Then the first shout came.
“Play the piano, Danny!”
It soon became a tidal wave of chanting, “Play! Play!”
At first he tried to brush it off nonchalantly with a wave of his right hand. But they wouldn’t stop.
The one thing they admired most in him was no longer his to give.
And suddenly he sensed he could not hold back the tears. So he quickly whirled to the musicians and signaled them to begin the concluding medley of Harvard football songs.
Danny had covered his retreat by invoking something they worshipped more than him — Harvard.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
June 8, 1983
I’m the only person in The Class who knows Danny Rossi’s secret.
I learned it by sheer chance.
The chairman of the Class Campaign had deputized me to “shake up that prima donna Rossi” and make him come up with some sort of contribution.
For, despite our importuning, Danny had resisted giving us even the tiniest donation. And since the Alumni Office has almost as much financial info on our classmates as the IRS, we knew that he was worth several million bucks.
The boys searched high and low for someone who knew Rossi well enough to make one final pitch before our class gift would be announced at the Commencement Ceremony. The fact that I was chosen shows how few close friends he had at Harvard.
Unlike the rest of us, Danny didn’t bunk out in the dorms for old times’ sake. Instead, he and his wife stayed at The Ritz, which is where we met after last night’s concert.
He looked much paler than he did on stage. And even thinner. At first I thought it was just fatigue and the emotion of the evening. He and Maria sat side by side while I tried to make a hearifelt pitch.
Did he feel gratitude to Harvard for his great success, I asked. He answered no. Then what about some bond of friendship or general affection for the place? He answered no to that as well. But then I shifted to another tactic from the “Harvard Guide to Raising Funds.” Did he feel warmly about some
I suggested maybe music or the orchestra. Maybe a prize for composition or performance. Something that was down his alley, He was cordial, but the answer still was no.
This kind of threw me, and I almost lost my cool. Then I asked earnestly if there was anything he cared enough about to want to support.
At this point he exchanged glances with Maria.
Then she asked me very softly not to misunderstand. Danny was a very caring person. But their life was not exactly what it seemed across the footlights. They had in fact talked a lot about a possible gift to Harvard. But they wanted it to be something meaningful to them.
I sensed they were opening up. And at the same time I felt a kind of tension in the room.
Danny then inquired if he could direct his gift to the Med School. I asked him what he had in mind.
Then Maria said they would consider endowing a chair in neurology. One that specifically researched motor dysfunctions.
I was speechless. Did the Rossis realize that a Med School professorship cost a million bucks? Danny said he did. And would donate it on a single condition — that it be anonymous. Totally anonymous.
Now I was really staggered. Why would this guy be so generous and yet want no recognition at all? In fact, I asked them straight out: it was such a noble thing — why did they want it to go unacknowledged?
He glanced at Maria again. They seemed to be thinking as one.
Then, slowly and hesitantly at first, Danny began to tell me the real reason he had given up the piano. He was suffering from a physical handicap. Neurological damage that made him unable to control his left hand.
Just hearing this made me sick at heart. I could scarcely bear to listen.
But Danny tried to make light of it. He joked that their contribution was not really unselfish at all. In fact it was kind of a bet he was placing that some smart Harvard researcher would come up with a cure for his condition “before our Fiftieth reunion.” Then he promised to entertain The Class at the keyboard for as long as they wanted to listen.
I said I’d be in the front row for that concert. Then I didn’t know what else to say.
As I got up to take my leave, Maria walked me to the door, touched my shoulder and murmured, “Andrew, thank you for being such a good person.”
Downstairs, I found a private phone and called Frank Harvey, our Chairman.
I told him I had good news and bad news. The bad was that Rossi didn’t come through. The good was that I ran into a classmate in the hotel bar who was willing to cough up a million bucks for the Med School — anonymously.
At first Frank didn’t believe me. He kept asking if this character was sober. And if
When I convinced him that a banker’s check would be in his hands before the end of the week, he almost did somersaults over the phone.
That put our class gift over the eight-million mark. And, as he put it, made me “the hero of the day.”
I hung up and ambled homeward thinking, I’m no hero. Danny is the guy with guts. He needs courage just to wake up every morning and face what’s happened to him.
I had always looked at him as the exception to the rule. But now I realize that everybody pays a price for his success.
On the afternoon of Commencement Day, the various Harvard classes assembled in the Yard to march into Tercentenary Theater for their annual meeting. They were headed by President Derek Bok, with Dean Theodore Lambros, resplendent in his crimson robes, a step behind. They in turn were followed by batallions of the various classes, several thousand strong.
Those having their Twenty-fifth and Fiftieth reunions had the pride of place. And some of their representatives were honored for various reasons by being asked to sit — wearing top hats and morning coats — on the podium.
Both George Keller and Daniel Rossi had been invited, but respectfully declined. Andrew Eliot was likewise honored for his service to the University Fund Raising Campaign — and sat unobtrusively in a corner of the stage.
Also attending, to represent the Class of ’33 (the Fiftieth) was Philip Harrison, former Secretary of the Treasury and Ted’s erstwhile father-in-law.
As the old man climbed the steps, Ted rose to greet him, offering his hand.
