by Erich Segal
President Lowell thought that it was wrong for undergraduates to live in these hermetic cliques. So he championed the idea of copying Oxford and dividing the university into smaller colleges that would be a mixture of all types.
The process works like this. First they admit all of us freshmen into dormitories in the Yard so that—in principle—we get to meet the different kinds of guys that make up one whole class. After a year of this enlightening experience we’re supposed to have found our new diverse and fascinating friends. At which point we’ll be ready to spend our next three years down by the river in those exciting little colleges that Harvard snobbishly calls simply “houses.”
Actually, for some guys this arrangement has some educational value. Jocks from Alabama find themselves applying to a house along with pre-med types, philosophers, and would-be novelists. And when it does work, this setup really can enrich a person’s life as much as any academic course.
But this is far less true where preppies are concerned. Variety is not the spice of our lives. We’re like bacteria (though slightly brighter). We flourish in our own special environment. So I’m sure the university was not surprised when Newall, Wigglesworth, and I decided to perpetuate our roommatehood for three more years.
Originally, we had wanted to have Jason Gilbert join with us as a foursome. He’s a really good guy and would help to keep things lively. Also, Newall figured we might profit from the surplus of his feminine admirers. But that was secondary.
Dick asked him on the bus back from the squash match against Yale (which we won). But Jason was reluctant. He had had such unbelievable bad luck with roommates that he’d made up his mind to apply to live alone next year. Though sophomores rarely get this privilege, Gilbert’s proctor promised to write a letter of support for him. And Jason suggested that we all select the same house as our first choice so that we could have our meals together and he’d be nearby for our multitudinous impromptu parties.
Now our only problem was where to apply.
Though there are seven houses, only three of them are really socially acceptable. For despite this bull about democracy, most of the masters want to give their house a distinctive tone, and thus try to select a preponderance of certain types, who reciprocally gravitate toward them.
A lot of guys choose Adams House (named after good old Johnny, Class of 1755, the second U.S. President), perhaps because it had once been Gold Coast apartments. Also, not inconsequentially, it has a chef who once worked in a fancy New York restaurant (a factor not to be ignored when you consider three full years of breakfast, lunch, and dinner).
Then there’s Lowell House, a Georgian masterpiece, convenient to the Final Clubs, whose master is more English than the queen. Withal, a very tweedy place.
But Harvard’s undisputed preppie paradise is … Eliot House. Needless to say, both Wig and Newall want to make it their first choice. But I’m a bit uneasy at the prospect of inhabiting this rather awesome redbrick monument to my great-grandfather (his statue’s even in the courtyard).
Still, Wig and Newall were really hot to go where most of our friends already are ensconced. We had the makings of a real dilemma, till an unexpected visitor surprised us fairly late one evening.
Fortunately, no one was too drunk to hear the knocking at the door.
Newall stood up unsteadily to greet our nocturnal guest. I suddenly heard him cry out, “Jesus Christ!” and hurried to the door to hear our visitor reply, “Not quite, young man, I’m just His humble servant.”
It was none other than Professor Finley. I mean the man himself—in our own dorm!
He happened to be passing by on his late evening promenade, and thought he’d take the liberty of popping in to ask where we’d be applying for next year. And especially if Eliot was “privileged” to be among our choices.
We quickly assured him that it was, although he sensed that I myself had qualms about being Andrew Eliot in Eliot House, whose master was the Eliot Professor of Greek.
In fact, he’d come to reassure me.
He did not expect me to translate the Bible for the Indians, or become the President of Harvard. And yet he was certain that in my own way I’d make my mark somehow.
I don’t know if I was more stunned or just moved. I mean, this great professor thought that I might actually develop into—I don’t know—something.
The next morning I was still not really sure that John H. Finley actually had come in person to our room.
But, even if it was a dream, the three of us are going to go to Eliot. Because even the ghost of Finley—if it was only that—is good enough to spellbind anyone.
When Jason Gilbert picked up the Crimson outside his door each morning, he turned his immediate attention to the sports page to see if any of his exploits had been mentioned. After that, he read the front page to learn what was happening around the college. Finally, if he had time, he checked the world news, which was always briefly outlined in a corner.
