ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY. The occasions that we thousand-odd will meet together as a class in our entire lifetime are extremely rare.

October 5, 1954

The occasions that we thousand-odd will meet together as a class in our entire lifetime are extremely rare.

We gather three times while we are in college. First at the Freshman Convocation — sober, serious, and boring. Then at the notoriously gross Freshman Smoker — just the opposite. And, finally, after jumping all the necessary hurdles, one June morning four years hence when we’ll receive diplomas.

Otherwise, we go through Harvard on our own. They say our most important meeting is a quarter-century after we all graduate. That would be 1983 — impossible to think that far away.

They also say that when we come back for our Twenty-fifth Reunion we’ll be feeling something vaguely like fraternity and solidarity. But for now, we’re much more like the animals on Noah’s Ark. I mean, I don’t think the lions had too much to chat about with the lambs. Or with the mice. That’s just about the way me and my roommates feel about some of the creatures that are on board with us for this four-year voyage. We live in different cabins and sit on different decks.

Anyway, we gathered all together as The Class of ’58 tonight in Sanders Theater. And it was pretty solemn.

I know Dr. Pusey isn’t everybody’s hero nowadays, but when he talked tonight about the university’s tradition of defending academic freedom, it was kind of moving.

He chose as an example A. Lawrence Lowell, who at the beginning of this century succeeded my greatgranddad as President of Harvard. Apparently, right after World War I, a lot of guys in Cambridge had flirtations with the Socialists and Communists — then preaching hot, new stuff. Lowell was under tremendous pressure to dismiss the lefties from the faculty.

Now, even guys as dim as I caught Pusey’s tacit parallel with Senator McCarthy’s unrelenting war on him when he quoted Lowell’s great defense of professors in the classroom being absolutely free to teach “the truth as they see it.”

You have to hand it to him. He’s demonstrated courage as Hemingway defined it, “grace under pressure.” And yet The Class of ’58 did not give him a standing ovation.

But something tells me that when we’re older and have seen more of the world, we’ll feel ashamed that we didn’t acknowledge Pusey’s bravery tonight.

***

“Where you going, Gilbert?”

“Where does it look like, D. D.? To breakfast, obviously.”

“Today?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Come on, Gilbert, you should know better. Don’t you realize it’s Yom Kippur?”

“So?”

“Well, don’t you know what it is?”

“Of course, the Day of Atonement for Jews.”

“Gilbert, you should be fasting today,” his roommate admonished. “You talk as if you’re not Jewish.”

“Well, D. D., as a matter of fact, I’m not.”

“Don’t give me that. You’re as Jewish as I am.”

“On what evidence do you base that categorical statement?” Jason said good-humoredly.

“Well, to begin with, haven’t you noticed that Harvard always assigns Jews to the same rooms? Why else do you think they put you with me?”

“I wish I knew,” Jason said jocularly.

“Gilbert,” D. D persisted, “do you actually stand there and deny that you are of the Jewish faith?”

“Look, I know my grandfather was a Jew. But as far as faith is concerned, we belong to the local Unitarian church.”

“That doesn’t mean a thing,” D. D. retorted. “if Hitler were alive he’d still consider you a Jew.”

“Listen, David,” Jason answered, unperturbed, “in case you haven’t heard, that bastard’s been dead for several years now. Besides, this is America. You do recall that bit in the Bill of Rights about freedom of worship. In fact, the grandchild of a Jewish man can even have breakfast on Yom Kippur.”

But D. D. was far from conceding defeat.

“Gilbert, you should read Jean-Paul Sartre’s essay on Jewish identity. It would wake you up to your dilemma.”

“I didn’t realize that I had one, frankly.”

“Sartre says that someone’s Jewish if the world regards him a Jew. And that means, Jason, you can be a blond, eat bacon on Yom Kippur, wear your preppie clothes, play squash — it doesn’t change a thing. The world will still consider you a Jew.”

“Hey, look, so far, the only guy that’s ever given me grief on this whole business has been you, my friend.”

And yet Jason realized inwardly that what he’d just stated was not quite the truth. For had he not experienced a little “problem” vis-à-vis the Yale Admissions Office?

“Okay,” D. D. concluded as he buttoned up his coat, “if you want to go on living like an ostrich, it’s your privilege.

