by Erich Segal
In early August he went to bed with one of Poland’s leading journalists. She was nearly forty and a woman of the world. Her comments on George’s amorous technique, therefore, carried substantial weight.
“Young man,” she whispered, “you are the most expert lover I have ever known—”
George smiled.
“—And the coldest,” she quickly added. “You do everything as if you have learned it from a textbook.”
“Do you doubt my sincerity?” he asked good-humoredly.
“Of course not,” she replied with a sly smile. “I never for a minute believed that you had any. You are their spy, yes?”
“Of course.” George grinned. “The director wants me to find out which delegate is the best in bed.”
“And?” she inquired saucily.
“If they ever give a Lenin Prize for sex, you would win hands down.”
“Ah, George,” she cooed, “you talk as elegantly as you screw. You have a great future ahead of you.”
“In what field do you think?” he asked, genuinely eager to learn how such a woman of the world viewed him.
“It’s obvious,” she replied. “There is one profession which needs an equal quantity of your two best talents. I mean, of course, politics.”
And she pulled him to her to engage once again in the dialectic of Eros.
Jason Gilbert’s march to sporting glory went on unimpeded. He had won the IC4A Tennis Title for the second straight year. And, as if that were not sufficient kudos, his teammates demonstrated the exceptional esteem in which they held him by voting him their captain—as they already had for squash.
Though normally not vindictive, he could not keep himself from sending to his Old Blue headmaster, Mr. Trumbull, the lengthy Crimson article that assessed his extraordinary number of sporting achievements to date. And, as the encomium concluded, “Who can dare to speculate what further heights Gilbert will reach with yet another year to go?”
Ted and Sara’s love had grown to such intensity that the mere notion of having to spend two months apart became an intolerable prospect. She therefore persuaded her parents to allow her to attend Harvard Summer School and sublet a flat in North Cambridge. Sara’s mother was more than slightly dubious about her daughter’s sudden passion to take on yet more academic work. But her father, to whom she could confide the fact that mother’s suspicions were in fact correct, was generous in his support and helped her win the day.
It was a long and passionate summer (during which they even made love one starry night in Harvard Yard itself, in the quadrangle behind Sever Hall). Parting on Labor Day was a painful wrench. Sara cried the entire week before they had to give up the apartment.
For Danny Rossi, the summer of ’57 was a kind of overture to the highest point yet in his musical career.
Munch had booked him to perform with the Boston Symphony on October 12, when he would play Beethoven’s Third Piano Concerto. Those trills in the opening movement would have reverberations around the musical world. When he jubilantly called Dr. Landau to tell him the news, he was thrilled to hear that his teacher had been saving money for the plane fare and intended to be present at the concert.
Still, Danny’s imminent debut offered far less joy than he had always dreamed it would. For his junior year had taken from him more than it had bestowed. The humiliation of the Crimsons pan for his ballet still haunted him. And then there was the tortured relationship with Maria.
He had hoped their separation through the summer would allow him time to clarify his thoughts and possibly to seduce a few girls at Tanglewood to fortify his masculine self-image. But a sudden tragedy cast a huge pall on everything.
The very night he arrived at Tanglewood, his mother called to tell him that Dr. Landau had suffered a fatal heart attack. In a haze of grief, Danny packed and flew out for his teacher’s funeral. At the graveside he cried unashamedly.
When, after the brief service the mourners started to disperse, his mother, whom he had not seen in three long years, implored him to come home. She told Danny it was Dr. Landau’s final wish that he be reconciled with his father.
And so the prodigal son returned at last to the house where he had spent such a miserable adolescence.
Arthur Rossi seemed to have changed both inwardly and outwardly. He was subdued now. There were furrows in his face, and he was completely gray at the temples.
For a fugitive instant, Danny felt a pang of remorse. As if his father’s outward signs of physical decline had somehow been his fault.
But as they stood there facing each other wordlessly for those first awkward moments, Danny forced himself to remember how callously this man had treated him. But he could no longer find it in himself to hate his father. Still, he could not love him, either.
“You’re looking well, son.”
“You too, Dad.”
“It—it’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
That was the full extent of what he could say. Danny’s long-cherished fantasy of a paternal apology was just that—a figment of his own childish desires.
Thus, with a quiet magnanimity born of grief and newly found indifference, Danny offered his hand to signal that their quarrel was finally at an end. The two even embraced.
“I’m really glad, son,” Arthur Rossi murmured. “Now we can all let bygones be bygones.”
Yeah, thought Danny, what the hell. It’s so unimportant now. The only man who ever acted like a real father to me is dead.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
August 8, 1957
All summer I had one foot in the future and the other in the past (don’t ask me which I like better).
Since—with any luck—I’ll be graduating next June, Father thought it best that I forgo the usual physical labor this year. And instead begin to get acquainted with the family banking business.
Naturally he was in Maine, running things by phone. So he put me into the charge of “good old Johnny Winthrop,” an officer quite accurately described by both those adjectives.