For this reason he failed to notice a brief item reporting that, for the first time in memory, a freshman had won the annual concerto contest of the Harvard-Radcliffe Orchestra.
On the evening of April 12, 1955, Daniel Rossi ’58 would be playing Liszt’s E-Flat Concerto.
Jason learned of this only three days later, when an envelope was slipped under his door.
Dear Gilbert,
If you hadn’t helped me with the Step Test, I probably would never have been able to practice enough to win.
Here, as promised, are two tickets. Bring a friend.
Regards,
Danny
Jason smiled. That freshman-week experience was such a distant memory, he’d never given Danny’s words a second thought. But now he could invite Annie Russell, the most sought-after girl at Radcliffe. Jason had long been looking for a suitable occasion. And this was a great one.
On the night of April 12, all of Harvard’s talent watchers crowded into Sanders Theater to examine what had been predicted as a new comet entering their galaxy.
No one was more aware of the impending scrutiny than the soloist himself. Danny stood in the wings, watching with mounting anxiety as the hall continued to fill with intimidating personalities. Not only were his Harvard professors present, but he recognized important figures from the city’s famous conservatories. My God, even John Finley was there.
During the exhilarating weeks of rehearsal he had looked forward with a kind of manic joy to this grand occasion—the moment to parade his pianistic talents before a thousand bigwigs. He had suddenly felt like a giant.
That is, until last night. For on the eve of what he had been sure would be his Harvard coronation, he could not get to sleep. He tossed. He turned. He fantasized catastrophe. And moaned as if it were inevitable.
I’ll be a laughingstock, he thought. I’ll faint when I walk out on stage. Or else I’ll trip. Or maybe play my entrance much too soon. Or too late. Or completely forget the music.
They’ll be rolling in the aisles. And not just Orange County ladies, but a thousand of the world’s most knowledgeable people. What a disaster. Why did I ever go out for this goddamn contest anyway?
He felt his forehead. It was hot and moist. Maybe I’m sick, he thought. He hoped. Maybe they’ll have to cancel my appearance. Oh please, God, make me have the flu. Or even something fairly serious.
To his increased distress, the next morning he felt reasonably healthy. And thus resigned himself to face the evening guillotine in Sanders Theater.
He stood backstage all alone, wishing he were somewhere else.
Don Lowenstein, who was conducting, came back to ask him if he was ready. Danny wanted to say no. But something autonomic made him nod.
He took a breath, said inwardly, “Oh shit,” and walked on stage, his eyes fixed on the floor. Just before sitting at the piano, he bowed slightly to the audience, acknowledging their polite applause. Mercifully, the spotlights blinded him and he could see no faces.
Then an uncanny thing o
ccurred.
No sooner was he at the keyboard than his fear transformed into a new sensation. Excitement. He was burning to make music.
He signaled readiness to Don.
The motion of the opening baton put Danny in a strange, hypnotic trance. He dreamed that he was playing flawlessly. Far better than at any prior moment in his life.
The sounds of “Bravo!” flew at him from every corner of the hall. And applause that seemed without diminuendo.
The atmosphere surrounding Danny afterward reminded Jason of the finals of a tennis championship. They did everything but pick him up and carry him around the theater on their shoulders. Gray eminences of the music community were lined up like fans to shake his hand.
Yet, the moment Danny noticed Jason, he broke free and hurried to the edge of the stage to greet him.
“You were fantastic,” Jason warmly hailed him. “We were really glad to get the tickets. Oh, I’d like to introduce my date, Miss Annie Russell, ’57.”
“Hi.” Danny smiled. “Are you at The Cliffe?”
“Yes,” she answered, beaming. “And can I be the millionth person to say you were absolutely fabulous tonight.”
“Thanks,” said Danny. And then quickly added in apologetic tones, “Hey look, I’m really sorry, but I’ve gotta go shake more professors’ hands. Let’s get together for a meal sometime, huh, Jason? It was nice to meet you, Annie.”
