“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. Amost 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 summer 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.
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.