“Just keep your eyes and ears open, lad,” he explained at the beginning of my very first day. “Watch when I buy, watch when I sell, watch when I hold. You’ll quickly get the knack of it. Now why don’t you get us both a nice cup of tea?”
Our offices in downtown Boston are just a short walk across the Common from the Historical Society. This is where I did my real learning, as I delved into the diaries of the Reverend Andrew Eliot, Class of 1737, and his son, John, 1772.
They gave me a real sense of our country’s (and my family’s) history. And also that, give or take a few improvements in the plumbing, Harvard life seems to have been the same since the beginning.
I photostated some juicy tidbits from John Eliot’s freshman diary.
Item. September 2, 1768. John leaves for college. Packs his vital gear. Required blue coat, three-cornered hat, and gown. Also fork, spoon, and chamberpot (freshmen had to bring their own).
Item. Dad insists he take Charlestown ferry. Cheapest way. And—most important—Harvard gets the proceeds.
Item. Tuition can be paid in kind, e.g., potatoes or firewood. One guy brought a sheep.
Item. College punch called “flip.” Two-thirds beer, molasses, spiked with rum. Served in huge, tall mugs (called “bumpers”).
Item. September 6, 1768. Describes wretched food in Commons.
“Each undergraduate receives one pound of meat a day,” John wrote. “But since it has no taste at all, one cannot tell what animal it comes from. Now and then there are some greens. On great occasions, dandelions. The butter is unspeakable and several times has been the cause of violent student demonstrations.
“At least we shall not die of thirst. For the supply of cider is unlimited. Each table has large pewter cans which we pass from mouth to mouth, just like the English wassail-bowl.”
Except for the presence of cider, this could well have been the description of an Eliot House dinner. Especially their table talk. There’s a certain ete
rnal quality to undergraduate bullshit.
Not all was fun and games. As the situation with Britain deteriorated, the campus atmosphere grew tense. There were bloody fights between rebel and loyalist students. And then the war broke out.
In late 1773, just after the Boston Tea Party, there was a violent riot in the dining hall between patriots and Tories. No simple food fight, but a deadly battle. Tutors struggled to halt bloodshed.
One afternoon, I discovered something fascinating. I learned that the British army once intended to wipe Harvard College off the map.
“On the eighteenth of April in seventy-five,” as Professor Longfellow’s famous poem goes, Paul Revere galloped through the night to alert the citizens of Lexington and Concord that the redcoats were coming.
But another part of their forces was heading toward Cambridge. John Eliot’s diary of April 19 tells of the panic at Harvard. For it was well known that the English considered the college “a hotbed of sedition.”
Fearing that the enemy might arrive via the great bridge over the Charles River, a group of undergraduates dismantled it so that the British would be unable to cross. They then hid in the bushes to see what would happen.
Just after noon, a horde of troops appeared on the western bank led by Lord Percy himself, splendidly attired, mounted on a beautiful white horse.
When he saw what we—I mean the Harvard guys—had done to thwart him, he was pretty ticked off. But the canny British bastard had brought along some carpenters, who repaired the bridge in less than an hour.
They then marched straight through the center of the town, whose windows all were shuttered tight.
Percy was en route to reinforce the troops already out in Lexington. But he did not know the way. And so he headed for the most likely source of information—Harvard College. He led some of his men right into the center of the Yard and shouted at the seemingly deserted buildings for someone to come out immediately and give him directions.
No one ventured forth. Those undergraduates had guts.
John Eliot and his roommates were peering anxiously through the slats of his shutters, fearing Percy might order his troops to start shooting. And well he might, but first he tried a different ploy. He asked again—in Latin.
Then Tutor Isaac Smith suddenly appeared from Hollis Hall and approached the Englishman.
The students couldn’t hear them speak, but saw Smith motion toward Lexington. Percy waved, and all then galloped off.
Almost instantly the tutor was bombarded by shouts of, “grubstreet lobster-loving idiot.”
The man was quite bewildered. He was of that breed who can quote all of Cicero and Plato without book, yet can’t recall a student’s name.
He stuttered that the information had been requested in the king’s name. So how could he, as a loyal subject, have refused? He added that Lord Percy planned to honor Harvard with another visit.
The students were outraged. It seems the general had told Tutor Smith they’d have “a glass of good Madeira by the fire” later that night. The idiot didn’t realize that by “fire” the redcoat had meant conflagration. Some wanted to tar and feather this overeducated simpleton. But, typical of Harvard, everyone proposed a different course of action.
And while they were haranguing one another, Tutor Smith slipped quietly away. He was never seen again.
That evening Paul Revere rode into Cambridge with the awesome news of Lexington and Concord.
Some of the students joined the minutemen who had hastily built barricades on Cambridge Common, preparing for the British to attack.
They never came.
The Brookline militia, led by Isaac Gardner ’47, ambushed the approaching redcoats at Watson’s Corner. Though Isaac fell, his brave charge made the British scatter, thinking that the route to Cambridge teemed with patriots as fierce as he.
Thanks to men like him, there was no battle fought in Harvard Yard.
