ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY. All summer I had one foot in the future and the other in the past (don’t ask me which I like better).

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 eternal 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 Hal! 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.”

“Gosh —”

“Hi, Mr. Hurok,” Arthur Rossi interposed. “I’m Danny’s dad. If you would like, we could have breakfast in the morning.”

Danny shot a withering glance at his father, and then turned back to the impresario. “I’m very flattered, sir. If we could talk some other time —”

“Of course, of course,” Hurok said with enthusiastic understanding. “We’ll chat again when you’re less busy.”

He then politely said good night and left with the director. Now there were only four of them. Danny, his parents, and Maria.

“Well,” Arthur Rossi jested, smiling at Maria, “here we are, just us Italians.”

He was avoiding Danny’s gaze. For he knew that just a moment earlier he had overstepped the newly redrawn boundaries of their father-son relationship. And he was afraid of Danny’s anger.

“With everyone’s permission,” said Gisela Rossi, “I would like very much to drink a toast to someone who was here tonight only in spirit.”

Danny nodded and they raised their glasses.

“To Frank Rossi —” his father began.

And then suddenly stopped himself as he heard his younger son whisper, with supreme self-control, “No, Dad, not tonight .”

There was a silence. Then Mrs. Rossi murmured, “To the memory of Gustave Landau. Let us pray that God let Danny’s music go to heaven tonight so such a fine man could take pride.”

They drank somberly.

“That was Danny’s teacher,” she told Maria.

“I know,” she answered softly. “Danny’s told me all about how much he — loved him.”

There was a sudden pause as no one knew what to say next.

At last Maria spoke again. “I don’t want to spoil the party, but it’s kind of late. I think I’d better take a taxi home to Radcliffe.”

“If you can wait a minute,” Danny offered, “I’ll be glad to take you and then have the driver drop me back at Eliot.”

“No, no,” she protested. “I mean, the orchestra’s given you this terrific suite. It will be a lot more fun than just a metal bed in a Harvard house,”

Maria suddenly felt a tinge of embarrassment at the way she had put her last remark. Would that give the elder Rossis the impression that she’d been in Danny’s bedroom?

In any case, before she knew it, Arthur and Gisela had said good night and headed for their own room farther down the corridor.

Danny and Maria stood side by side in the descending elevator, looking straight ahead.

As they were heading for the door, Danny stopped her gently. “Hey, Maria,” he whispered, “let’s not separate tonight. I want to be with you. I mean, I want to share this special night with someone I really love.”

“I’m tired, Danny, honestly I am,” she answered softly.

“Maria, listen,” Danny pleaded, “come upstairs with me. Let’s share that room — and be a couple.”

“Danny,” she responded tenderly, “I know what all this meant to you. But We’really don’t belong together. Especially after tonight.”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw you change up there. I’m happy for your big success, but you’ve just entered a whole new world where I don’t feel comfortable at all.”

He tried not to be angry, but he couldn’t help it.

“Is that just another excuse for saying you won’t come to bed with me?”

“No,” Maria whispered with emotion in her voice, “I saw tonight that there’s no room for anybody in your life. The spotlight isn’t big enough.”

She turned and started walking through the darkened lobby toward the exit.

“Maria, wait!” he called. His voice echoed slightly in the marble hall.

She stopped and said, “Please, Danny, don’t say any more. I’ll always have the fondest memories of you.”

Then she said barely audibly, “Goodbye.” And disappeared through the revolving door.

Danny Rossi stood in the deserted lobby on the night of his greatest triumph, rent by feelings of elation and a sense of loss. But finally, there in the darkness, he convinced himself that this was the price he had to pay.

For fame.

***

Ted and Sara were now totally inseparable. They took almost all the same courses, and their conversations — except when making love — were mainly about the classics.

They even chose congenial topics for their senior theses. Sara got Professor Whitman to direct her essay on Hellenistic Portrayals of Eros — focusing on Apollonius of Rhodes. And Ted got Finley himself to supervise his dissertation, which compared Homer’s two great antithetical female characterizations, Helen and Penelope.

Every afternoon they sat opposite each other in Widener Library grinding away, punctuating their assiduity by passing silly notes to each other in Latin or Greek.

At about four o’clock they would join the exodus of jocks who were on their way to practice. Only their field of play was in Andrew’s new room.

And yet, since they had returned to Harvard for their senior year, they were both increasingly aware that their entire idyll, like the halcyon days of college, had eventually to reach its conclusion. Or perhaps some sort of consummation.

Ted had applied to Harvard Graduate School in Classics, and Sara was toying with doing the same, although her parents had indicated that they might be willing to subsidize a year of European study.

This was by no means an expression of disapproval of her relationship with Ted. For they had never met him and knew little, if anything, about him.

Sara, on the other hand, had become a regular weekly guest at the Lambros’s Sunday dinners and felt almost a part of the family — which was what Mama Lambros prayed each week she would become.

