“Frankly, I don’t think I have any morals that I know of.”
“Listen, could I borrow your room a couple of afternoons a week?”
“That’s it? That’s what’s giving you a brain hemorrhage? When do you need it?”
“Well,” he replied, “house parietal rules let you have girls in the room between four and seven. Do you and your roommates need this place in the afternoons?”
“No sweat. Wigglesworth’s got crew and then eats at the Varsity Club, Ditto for Newall with tennis. I work out in the JAB. So that leaves you a clear field for whatever you’ve got in mind.”
Ted was suddenly beaming.
“God, Eliot, how can I ever thank you?”
“Well, the occasional bottle of retsina isn’t a bad idea. There’s only one thing — I’ll have to know this girl’s name so I can sign her in as my guest. It’ll be a little tricky at first, but the super’s a good guy.”
They established a system that would enable Ted and his inamorata (“an absolute goddess” named Sara Harrison) to enjoy the hospitality of Eliot House. All he had to do was give Andrew a few hours’ warning.
Ted was effusive with gratitude and floated out of the room as if on a cloud.
Andrew was left wondering, as that clever Yalie Cole Porter put it, “What is this thing called love?”
He sure as hell didn’t know.
The spring belonged to Jason Gilbert.
He finished his initial season of varsity squash undefeated. And Went straight on to unseat the current captain for the number-one singles slot on the tennis team. Here, too, he did not lose a match. He then crowned his sophomore achievements by winning both the IC4A and Eastern College titles.
These ultimate exploits made him the first member of The Class to have his picture on the sports page of the more widely circulated version of the
If he had suffered any psychic damage from the unhappy experience with the Final Clubs, it was in no way apparent — at least to his athletic opponents.
In every American college there is always a figure known as the BMOC — “Big Man on Campus.” Harvard prided itself on not recognizing this as a valid designation.
Semantics notwithstanding, at this moment in the drama of undergraduate life, the undisputed hero — or in Shakespeare’s words “the observed of all observers” — was indisputably Jason Gilbert, Jr.
Danny Rossi’s esteem in the tiny music community could not counteract the chagrin he felt after the humiliating destruction of his piano. He hated Eliot House, and even at times began to resent Master Finley for bringing him to this den of obnoxious pseudo-sophisticates.
His disdain was reciprocated by most of the house members. And he ate almost every meal alone — except when Andrew Eliot would catch sight of him, sit down, and try to cheer him up.
Ted Lambros’s growing involvement with Sara demonstrated the validity of the platonic notion that love draws the mind to higher planes. He got straight A’s in all his classics courses. Moreover, he no longer felt himself a total alien from campus life. Perhaps because he was spending so many afternoons a week at Eliot House.
Andrew could only sit on the sidelines and marvel at how his classmates were developing. Petals were opening, blossoms emerging. Sophomore year was a glorious awakening for the entire Class.
It had been a time of hope. Of confidence. Of boundless optimism. Almost every member of The Class left Cambridge thinking, We’ve only half-begun.
When, in truth, it was half-over.
Danny Rossi’s second summer at Tanglewood had been even more memorable than his first. Whereas in 1955 his most exalted task was, as he himself put it with self-deprecating humor, “polishing Maestro Munch’s baton,” in 1956 he actually got to wave it in front of the orchestra.
The white-haired Frenchman had developed a grandfatherly affection for the eager little Californian. And, to the consternation of the other students at the Festival School, gave Danny every opportunity to make “real” music.
When Artur Rubinstein came up to play the
At the first break, Rubinstein, legendary for his prodigious musical, memory, bemusedly demanded to know why the conductor had stuck so familiar a score in front of his face. To which Munch replied with a sly grin that it was for the page turner’s benefit. So that Danny Rossi could study the master up close. “The boy is on fire,” he added.
“Weren’t we all at that age?” Rubinstein smiled.
Moments later he invited Danny to his dressing room, to hear
Danny began hesitantly. But by the time he had reached the allegro of the third movement, he was too involved to be diffident. His fingers were flying. In fact, he stunned himself by the uncanny ease with which he played at such a frantic tempo.
At the end he looked up, breathless and sweating.
“Too fast, huh?”
The virtuoso nodded, but with admiration in his eyes. “Yes,” he acknowledged.
“But extremely good nonetheless.”
“Maybe I was just nervous, but this keyboard made it feel like I was rolling down a hill. It sort of sped me up.”
“Do you know why, my boy?” Rubinstein asked. “Since I am not gifted with great size, the Steinway people kindly manufactured this piano with the keys one-eighth smaller. Look again.”
Danny marveled at Artur Rubinstein’s personal piano. For on it he, who was also not “gifted with great size,” could stretch a full thirteenth with ease.
Then the master generously remarked, “Listen, we all know that I don’t need any pages turned. So why not stay here and play to your heart’s content?”
On another occasion, at an outdoor run-through of Mozart’s Overture to
He then motioned to Danny. “Come here, young man,” he said, extending his baton.
“I think you know the piece enough to wave this stick in front of these musicians. Take over for a minute and be sure they behave.”
With this he left Danny feeling very naked and alone on the podium before the entire Boston Symphony.
Of course the orchestra had several assistant conductors and
He was really high that night. And as soon as he got back to his boarding house, Danny phoned Dr. Landau.
“That’s wonderful,” the teacher commented with pride. “Your parents must be delighted.”
“Yeah,” Danny answered half-evasively. “I — uh — would you mind calling Mom and telling her about it?”
“Daniel,” Dr. Landau answered gravely, “this melodrama with your father has gone on too long. Look, this is a perfect opportunity to make a gesture of conciliation.”
“Dr. Landau, please try to understand. I just can’t bring myself to …” His voice trailed off.
