ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY. Maybe I do have a future as something after all

February 2, 1958

Maybe I do have a future as something after all. I could be a matchmaker. At least the one fix-up I have engineered in my life has resulted in marriage.

The ceremony took place this past Saturday at the First Unitarian Church of Syosset, Long Island. The bride — looking lovely — was none other than my buddy Jason Gilbert’s sister, Julie. The lucky guy was my old classmate Charlie Gushing, whom I had heretofore regarded as totally useless.

Obviously I was wrong about that, because he had succeeded in getting Julie pregnant the very first time they went to bed together.

Happily, the impending maternity was discovered at a very early stage so that things could be done comme il faut . She got her picture in The New York Times and Mrs. Gilbert arranged a lavish celebration with such grace — and speed — that her grandchild would be able to arrive “prematurely” without too many local tongues wagging.

Actually, invisible shotgun or not, I think the two of them suit each other. Julie is cute, but she’s not exactly Madame Curie. She was probably majoring in husband catching at Briarcliff anyway. And one may say she’s graduating with highest honors.

After all, “the Cush,” as we affectionately referred to him in prep school, is a real Boston Brahmin, with a pedigree extending back to colonial times. And the Gilberts make up in dynamism what they lack in patina. Jason’s dad is a real pioneer in the television industry and flies to Washington almost as often as the Eastern shuttle.

Moreover, if there was any tension on the part of either family because of the circumstances surrounding the nuptials, it was certainly not apparent. They made a handsome couple, and to their delight, old man Gilbert set them up in a very comfortable house in Woodbridge, so the Cush could finish his Yale studies in style.

What totally surprised me was that I kind of choked up at the wedding. I mean, Gush was the first one of our gang to go. Which made me think that maybe someday I might even take the plunge. Although what sensible girl would want to marry me?

***

Newall and Andrew were squeezed into Jason’s Corvette during the swift postnuptial ride back to Cambridge. Gradually, Andrew began to notice that Jason seemed gloomy. In fact, he had not smiled much during the whole affair.

“Hey, Gilbert,” Andrew said as they neared the Hartford Bridge, “you seemed pissed off.”

“I am,” Jason replied laconically, and accelerated.

“From that I understand you disapprove of the match.”

“You might say so,” he commented, gritting his teeth.

“On what grounds?” Newall inquired.

“On the grounds that Cushing is the closest thing to a total asshole that I’ve ever encountered.”

“Hey, Jace,” Newall remonstrated, “aren’t you being a bit severe?”

“Hell no,” he answered. “My sister’s barely eighteen. Couldn’t that dingbat have been a little more careful?”

“Maybe they love each other,” Andrew offered, his role in life being to discover silver linings in the cloudiest situations.

“Ah, come on,” Jason exploded, punching the dashboard with one hand, “they hardly know each other.”

“I think both parents were pleased,” Newall suggested.

“Sure,” Jason responded. “The one thing they have in common is an allergy to scandal.”

“Unless my eyes deceived me,” Newall said, “your dad really likes the Gush.”

“Yeah,” Jason answered sarcastically, “but mostly because his ancestors fought at Bunker Hill.”

“So did mine,” Newall added. “Is that why you like me, Gilbert?”

“No,” he replied, only half-joking. “I don’t like you at all, actually.”

***

“Danny, I think you’re making a very big mistake.”

Professor Piston had asked his prize pupil to come by the office to discuss his plans for next year.

“I’m sorry, Professor, but I just can’t see going through another year of studying.”

“But with Nadia Boulanger, Danny, that is hardly what you call drudgery. One might even say that woman is modern music. Remember, most of the major composers of our time have studied at the ‘Boulangerie.’ ”

“But what if I just put it off for, say, a year or so? I mean, Mr. Hurok has got all these fantastic offers for me from major orchestras —”

“Aha, so you’re hungry for the sound of applause, Danny,” Piston answered knowingly. “I wish you wouldn’t be so impetuous. Once you start traveling on that circuit, you’ll be caught up in the whirlwind and never slow down again to study.”

