Sara sensed this and was slightly defensive.
“It isn’t that Ted would mind,” she offered. “It’s just that —”
“Please, Sara,” the professor responded, “you don’t have to explain. I understand completely.” And inwardly he thought, It’s obvious that Ted would mind.
He rose to shake hands and wish her well.
“It’s a nice thing to know that you and Ted will still be around Cambridge.
Perhaps we will have a chance to have you over to the house. In any case, I’ll venture a sibylline prediction. I’d say you’ll both soon be wearing a Phi Beta Kappa key.”
Whitman’s prediction proved accurate. For on May 28, when America’s oldest academic-honor society announced its annually elected senior members, Ted and Sara were among the chosen.
So was Danny Rossi (no surprise, for he would be graduating summa), and George Keller, for whom certain of the normal criteria had been waived. But then his senior thesis had won the Eliot (sic) Prize as best essay of the year in social sciences. And Dr. K. had composed a most persuasive letter emphasizing George’s staggering achievements in so short a time.
Jason Gilbert won no academic kudos. But he continued his distinguished career on the tennis court. He inspired his charges to trample Yale for the third year in a row. And, as an index of the relative significance of sport and intellectual achievement, Jason was elected by a landslide to be senior-class marshal. As such he would lead their procession on Commencement Day.
He also won the Bingham Prize as the most courageous athlete.
But the notion of a surfeit when it comes to honors is unthinkable for Harvard men. And thus to no one’s great surprise Jason won a Sheldon Fellowship as well, an award given to students for specialized achievements. It subsidizes a year of travel — with the proviso that the recipient do no formal studying. Mr. Sheldon knew how to fulfill an undergraduate’s fantasy.
Even the Marine Corps was impressed with all the decorations Jason had received and willingly postponed his tour of duty so he could enjoy the Sheldon first.
(“Actually, it’s a pretty convenient time,” his commanding officer jested. “We seem to be between wars at the moment.”)
All this heightened prominence brought Jason’s name to the attention of some undergraduates who normally would never read the Crimson sports page. It even caused an unexpected visitor to knock on his door early one evening.
“Yeah, can I help you?”
“Hey, what brings the Human Dictionary to my room? Run out of words?”
“Don’t be derisive,” George Keller retorted. “I have come to make a small request of you.”
“Me? But, George, I’m just a dumb old jock.”
“I know,” said Keller with the tiniest of smiles. “That’s exactly how you can assist me.”
“How?” asked Jason.
“Could you teach me tennis, Gilbert? I’d be most appreciative.”
Jason looked somewhat baftled. “Why tennis? And why me?
“It’s obvious,” said George. “Last summer proved to me that it is the most — how shall I put it? — socially advantageous sport. And you, of course, are the most skilled practitioner of it at Harvard.”
“I’m deeply flattered, Keller. But, unfortunately, I’m committed to beating the shit out of all the guys who’ll be gunning for me in the NCAAs next week. I really haven’t got the time.”
George Keller’s look of expectation turned to one of disappointment. “I’d be glad to pay you, Jason. Anything you say.”
“It isn’t the money. I’d teach you free —”
“When?” George quickly asked.
“Hell, I don’t know,” said Jason, feeling cornered, “maybe sometime during Graduation Week.”
“Sunday the eighth — at five o’clock? I know there is nothing planned for then.” The guy knew the entire schedule by heart!
“Okay,” Jason capitulated with a sigh. “Do you have a racket?”
“Of course,” said George, “and I have balls.”
“I knew that without asking,” Jason murmured as he shut his door.
George Keller stood there beaming with satisfaction. The sarcasm had escaped even the magniloquent new master of the English language.
Andrew Eliot was already waiting outside the History Department when the General-Exam grades were posted. For one of the rare times of his life off the athletic field, he was perspiring.
A swarm of students rushed forward as the department secretary came out of the chairman’s office to pin the results on the bulletin board.
Fortunately, Andrew was tall enough to see over the heads of the mob. What he read astonished him. He walked numbly back to Eliot House and phoned his father.
“What in blazes is the matter, son? It’s still expensive-calling hours.”
“Dad,” Andrew mumbled in a haze, “Dad, I just wanted you to be the first to know …”
The young man hesitated.
“Come on, my boy, speak up. This is costing you a fortune.”
“Dad, you won’t believe this but — I passed my Generals. I’m going to graduate.”
The announcement at first struck Andrew’s father speechless.
Finally he said, “Son, that is good news. I frankly never thought you’d do it.”
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
June 10, 1958
As a kind of anodyne for the trauma of our symbolic rebirth, Harvard arranges a series of assorted ceremonies for Senior Week, culminating in Thursday morning’s sacred laying on of hands.
The Baccalaureate Service on Sunday in Memorial Church was a pretty desultory affair. At least, that’s what I heard from one of the guys who actually went. It wasn’t exactly a big draw.
Monday’s formal dance — for some reason called the Senior Spread — was much better attended. About half The Class filled the Lowell House courtyard, clad in rented white dinner jackets, dancing into the wee hours to the mellow saxophone sounds of Les and Larry Elgart’s orchestra.
I guess if it had an educational purpose, which I assume everything at Harvard does, it was to give us a preview of what it would be like to be middle-aged.
The band gave an occasional nod to musical modernity with one or two cha-cha-chas — the current terpsichorean vogue — and also some Elvis tunes. But it was soft and gentle stuff like “Love Me Tender.”
Oh yes, we did have dates. I blush to say that Newall and I had a social arrangement with Jason, somewhat analogous to my sartorial-exchange policy with Ted Lambros. We got his hand-me-downs.
But, of course, when you get an ex from Gilbert, they are still in exceptionally fine condition. As Joe Keezer might put it, “hardly worn.” The only problem is they still have this vestigial attachment to Jason.
The result being that while he was dancing with this incredible blonde (a tennis journalist he’d picked up at some tournament), Lucy, my so-called date, and Melissa, who was supposed to be with Newall, kept angling to stay in his line of vision in hopes they could scrounge a single dance with our Class Leader.
Needless to say, even with our own considerable charm, Dickie and I didn’t get to first base with either of our girls. But at least we had a lovely on our arms, which I suspect was the motivation for a lot of the pairings that evening. I think that Ted and Sara were among the maybe dozen or so couples who were actually involved romantically.
Tomorrow night we have yet another jolly event — for which Gilbert has already obtained me an escort — a moonlight cruise in Boston Harbor. Newall is going to pass on that one since, for some irrational reason, he’s afraid he might get seasick. And how would that look the next morning, when he’s due to be commissioned as a naval officer?