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
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 I 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.
On 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
