Love Story by Erich Segal Page A

unlapsed Catholics. It was in Phillips
Brooks House, an old building in the north of Harvard Yard. Timothy
Blauvelt, the college Unitarian chaplain, presided. Naturally, Ray
Stratton was there, and I also invited Jeremy Nahum, a good friend
from the Exeter days, who had taken Amherst over Harvard. Jenny asked
a girl friend from Briggs Hall and - maybe for sentimental reasons her tall, gawky colleague at the
reserve book desk. And of course Phil.
    I put Ray Stratton in charge of Phil.
I mean, just to keep him as loose as possible. Not that Stratton was
all that calm! The pair of them stood there, looking tremendously
uncomfortable, each silently reinforcing the other’s preconceived
notion that this ‘do-it-yourself wedding’ (as Phil referred to
it) was going to be (as Stratton kept predicting) ‘an incredible
horror show.’ Just because Jenny and I were going to address a few
words directly to one another! We had actually seen it done earlier
that spring when one of Jenny’s musical friends, Marya Randall,
married a design student named Eric Levenson. It was a very beautiful
thing, and really sold us on the idea, ‘Are you two ready?’ asked
Mr. Blauvelt.
    ‘Yes,’ I said for both of us.
    ‘Friends,’ said Mr. Blauvelt to
the others, ‘we are here to witness the union of two lives in
marriage. Let us listen to the words they have chosen to read on this
sacred occasion.’
    The bride first. Jenny stood facing
me and recited the poem she had selected. It was very moving, perhaps
especially to me, because it was a sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett: When
our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent,
drawing nigh and nigher, Until the lengthening wings break into fire
…
    From the corner of my eye I saw Phil
Cavilleri, pale, slack-jawed, eyes wide with amazement and adoration
combined.
    We listened to Jenny finish the
sonnet, which was in its way a kind of prayer for
    A place to stand and love in for a
day, With darkness and the death’ hour rounding it.
    Then it was my turn. It had been hard
finding a piece of poetry I could read without blushing. I mean, I
couldn’t stand there and recite lace-doily phrases. I couldn’t.
But a section of Walt Whitman’s Song of the Open Road, though kind
of brief, said it all for me: … I give you my hand!
    I give you my love more precious than
money, I give you myself before preaching or law; Will you give me
yourself? will you come travel with me?
    Shall we stick by each other as long
as we live?
    I finished, and there was a wonderful
hush in the room. Then Ray Stratton handed me the ring, and Jenny and
I - ourselves - recited the marriage
vows, taking each other, from that day forward, to love and cherish,
till death do us part.
    By the authority vested in him by the
Commonwealth of Massachusetts, Mr. Timothy Blauvelt pronounced us man
and wife.
    Upon reflection, our ‘post-game
party’ (as Stratton referred to it) was pretentiously
unpretentious. Jenny and I had absolutely rejected the champagne
route, and since there were so few of us we could all fit into one
booth, we went to drink beer at Cronin’s. As I recall, Jim Cronin
himself set us up with a round, as a tribute to ‘the greatest
Harvard hockey player since the Cleary brothers.’
    ‘Like hell,’ argued Phil
Cavilleri, pounding his fist on the table. ‘He’s better than all
the Clearys put together.’ Philip’s meaning, I believe (he had
never seen a Harvard hockey game), was that however well Bobby or
Billy Cleary might have skated, neither got to marry his lovely
daughter. I mean, we were all smashed, and it was just an excuse for
getting more so.
    I let Phil pick up the tab, a
decision which later evoked one of Jenny’s rare compliments about
my intuition (‘You’ll be a human being yet, Preppie’). It got a
little hairy at the end when we drove him to the bus, however. I
mean, the wet-eyes bit. His, Jenny’s, maybe mine too; I don’t
remember anything except that the moment was