“But that’s a chance I’m willing to take. Anyway, even if this sounds a little arrogant, I think I could start writing on my own.”

The music chairman hesitated. But Danny sensed that he was holding back, and forced the issue.

“Do I take it, sir, that you don’t think I’m ready as a composer?”

“Well,” Piston said slowly, searching for the words that would put it most delicately, “most of the people who went to Nadia, Copland for instance, were already full-blown artists. Yet she brought out something more in them, enriching everything they wrote thereafter …”

“I don’t think you quite answered my question,” Danny said politely.

“Well,” Piston replied, lowering his gaze, “I think a teacher’s obligation is to tell the truth. That is an imperative of education.”

He paused and then pronounced his verdict.

“Danny, that you are a great pianist everybody knows. And that with the years you’ll grow into a fine conductor I have not the slightest doubt. But at this stage, your compositions are still — how can I put it? — raw material. I mean, fine ideas, but without sufficient discipline. That’s why I feel so strongly that you spend a year with Nadia.”

Danny’s ego was jolted. The professor was talking almost like that Crimson reviewer.

He looked at Walter Piston and thought inwardly, What good did Boulanger do you?

Your symphonies aren’t that great. And when’s the last time that an orchestra asked you to be their soloist? No, Walter, I think you’re just a little jealous.

I’m going to give the Boulangerie a miss.

“I’m sure I’ve hurt your feelings,” Piston said solicitously.

“No, no. Not at all. You told me what you thought, and I appreciate your being honest with me.”

“Then will you think about it once again?” the chairman asked.

“Of course,” Danny said diplomatically. Then rose and walked from the office.

He could not even wait to get back to his room and so he called New York from a booth in Harvard Square.

“Mr. Hurok, you can book me anyplace on earth as long as the piano’s tuned.”

“Bravo,” the impresario exulted. “I’ll fix you one exciting year.”

And thus, whether courageous or foolhardy, Danny Rossi had chosen to lead The Class. To be the first to dive from the cozy, amniotic safety of Harvard into the icy, shark-infested waters of the Real World.

***

Like the stretto in a fugue, spring term accelerated the tempo of a melody already racing to its conclusion. May seemed to enter even before April ended. Those who had just completed senior theses barely had time to catch their breaths before taking General Examinations.

Some of The Class availed themselves of this, their final opportunity to have a nervous breakdown.

On the afternoon of his General Exams in History and Lit., Norman Gordon of Seattle, Washington, was found wandering on the banks of the Charles — providentially by his own tutor.

“Hey, Norm, did you finish writing this early?”

“No,” replied the senior who had kept a straight-A average till now, a manic glow in his eyes. “I’ve decided that I don’t like my major at all, In fact, I’m planning not to graduate. I’m going out west to start a cattle ranch.”

“Oh,” said the tutor, then gently led him to the Health Department.

And psychiatry picked up where education had left off.

But in a sense young Gordon had succeeded in his unconscious aspiration: he had managed to avoid having to leave the four-walled shelter of a paternal institution.

“It was a brilliant piece of work,” said Cedric Whitman, as he met with Sara in Boylston Hall for their last tutorial. “I don’t think I’m being indiscreet if I tell you that my view is shared by everyone in the department who read it. Actually, I’d go as far as to say it’s got the makings of a doctoral dissertation.”

“Thank you.” Sara smiled shyly. “But, as you know, I’m not going to graduate school.”

“That’s a pity,” Whitman replied. “You’ve got a really original mind.”

“I think one classicist in the family is enough.”

“What do you intend to do then, Sara?”

“Be a wife — and a mother, eventually.”

“Does that exclude everything else?”

“Well, I feel I should be helping Ted as much as I can. And it would be easier if I had some kind of nondemanding job. I’ll — be studying shorthand at Katie Gibbs this summer.”

Whitman could not fully mask his disappointment.

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.”