The Class (12 page)

Amost platonic gesture."

"This is unbelievable," said Danny.

"A man could write a symphony up here, could he not, Daniel?" -

"fil bet."

"Which is why we wanted you at Eliot House. Remember, all of Harvard welcomes genius, but here we cultivate it."

The living legend held his hand out toward the young musician and remarked, "I look forward to your coming here next fall."

"Thank you," said Danny, quite overwhelmed. "Thank you for bringing me to Eliot."

Yet, for certain members of The Class of '58, April 24 was just like any other day. -

Ted Lambros was one of those unhappy few. For, being a commuter, he had not applied to any house and hence was completely unaffected by the news conveyed to all those living in the Yard.

He went to class as usual, spent the whole afternoon grinding in Lamont Library, - and at five headed for The Marathon.

Still, he could not help being aware that the more privileged of his classmates were rejoicing at the prospect of spending the next three years along the river as members of a unique housing arrangement.

Having garnered an A-minus and three B's at midterms, he had been reasonably confident of obtaining a

scholarship-large enough, in fact, to permit him to live at the college.

But to his chagrin, he had received a letter from the Financial Aid Office, which took great pleasure in informing him that he had been granted a stipend of eight hundred

-dollars for next year.

This would normally seem like cause for at least some

modest rejoicing. But Harvard had just recently announced a rise in its basic tuition to precisely that amount.

Ted felt frustrated as hell. Like a runner sprinting madly on a treadmill.

He still did not really belong. Yet.

T

here had not merely been members of the academic community at Danny Rossi's Sanders Theater concert. Unknown to the soloist, Professor Piston had invited Charles Munch, the distinguished conductor of the Boston Symphony. The maestro wrote Danny an encomiastic letter,

in his own hand, commending his performance and inviting him to spend the summer working for the famous Tanglewood Music Festival.

The tasks are not exalted, but 1 feel that you would

benefit from the proximity to all the great artists who come visit us. And I would personally welcome you to sit in on our orchestra rehearsals, since I know you aspire to a professional career.

Yours sincerely,

- Charles Munch

This invitation also solved a touchy family dilemma. For, in

- her weekly letters, Gisela earnestly assured her son

that if he came back home that summer she was certain that

his father would destigmatize him. And they could build a new relationship.

And yet, although he longed to see his mother-and to share

his great success with Dr. Landau-Danny simply could not risk another confrontation with Arthur Ross!, D. D. S.

Then suddenly, almost abruptly, freshman year was at an end.

The month of May began with Reading Period -for exams.

These special days were theoretically for extra, independent study. But for a lot of Harvard men (like Andrew Eliot and company), it meant sitting down to do a whole semester's work, beginning with the very first assignments in their courses.

The' athletic season culminated with the many confrontations against Yale. Not all the clashes went in Harvard's favor. But Jason Gilbert led the tennis team to victory. And took particular delight in watching the Yale coach's face as he unmercifully destroyed their number-one man, and returned -with Dickie Newall in the doubles for another round of sweet revenge. -

Now even Jason had to settle dOwn and do some heavy

studying. He drastically reduced his social life, restricting it to weekends only.

Meanwhile, in Harvard Square the sales of cigarettes and

NODOz pep pills rose dramatically. Lamont was packed

around the clock. Its modern ventilation system spewed back all the scents of unchanged shirts, cold sweat, and naked fear. Yet no one noticed.

Examinations actually were a relief. For The Class of '58 learned to its great delight that the old proverb about Harvard was quite true: The hardest part was getting in. You had to be a genius not to graduate.

And yet, as freshman dorms were emptied-to make room for

the ancient graduates of twenty-five years previous who would be living in them once again during Commencement Week-some members of The Class were leaving, never to

return. -

A tiny number had actually accomplished the impossible and flunked out. Some honestly conceded that they could not bear the prospect of more pressure from such unbelievably ambitious peers. And thus, capitulating to preserve their sanity, elected to transfer to universities near home.

Some went down fighting. And lost their minds in doing so. David Davidson (still in the hospital) was not the last. In fact, at Easter there had been a suicide compassionately misrepresented by the Crimson as an auto accident (although Bob Rutherford of San Antonio had actually been parked in his garage when death occurred).

And yet, as certain rugged members of The Class would

argue, was this not something of a lesson to both the victims and the survivors? Would life at the very top be any easier than the self-inflicted torture chamber that was Harvard?

But the more sensitive of them recognized that they still had another three years to survive. - -

ANDREW ELIOT'S DIARY

October 1, 1955

Last August when we were all up at the family house in - Maine-where I spent most of the time getting to know

my new stepmother and her kids-Father and I had our annual lakeside chat. First be congratulated me for squeaking by in all my courses. Indeed, the prospect of my actually staying in one school for four entire years now seemed to him a pleasant possibility.

Further in an educational vein, he expressed his

determination that I should not suffer from the handicap - of having been born rich. His message was that although he would gladly pay my tuition fees and board, he was stopping my pocket money for my own good.

- Therefore, if I wished-as he hoped I did-to join a Final Club, to go cheer Harvard at football games, to take young eligible ladies to Locke-Ober's, etc., I would have to seek gainful employment. All of this was, of course, to teach me Emersonian self-reliance. For which I thanked him politely. - Upon my return to Cambridge for sophomore year, I went straight to the Student Employment Center and found that the really lucrative jobs had already gone to scholarship

students who needed the dough more than I. Thus, I could not have the enlightening experience of washing plates or dishing out mashed potatoes.

