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 NōDōz 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.
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 Crimson as an auto accident (although Bob Rutherford of San Antonio had actually been parked in his garage when death occurred).
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.