continued to Francis. "Henry bought himself a Montblanc pen."

"Really?" said Francis.

Bunny nodded at the cup of sleek black pens that sat on Julian's desk. "I told him he better be careful or Julian will think he stole it."

"He was with me when I bought it," said Henry without looking up from his book.

"How much are those things worth, anyway?" said Bunny.

No answer.

"Come on. How much? Three hundred bucks a pop?" He leaned all of his considerable weight against the table. "I remember when you used to say how ugly they were. You used to say you'd never write with a thing in your life but a straight pen. Right?"

Silence.

"Let me see that again, will you?" Bunny said.

Putting his book down, Henry reached in his breast pocket and pulled out the pen and put it on the table. "There," he said.

Bunny picked it up and turned it back and forth in his fingers. "It's like the fat pencils I used to use in first grade," he said. "Did Julian talk you into getting this?"

"I wanted a fountain pen."

"That's not why you got this one."

"I am sick of talking about this."

"I think it's tasteless."

"You," said Henry sharply, "are not one to speak of taste."

There was a long silence, during which Bunny leaned back in his chair. "Now, what kind of pens do we all use here?" he said conversationally. "Francois, you're a nib-and-bottle man like myself, no?"

"More or less."

He pointed to me as if he were the host of a panel discussion on a talk show. "And you, what's-your-name, Robert? What sort of pens did they teach you to use in California?"

"Ball points," I said.

Bunny nodded deeply. "An honest man, gentlemen. Simple tastes. Lays his cards on the table. I like that."

The door opened and the twins came in.

"What are you yelling about, Bun?" said Charles, laughing, kicking the door shut behind him. "We heard you all the way down the hall."

Bunny launched into the story about the Montblanc pen. Uneasily, I edged into the corner and began to examine the books in the bookcase.

"How long have you studied the classics?" said a voice at my elbow. It was Henry, who had turned in his chair to look at me.

"Two years," I said.

"What have you read in Greek?"

"The New Testament."

"Well, of course you've read Koine," he said crossly. "What else? Homer, surely. And the lyric poets."

This, I knew, was Henry's special bailiwick. I was afraid to lie. "A little."

"And Plato?"

"Yes."

"All of Plato?"