But sooner or later you’ll learn.” And in parting, he added sarcastically, “Have a good breakfast.”

“Thanks,” Jason called cheerily, “and don’t forget to pray for me.”

***

The old man gazed at the wine-dark sea of students reverently awaiting his comments on Odysseus decision to sail homeward after ten years of breathless encounters with women, monsters, and monstrous women.

He was standing on the stage of Sanders Theater, the only Harvard building large enough — or indeed appropriate — to house the lectures of Professor John H. Finley, Jr., chosen by Olympus to convey the glory that was Greece to the hoi polloi of Cambridge. Indeed, such was his charismatic eloquence that many of the hundreds who entered Humanities 2 in September as philistines emerged by Christmas as passionate philhellenes.

Thus it was that on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 10:00 A.M., fully one-quarter of the entire population of Harvard College gathered to hear the great man’s lectures on the Epic from Homer to Milton. Everyone seemed to have a favorite vantage point for viewing Finley. Andrew Eliot and Jason Gilbert preferred the balcony. Danny Rossi, killing two birds with one stone, would alter his position frequently since he wanted to master the acoustics of the hall, venue for Harvard’s major concerts and even the occasional — visit by the Boston Symphony.

Ted Lambros always sat in the first row, lest he miss a single winged word. He had come to Harvard already wanting to major in Latin and Greek, but Finley’s survey endowed the prospect with mystical grandeur that filled him with euphoria as well as ethnic pride.

Today Finley was discussing Odysseus’ departure from the enchanted isle of the nymph Calypso, despite her passionate pleas and promises to grant him eternal life. “Imagine —” Finley breathed to his rapt auditors. He then paused while all wondered what he would ask them to conjure.

“Imagine our hero is offered an unending idyll with a nymph who will remain forever young. Yet, he forsakes it all to return to a poor island and a woman who, Calypso explicitly reminds him, is fast approaching middle age, which no cosmetic can embellish. A rare, tempting proposition, one cannot deny. But what is Odysseus’ reaction?

He then paced back and forth, and recited without book, clearly translating from the Greek as he went along:

“Goddess, I know that everything you say is true and that clever Penelope is no match for your face and figure. But she is after all a mortal and you divine and ageless. Yet despite all this I yearn for home and for the day of my returning.

He stopped pacing and walked slowly and deliberately to the edge of the stage.

“Here,” he said, at a whisper that was nonetheless audible in the farthest corner, “is the quintessential message of the Odyssey …”

A thousand pencils poised in readiness to transcribe the crucial words to come.

“In, as it were, leaving an enchanted — and one must presume pleasantly tropical — isle to return to the cold winter winds of, shall we say, Brookline, Massachusetts, Odysseus forsakes immortality for — identity. In other words, the imperfections of the human state are outweighed by the glory of human love.”

There was a brief pause while the audience waited for Finley to draw breath before daring to do so themselves.

And then applause. Slowly the spell was broken as students marched out the various Sanders Theater exits. Ted Lambros was close to tears and felt he had to say something to the master. But it took him a few seconds to gather his courage. By this time, the nimble academic had donned his tan raincoat and fedora and had reached the tall arched gateway.

Ted approached him diffidently. As he did he was amazed that, on terra firma, this man of such great stature was actually of normal height.

“Sir, if you’ll permit me,” he began, “that was the most inspiring lecture I’ve ever heard. I mean, I’m just a freshman, but I’m going to major in classics, and I’ll bet you’ve made a thousand converts in there …, uh, sir.”

He knew he was rambling gauchely, but Finley was accustomed to such reverential clumsiness. And in any case he was pleased.

“A freshman and already decided on the classics?” he inquired.

“Yes, sir.”

“What is your name?”

“Lambros, sir. Theodore Lambros, ’58.”

“Ah,” said Finley, “‘Theo-doros ,’ gift of God, and ‘lampros ’ — a truly Pindaric name. One thinks of the famous verses in Phythian 8 — Lampron phengos epestin and ron , ‘ radiant light that shines on men.’ Do come and see us for Wednesday tea at Eliot House, Mr. Lambros.”

Before Ted could even thank him, Finley turned on his — heels and marched off into the October wind, reciting Pindar all the way.

***

Jason woke at the sound of someone in great distress.

