February 2, 1958
Maybe I do have a future as something after all. I could be a matchmaker. At least the one fix-up I have engineered in my life has resulted in marriage.
The ceremony took place this past Saturday at the First Unitarian Church of Syosset, Long Island. The bride — looking lovely — was none other than my buddy Jason Gilbert’s sister, Julie. The lucky guy was my old classmate Charlie Gushing, whom I had heretofore regarded as totally useless.
Obviously I was wrong about that, because he had succeeded in getting Julie pregnant the very first time they went to bed together.
Happily, the impending maternity was discovered at a very early stage so that things could be done
Actually, invisible shotgun or not, I think the two of them suit each other. Julie is cute, but she’s not exactly Madame Curie. She was probably majoring in husband catching at Briarcliff anyway. And one may say she’s graduating with highest honors.
After all, “the Cush,” as we affectionately referred to him in prep school, is a real Boston Brahmin, with a pedigree extending back to colonial times. And the Gilberts make up in dynamism what they lack in patina. Jason’s dad is a real pioneer in the television industry and flies to Washington almost as often as the Eastern shuttle.
Moreover, if there was any tension on the part of either family because of the circumstances surrounding the nuptials, it was certainly not apparent. They made a handsome couple, and to their delight, old man Gilbert set them up in a very comfortable house in Woodbridge, so the Cush could finish his Yale studies in style.
What totally surprised me was that I kind of choked up at the wedding. I mean, Gush was the first one of our gang to go. Which made me think that maybe someday I might even take the plunge. Although what sensible girl would want to marry me?
Newall and Andrew were squeezed into Jason’s Corvette during the swift postnuptial ride back to Cambridge. Gradually, Andrew began to notice that Jason seemed gloomy. In fact, he had not smiled much during the whole affair.
“Hey, Gilbert,” Andrew said as they neared the Hartford Bridge, “you seemed pissed off.”
“I am,” Jason replied laconically, and accelerated.
“From that I understand you disapprove of the match.”
“You might say so,” he commented, gritting his teeth.
“On what grounds?” Newall inquired.
“On the grounds that Cushing is the closest thing to a total asshole that I’ve ever encountered.”
“Hey, Jace,” Newall remonstrated, “aren’t you being a bit severe?”
“Hell no,” he answered. “My sister’s barely eighteen. Couldn’t that dingbat have been a little more careful?”
“Maybe they love each other,” Andrew offered, his role in life being to discover silver linings in the cloudiest situations.
“Ah, come on,” Jason exploded, punching the dashboard with one hand, “they hardly know each other.”
“I think both parents were pleased,” Newall suggested.
“Sure,” Jason responded. “The one thing they have in common is an allergy to scandal.”
“Unless my eyes deceived me,” Newall said, “your dad really likes the Gush.”
“Yeah,” Jason answered sarcastically, “but mostly because his ancestors fought at Bunker Hill.”
“So did mine,” Newall added. “Is that why you like me, Gilbert?”
“No,” he replied, only half-joking. “I don’t like you at all, actually.”
“Danny, I think you’re making a very big mistake.”
Professor Piston had asked his prize pupil to come by the office to discuss his plans for next year.
“I’m sorry, Professor, but I just can’t see going through another year of studying.”
“But with Nadia Boulanger, Danny, that is hardly what you call drudgery. One might even say that woman is modern music. Remember, most of the major composers of our time have studied at the ‘Boulangerie.’ ”
“But what if I just put it off for, say, a year or so? I mean, Mr. Hurok has got all these fantastic offers for me from major orchestras —”
“Aha, so you’re hungry for the sound of applause, Danny,” Piston answered knowingly. “I wish you wouldn’t be so impetuous. Once you start traveling on that circuit, you’ll be caught up in the whirlwind and never slow down again to study.”
“But that’s a chance I’m willing to take. Anyway, even if this sounds a little arrogant, I think I could start writing on my own.”
The music chairman hesitated. But Danny sensed that he was holding back, and forced the issue.
“Do I take it, sir, that you don’t think I’m ready as a composer?”
“Well,” Piston said slowly, searching for the words that would put it most delicately, “most of the people who went to Nadia, Copland for instance, were already full-blown artists. Yet she brought out something more in them, enriching everything they wrote thereafter …”
“I don’t think you quite answered my question,” Danny said politely.
“Well,” Piston replied, lowering his gaze, “I think a teacher’s obligation is to tell the truth. That is an imperative of education.”
He paused and then pronounced his verdict.
“Danny, that you are a great pianist everybody knows. And that with the years you’ll grow into a fine conductor I have not the slightest doubt. But at this stage, your compositions are still — how can I put it? — raw material. I mean, fine ideas, but without sufficient discipline. That’s why I feel so strongly that you spend a year with Nadia.”
Danny’s ego was jolted. The professor was talking almost like that
He looked at Walter Piston and thought inwardly, What good did Boulanger do you?
Your symphonies aren’t that great. And when’s the last time that an orchestra asked you to be their soloist? No, Walter, I think you’re just a little jealous.
I’m going to give the Boulangerie a miss.
“I’m sure I’ve hurt your feelings,” Piston said solicitously.
“No, no. Not at all. You told me what you thought, and I appreciate your being honest with me.”
“Then will you think about it once again?” the chairman asked.
“Of course,” Danny said diplomatically. Then rose and walked from the office.
He could not even wait to get back to his room and so he called New York from a booth in Harvard Square.
“Mr. Hurok, you can book me anyplace on earth as long as the piano’s tuned.”
“Bravo,” the impresario exulted. “I’ll fix you one exciting year.”
And thus, whether courageous or foolhardy, Danny Rossi had chosen to lead The Class. To be the first to dive from the cozy, amniotic safety of Harvard into the icy, shark-infested waters of the Real World.