He waved goodbye and sprinted off.
The next afternoon, buoyed by her vivacious attitude all evening, Jason telephoned Annie to invite her to the football game next Saturday.
“I’m really sorry,” she replied, “I’m going down to Connecticut.”
“Oh, a date at Yale?”
“No. Danny’s playing with the Hartford Symphony.”
Shit, thought Jason as he hung up, bursting with frustration. That’s a lesson for you.
Never help a Harvard classmate—even up a step.
On Tuesday, April 24, 1955, winter was still very much in the Cambridge air. Yet, official administrative statistics suggest that a metaphorical ray of sunlight shone into the lives of 71.6 percent of Harvard’s 322d freshman class. For this elated majority had been accepted by the house of their first choice.
To the trio in Wig G-21 it came as no surprise, since their admission had been heralded a month earlier by the visitation of a distinguished archangel. But they were delighted to learn that they had been assigned a suite that enjoyed a river view. Not many sophomores got such choice accommodations.
Nor did many sophomores get the privilege of living in a single room. But Jason Gilbert, Jr., was so honored (for services rendered). His private lodgings were situated across the Eliot courtyard from his three aristocratic friends.
He conveyed the good news to his father in their weekly phone conversation.
“That’s terrific, son. Why, even people who’ve only barely heard of Harvard know that Eliot House has the cream of undergraduate society.”
“But everybody here is supposed to be cream, Dad,” Jason answered good-humoredly.
“Yes, of course. But Eliot’s the crème de la crème, Jason. Your mother and I are really proud of you. I mean, we always are. By the way, have you been doing those new exercises for your backhand?”
“Yes, Dad. Absolutely.”
“Say, I read in Tennis World that all the big guns are going heavier on the road work—just like boxers in the morning.”
“Yeah,” said Jason, “but I really haven’t got time. My course work is incredible.”
“Of course, son. Don’t do anything to compromise your education. Speak to you next week.”
“So long, Dad. Love to Mom.”
Danny Rossi, on the other hand, was outraged. His first choice had been Adams House, because so many musical and literary types lived there. You could practically knock on your left and right and have enough participants for chamber music.
So certain had he been of acceptance into Adams that his alternate second and third selections were scribbled down without the slightest forethought. He had merely listed two other houses as they appeared in alphabetical order on the application, namely Dunster and Eliot.
And it was his third choice, Eliot, to which he was assigned.
How could they do this to him—someone who had already distinguished himself in the college community? Wouldn’t Adams House someday be proud to boast that Danny Rossi had once lived there?
Moreover, he didn’t relish the prospect of being stuck for three years in Eliot with a bunch of smug preppies.
The man to whom he chose to voice his complaint was Master Finley. Such was his respect for the great man after Hum 2 that he felt he could honestly convey his disappointment to the master of the house he didn’t want to be in.
But even more astonishing was his reaction when Finley candidly confessed. “I wanted you very badly, Daniel. I had to trade the master of Adams two football stalwarts and a published poet just to get him to relinquish you.”
“I guess I should be flattered, sir,” said Danny, quite off balance at the news. “It’s just that—”
“I know,” the master said, anticipating Danny’s misgivings, “but despite our reputation, I want Eliot to be outstanding in all the disciplines. Have you visited the house before?”
“No, sir,” Danny admitted.
A moment later Finley was conducting Danny up a winding staircase in the courtyard tower. The young man was out of breath, but the dynamic Finley had sprinted up the steps. And now opened a door.
The first thing Danny saw was an astonishingly beautiful view of the Charles River through a large circular window. Only seconds later did he realize that there was a grand piano placed before it.
“What do you think?” asked Finley. “All the great minds of the past found inspiration in elevated places. Think of your own Italian genius Petrarch ascending Mont Ventoux. A most platonic gesture.”
“This is unbelievable,” said Danny.
“A man could write a symphony up here, could he not, Daniel?”
“I’ll 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.
There 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 su
mmer working for the famous Tanglewood Music Festival.
The tasks are not exalted, but I 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 Rossi, 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 NōDōz 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.