He glanced quickly at his night table. It was just after 2:00 A.M. From across the suite, he heard muffled sobbing and frightened cries of, “No, no!”

He leapt out of bed and rushed across to D. D.’s door, the source of all those tormented noises.

Knocking softly, Jason asked, “David, are you okay?”

The sobbing stopped abruptly and there was only silence. Jason knocked again and rephrased his question.

“Are you all right in there?”

Through the closed door came the curt response, “Go away, Gilbert. Leave me alone.” But it was in a strangely anguished tone of voice.

“Listen, D. D., if you don’t open up I’m going to break in.”

After a second he heard the scraping of a chair. A moment later the door opened a crack. And his roommate peeked out nervously. Jason could perceive that he had been at his desk studying.

“What do you want?” snapped D. D.

“I heard noises,” Jason replied. “I thought you were in some kind of pain.”

“I just fell asleep for a minute and had a sort of nightmare. It’s nothing.

And I’d be grateful if you’d let me study.” He closed the door again.

Jason still would not retreat.

“Hey, listen, D. D., you don’t have to be pre-med to know that people can go nuts from not sleeping. Haven’t you studied enough for one night?”

The door opened again.

“Gilbert, I couldn’t possibly go to bed if I thought any of my competition were still awake studying. Chem. Twenty is the survival of the fittest.”

“I still think a little rest would make you fitter, David,” Jason said softly.

“What was your nightmare, by the way?

“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“It’s silly,” D. D. laughed nervously, “but I dreamed that they handed out the bluebooks — and I didn’t understand the questions. Stupid, ha? Anyway, you can go to bed now, Jason. I’m perfectly okay.”

The next morning, D. D. made no mention whatsoever of the trauma of the night before. In fact, he was exceptionally obnoxious, as if unconsciously informing Jason that what he had seen a few hours earlier was just a one-time aberration.

Still Jason felt duty-bound to say something to the dorm proctor, who was nominally supposed to be responsible for their welfare. Besides, Dennis Linden was a medical student and might understand the whole phenomenon that Jason had witnessed.

“Dennis,” cautioned Jason, “you’ve got to give me your word that this is strictly confidential.”

“Absolutely,” the soon-to-be-M.D. replied. “I’m glad you called this thing to my attention.”

“Seriously, I think D. D. will go bonkers if he doesn’t get all A’s. He’s got this wild obsession that he has to be first in The Class.”

Linden puffed his Chesterfield, blew rings into the air, and answered casually, “But, Gilbert, we both know that’s an impossibility.”

“What makes you so sure?” Jason inquired, puzzled.

“Listen, let me tell you something in confidence. Your roommate wasn’t even number one in his own high school, which sent half-a-dozen guys here with much higher averages and board scores. In fact, the Admissions Office only rated him a little over 10.5.”

“What?” Jason asked.

“Look, as I said, this stuff is really classified. But Harvard calculates the future standing of each student they accept —.”

“In advance?” Jason interrupted.

The proctor nodded and continued. “And what’s more, they’re almost never wrong.”

“You mean to tell me that you know what grades I’m going to get this January?” Jason asked with stupefaction.

“Not only that,” the future doctor answered, “we know pretty much just where you’ll graduate.”

“Why not tell me now, so I won’t bother studying too hard,” Jason said, only barely joking.

“Now come on, Gilbert, what I said is absolutely off the record, And I only told you so you could be ready to support your roommate when he wakes up to discover that he isn’t Einstein.”

Jason suddenly erupted with angry resentment.

“Hey, listen, Dennis, I’m not fit to act as a psychiatrist. Can’t we do something to help this guy now?”

The proctor took another puff and answered, “Jason, young Davidson — who, between the two of us, I find a little twerp —i s here at Harvard precisely to learn his limitations. That is, if I may say so, one of the things that we do best. Let this ride till midterm. If the guy’s unable to deal with the fact that he’s not on top of the mountain, then maybe we’ll arrange for him to talk to someone in the Health Department. Anyway, I’m glad that you called this to my attention. Don’t hesitate to come again if he starts acting weird.”

“He’s always acted weird,” Jason responded with a half-smile.

“Gilbert,” said the proctor, “you’ve got no idea what whackos they accept at Harvard. D. D. is a damn Gibraltar compared to some of the nutcases I’ve seen.”