Just when things looked bleakest, however, I ran into

Master Finley in the courtyard. When I told him why I was back so early, he commended my father's desire to inculcate

good Yankee values. Surprisingly, as if he had nothing better to do, he marched me straight to the Eliot House library, where he persuaded Ned Devlin, the head librarian, to sign me on as one• of his assistants.

Anyway, I've got this really good deal. Three nights a

week I get seventy-five cents an hour for just sitting at a desk from seven till midnight watching guys read books.

Actually, Master Finley must have known what he was doing, because the job is so undemanding that, for lack of something better to do, I study.

Once in a great while, a guy interrupts me to take out a book-so I rarely have to look up from the page- except if somebody's talking too loud and I have to shut him up.

But last night was different. Something actually happened in the Eliot House library.

-At about nine o'clock I lifted my eyes just to survey the scene. The place was dotted with studying preppies in their usual uniform, button-down shirts and chinos.

But at a table in the far corner I noticed something

strange on the back of a well-built guy. It was, I thought, my own jacket. Or, more accurately, my own former jacket. Normally I wouldn't know the difference, but this was a tweed job with leather buttons that my folks had brought me from Harrods in London. There weren't many of those around. -

Not that this in itself should be surprising. After all, I

had sold it last spring to that famous used-clothes merchant, Joe Keezer. He's a Harvard institution, and most of my friends, when in need of extra cash for such necessities as ears, liquor, and club dues, have flogged their fashionable rags to old Joe.

But 1 don't know a single guy who ever bought from him. I mean, it doesn't work that way. So, strictly in my professional capacity as librarian, I was confronted with a problem. For possibly, indeed quite probably, there was an infiltrator in the library disguised as a preppie.

The guy was good-looking---dark and handsome. But he was a little too kempt. I mean, although the room was kind of stuffy, not only did he keep the jacket on, but I could see he didn't even open up his collar. Also, he seemed to be cramming like a demon. He was buried in his book, moving only now and then to check a dictionary. -

Now, all of this is not against the law. And yet it's not the norm for anyone I knew in Eliot House. And so I figured I had better keep my eyes on this possible interloper. -

At eleven-forty-five, I usually start extinguishing lights to give the guys a hint that I am closing shop. By chance last night the library was already empty-except for this stranger in my former jacket. This gave me a chance to solve

the mystery.

I casually approached his table, pointed toward the large lamp in the middle, and asked if he minded if I shut it off. He looked up, startled, and said, kind of

apologetically, that he hadn't realized it was closing time.

When I answered that by house rules he officially had fourteen minutes more, he got the message. He stood up and asked me how I'd guessed he wasn't from Eliot. Was it something in his face?

-I answered candidly that it was only something in his jacket.

This embarrassed him. As he started to examine it, I explained that it was a former possession -of mine. Now I felt shitty for mentioning it, and quickly assured the guy that he could use the library anytime I was there.

I mean, he was at Harvard, wasn't he?

Yeah. It turns out he's a sophomore commuter. Named Ted

Lambros.

O

n October 17, there was a small riot in Eliot House. More specifically, a demonstration against classical

music. Still more specifically, a demonstration against Danny Rossi. To be extremely precise, the actual aggression was not against the man but his piano.

It all started when a couple of clubbies began an early cocktail party. Danny usually practiced at Paine Hall, except when he had exams or a paper due. Then he used the secondhand upright in his room.

He was at it hot and heavy that afternoon when some of the jolly tipplers decided that Chopin was not suitable background music for getting smashed. It was simply a matter of taste. And, of course, in Eliot House, taste was the supreme law. It was therefore decided that Rossi had to be

silenced.

At first they tried diplomacy. Dickie Newall was

dispatched to tap politely on Rossi's portal and respectfully request that Danny "quit playing that shit."

The pianist replied that house rules allowed him to

practice a musical instrument in the afternoon. And he would stick to his rights. To which Newall responded that he didn't give a flying fig for rules, and that Rossi was disturbing a serious

symposium. Danny then asked him to go away. Which he did. When Newall returned to report the failure of his mission, his co-imbibers decided that physical action was necessary. Four of Eliot's staunchest and drunkest legionnaires

marched resolutely across the courtyard and up to Rossi's room. They knocked politely on the door. He opened it slightly. Without another word, the commandos entered, surrounded the offending instrument, lugged it to the open window, and- hurled it out. -

Danny's piano fell three floors to the courtyard, smashing

and disintegrating on the pavement below. Fortunately, no one was passing by at the time.

Rossi feared he'd be the next to be defenestrated. But

Dickie Newall simply remarked, "Thanks for your cooperation, Dan." And the band of merry men departed.

In a matter of seconds there was a crowd around the dismembered instrument. Danny was the first to arrive and reacted as though someone in his family had been murdered.

("Christ," Newall reported, "I've never seen a guy get so upset about a piece of wood. ")

The perpetrators of the assault were immediately convoked in the senior tutor's office, where Dr. Porter threatened

them with expulsion and ordered them to pay for a new piano as well as for the broken window. Moreover, they were commanded to march over and apologize.

But Rossi was still in a fury. He told them they were a bunch of uncivilized animals who didn't deserve to be at Harvard. Since Dr. Porter was right there, they grudgingly

agreed with him. As they departed, the clubbies vowed revenge on the "little Italian wimp" who had caused them so much embarrassment.

That night at dinner. Andrew Eliot (who had been warming