That steamy afternoon when I first read John Eliot’s words, I couldn’t help but wonder how we modern undergraduates would have responded if the university was under siege of arms. What would we do—hurl Frisbees at the enemy?
It was nearly five when I got back from “lunch.” I went straight to Mr. Winthrop to apologize. He looked up from his desk and said he hadn’t even noticed I was gone.
That is the story of my life.
When The Class of ’58 returned to Cambridge for their final year, they all were painfully aware that very little sand remained in the hourglass of their college lives. For in precisely nine months, they would be cast from the comfortable womb of Harvard into the cold, harsh world.
Everything seems to speed up at a frighteningly rapid pace. The seniors are like downhill skiers, some of whom are frightened by the gathering momentum and, although the end is manifestly near, still cannot keep their balance.
The Class had thus far had three suicides, all more or less precipitated by the pressures of trying to remain at Harvard. Now in this final year, two more of them would take their lives. But this time out of fear of leaving.
The final act is sad in other ways as well. The cynicism that is so endemic in the first three years turns slowly and surprisingly into nostalgia. Which by June creates an embryonic feeling of regret. Of wasted time. Of chances lost. Of carefree feelings none of them will ever know again.
There are exceptions. Those who can survive this senior crucible are usually the ones most likely to bring glory to The Class.
Not the least of them made his debut as piano soloist with the Boston Symphony on October 12, 1957.
Yet, the Danny Rossi who walked nervously to the keyboard in the crowded, venerable auditorium was different physically from the bespectacled young man who had left Eliot House the previous spring.
He was no longer wearing glasses.
Not that his vision had improved—although his appearance most dramatically had.
He owed his metamorphosis to the suggestion of an amorous admirer from last summer’s Tanglewood Festival staff. Seeing his face under circumstances when he did not need glasses to function, she remarked on the appeal of his piercing gray-green eyes—and what a pity it was that his spectacles hid them from the audience’s view. The next day he went out and was fitted for contact lenses.
The minute he appeared on stage of Symphony Hall, Danny could sense how right his inamorata’s advice had been. Amid the polite, friendly applause, he could perceive remarks like, “Oh, he’s cute.”
His performance was almost flawless. He was always passionate. And in the final movement some of his front locks fell across his forehead.
A standing ovation.
• • •
He had no notion of how long the public adoration lasted. In fact, Danny was swept up in its tidal wave and had lost all sense of time. He would have stayed on stage forever had not Munch, a friendly arm around his shoulder, led him to the wings.
Shortly after he got to his dressing room, his parents appeared. And, hard upon their heels, new planets that began to spin around the sun of Danny Rossi—journalists.
First the flashbulbs popping at him shaking hands with Munch. Then several with his mom and dad. And then a series with dignitaries of the music world, many of whom had come up from New York.
Finally, even Danny had had enough.
“Hey, guys,” he pleaded, “I’ve just started to feel very tired. As you can imagine, I didn’t get too much sleep last night. So can I ask you to pack up and go? I mean, if you’ve got all you want.”
Most of the press was satisfied and started to retreat. But one of the photographers realized that a single commercial picture yet remained untaken.
“Danny,” he cried out, “how about one with you kissing your girlfriend?”
Danny glanced toward the corner where Maria, dressed sedately, had been all but hiding. (It had taken weeks of persuasion to get her to go to the concert just as a “friend.”) He motioned to her to come forward. But she shook her head.
“
No, Danny, please. I don’t want to be photographed. Besides, this is your night. I’m just here as a member of the audience.”
Doubly disappointed, for he would have liked the world to see him with a really sexy girl, Danny acquiesced and told the journalists, “She isn’t used to this. Another time, okay?”
Reluctantly, the Fourth Estate departed. And the Rossis and Maria headed toward the limousine to drive down to The Ritz, where a suite had been reserved by the Symphony management.
Danny rode to the hotel half in a dream. Cocooned within the leather plushness of the chauffeured car, he inwardly repeated to himself, I can’t believe it, I’m a star. A goddamn star.
• • •
Never having imagined he would be feeling such euphoria, Danny had deliberately requested that his parents keep the party small. For he thought that after the performance he would be consumed with sadness at the absence of the man who was responsible for bringing him so far. But the night’s ovation had been so intoxicating that for the moment he could think of no one but himself.
Munch and the concertmaster dropped by for a single glass of champagne and quickly left. They had a matinee the next afternoon and needed to get home to rest. The managing director of the B.S.O. had brought along a most distinguished gentleman who absolutely would not wait even a day to talk to Danny.
The unexpected guest was none other than S. Hurok, the world’s most famous concert manager. He told the young pianist not only how much he admired his performance, but that he hoped Danny would consider allowing his office to represent him. He went as far as to promise Danny the chance to play with major orchestras as early as next year.
“But, Mr. Hurok, I’m a total unknown.”
“Ah,” the old man smiled, “but I am not. And most of all the symphony directors I will contact trust their ears.”
“You mean there were some in the audience tonight?”
“No,” Hurok smiled, “but Maître Munch thought it might be useful if he had this evening’s concert taped. With your permission, I could make very good use of those reels.”