They were not ambivalent about the future, these passionate lovers of the classics and each other. They never discussed marriage. Not because either of them doubted the other’s will to wed, but simply because they both took it for granted that their commitment to each other was for life. The ceremony would be just a formality.

They both knew that the Greek words for man and woman also meant husband and wife. And thus semantically, as well as spiritually, they were already married.

***

George returned to Eliot House for his senior year feeling as much or more American and Harvardian than his classmates.

Since his need for study was so great, he had amicably separated from his preppie roommates and moved into a single.

“Now you can keep yourself up all night,” Newall had jested.

George felt like an artillery officer. He had spent his junior year at Harvard getting his bearings. He had passed the summer taking aim — selecting an ideal senior thesis. After all, who was better suited to write on “The Hungarian Revolution as Portrayed by the Soviet Press”? As Dr. K. strongly hinted, it could be publishable.

He was now ready to use his newly acquired ammunition to eliminate all barriers in his path to political triumph.

But what, in fact, was he after? This was the question Kissinger asked him the afternoon the seminar ended, as they sat in his air-conditioned office sharing congratulatory glasses of iced tea.

“You could be a professor at Harvard,” Henry assured him.

“I know.” George smiled. “But is that where your ambitions stop, Henry?”

With the tables turned, his mentor laughed uneasily and tried to answer with deflecting jocularity.

“Well,” he laughed, “I of course would not mind becoming the emperor. Would you?”

“I would not even mind being President,” George smiled, “but even you are ineligible for that. There, Henry, we must share similar disappointments. We are fated both of us never to reach the top.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Keller,” Kissinger said, his index finger raised. “You seem to be under the mistaken illusion that the men in the White House actually run the country. Let me quickly disabuse you. They are mostly quarterbacks who rely heavily on their coach’s advice. You and I, George, are both in a position to become indispensable advisers. That would be exciting, don’t you think?”

“You mean what attracts you is sort of the power behind the throne?”

“Not exactly. What interests me is what one can achieve with power. Splendid things, believe me.”

George nodded, with a grin. He raised his glass and toasted, “More power to you, Henry.”

***

Jason Gilbert returned to Cambridge from a summer of Marine Corps training tanned and fit. More muscular than ever.

As soon as he arrived, he headed over to see Eliot and Newall in their new double, free from the mad Hungarian. There was ice-cold beer and tales of love and war to tell. Newall, in the naval ROTC program, had spent the summer touring the Pacific on an aircraft carrier. Before returning home he went, as he put it, “totally berserk” for a week in Honolulu. Which he gleefully recounted in minute detail.

Jason’s summer in the blazing southern sun bad been a little different. First there was the drill sergeant who really had it in for all the Ivy League boys.

At one point, for some petty infraction, the guy had made him jog around the base in combat boots and full pack for a whole hour in the blazing sun.

“That must have killed you,” Eliot remarked while opening a second beer.

“It wasn’t all that bad,” Jason said casually. “I was in shape, remember. But, of course, I acted like I was about to have a heart attack.”

“Good ploy,” said Newall. “I hear those Marine types can be sadists anyway.”

“I actually felt sorry for the guy,” Jason said unexpectedly.

“How come?” Newall asked.

“I kind of understand why he was riding us so hard in camp,” he explained, somewhat subdued, “ ’cause off the base, life in Virginia isn’t all that great if you’re not white.

“One Saturday when we were off, the guys went into town to gorge ourselves on ice cream. We were sitting there in Howard Johnson’s when this sergeant happened to pass by. And, asshole that I am, I waved to him to come and join us.”

“What’s wrong with that?” asked Andrew.

“You won’t believe this, but he just stood out there and gave us all the finger. And on Monday we were doing so damn many push-ups we were almost living on the ground.”

“I don’t get it,” Andrew said. “I mean, you guys were only being friendly, weren’t you?”

“Of course, but naive Jason Gilbert hadn’t clicked that off the base, the town of Quantico is segregated like before the Civil War. Can you believe this member of the U.S. military was not allowed to have an ice cream in that place with us? That’s why he was so pissed off. He thought that we were mocking him.”

“No shit,” said Newall. “That’s amazing in this day and age. Christ, Gilbert, bet that made you happy that you’re only Jewish.”

Jason, staring at his teammate and supposed friend, deflected the unwitting insult like a skillful boxer. “Newall, I’ll forgive that last remark because I know you’re congenitally stupid.”

The eternal mediator, Andrew Eliot, deftly changed the subject. “Hey, listen, guys, I’ve got the latest Freshman Register . Why don’t we check out the new crop and get our bids in early, huh?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Newall, happy to move back to neutral ground. “What do you say, old Gilbert? Shall we cast our eyes upon the lovelies of the Class of ’61?”

Jason smiled. “At least you’re consistent, Newall,” he jibed, “always last man off the mark. I did my homework yesterday. The pick of the new talent is Maureen McCabe. And I’m taking her to Norumbega Park tonight.”