The Class (3 page)

worse, had been accepted at New Haven.

Jason's father insisted on an immediate audience with the school headmaster, himself an old Yalie.

"Mr. Trumbull," he demanded, "can you possibly explain how they could reject my son and take young Rawson?"

The gray-templed educator puffed at his pipe and replied,

'You must understand, Mr. Gilbert, Rawson is a Yale 'legacy. His father and grandfather were both Old Blues. That counts for a lot up there. The feeling for tradition runs extremely deep."

"All right, all right," the elder Gilbert responded, "but could you give me a plausible explanation of why a boy like Jason, a real gentleman, a great athlete-"

"Please, Dad," Jason interrupted, increasingly

embarrassed. But his father persisted. "Could you tell me why your alma mater wouldn't want a man like him?"

Trumbull leaned back on his chair and replied, "Well, Mr. Gilbert, I'm not privy to the actual deliberations of the

Yale committee. But I do know that the boys in New Haven like to have a 'balanced mix' in every class."

"Mix?"

"Yes, you know," the headmaster explained

matter-of-factly, "there's the question of geographical distribution, of alumni sons-as in Tony's case. Then there's the proportion of high school and prep school students, musicians, athletes

By now Jason's father knew what Trumbull was implying.

"Mr. Trumbull," he inquired with all the restraint he could still muster, "this 'mix' you refer to, does it also include- religious background?"

"In fact, yes," the headmaster answered affably. "Yale doesn't have what you would call a quota. But it does, to

some extent, limit the number of Jewish students it accepts."

- "That's against the law!"

"I should hardly -think so," Trumbull replied. "Jews are- what?-two and a half percent of the national population? I'd wager Yale accepts at least four times that number."

Gilbert, Sr., was not about to wager. For he sensed that the older man knew the exact percentage of Jews accepted annually by his alma mater.

Jason feared an angry storm was brewing and longed at all cost to avert it.

"Look, Dad, I don't want to go to a school that doesn't want me. As far as I'm concerned, Yale can go to hell." He then turned to the headmaster and said apologetically,

"Excuse me, sir."

"Not at all," Trumbull responded. "A perfectly understandable reaction. Now let's think positively. After all, your sec

- ond choice is a very good school. Some people even think

Harvard is the best college in the country."

TED LAM BROS

Great God, I ask thee for no meaner pelf Than that I may not disappoint myself, That in my action I may soar as high,

As I can now discern with this clear eye.

HENRY DAVID THOREAU -- CLASS OF 1837

All sensible people are selfish.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON CLASS OF 1821

H

e was a commuter. A member of that small and

near-invisible minority whose finances were not sufficient to allow them the luxury of living with their classmates

on campus. Thus, they were Harvard men only by day-a part and yet apart-forced to return at night by bus or subway to the real world,

Ironically, Ted Lambros had been born almost in the shadow of the Yard. His father, Socrates, who had come to America

from Greece in the early thirties, was the popular proprietor of The Marathon restaurant on Massachusetts Avenue, a brisk walk north from Widener Library.

in his establishment, as he would frequently boast to

members of his staff (in other words, his family), more great minds would nightly gather than ever had "symposiazed" at the Academy of Plato. Not just philosophers, but Nobel Prize winners in physics, chemistry, medicine, and economics. And even Mrs. Julia Child, who had pronounced his wife's lamb in lemons "most amusing."

Moreover, his son - Theodore attended Cambridge High

and Latin School, so very near the sacred precinct that it was almost part of the college itseW

Since the elder Lambros held the members of the faculty in a reverence bordering on idolatry, it was natural that his son grew up with a passionate desire to go to Harvard.

At sixteen, the tall and darkly handsome Theodore was promoted to full waiterhood, thus bringing him in closer contact with these academic luminaries. Ted felt a thrill when they merely said good evening to him.

He wondered why. Just what was this Harvardian charisma he could sense even in the briefest motion of depositing a plate of Kleftiko?

One apocalyptic evening, it at last became clear. - They had such uncanny confidence. Self-assurance emanated from these dignitaries like a halo-whether they were discussing metaphysics or the merits of a new instructor's wife.

Being the son of an insecure immigrant, Ted especially admired- their ability to love themselves and treasure their own intellects.

And it gave him a goal in life. He wanted to become one of them. Not just an undergraduate but an actual professor. And his father shared the dream.

Much to the discomfort of the other Lambros children,

Daphne and Alexander, Papa would often rhapsodize at dinner about Ted's glorious future.

"I don't know why everybody thinks he's so great," young

Alex would grudgingly retort.

"Because he is," said Socrates with mantic fervor. "Theo is this family's true lambros ." He smiled at his pun on

their last name, which in Greek meant "gleam" or

"brilliance."

From Ted's small room on Prescott Street, where he grinded well into the night, he could see the lights of Harvard Yard barely two hundred yards away. So close, so very close. And if his concentration ever flagged, he would rouse himself by thinking, "Hang in, Lambros, you're almost there." For, like Odysseus in the swirling sea around Phaeacia, he- could actually perceive the goal of all his long and mighty struggles.

Consistent with these epic fantasies, he dreamed about the maiden who'd be waiting for him on this magic isle. A golden-haired young princess like Nausicaa. Ted's Harvard dreams embraced the Radcliffe girls as well.

Thus, when he read the Odyssey for senior English honors class and reached book 6-Nausicaa's great infatuation with the handsome Greek washed up on her shore-he saw it as an augury of the delirious reception he would get when at last he arrived.

But Ted's straight A in that English course was one of the very few he received all year. In fact, most of the time he earned solid if not brilliant B-pluses. He was more plugger than slugger. So could he dare hope to be admitted to Fair Harvard?

He stood merely seventh in his class, with College-Board scores only slightly higher than average. True, Harvard usually sought out well-rounded individuals. But Ted adjudged himself to be a square. For after studying and waitering, where was the time to learn the harp or go out for a team? He was somberly objective and kept trying to persuade his

-father not to expect the impossible. -

But Papa Lambros was unswervingly optimistic. He was confident that Ted's letters of recommendation from the

"gigantic personalities" who dined at The Marathon would have a magical effect.

And in a way, they did. Ted Lambros was accepted-albeit without financial aid. This meant he was condemned to remain in his cell on Prescott Street, unable to taste the joys of Harvard life beyond the classroom. For he would have to spend his evenings slaving at The Marathon to earn the

six-hundred-dollar tuition.

Still Ted was undaunted. Though he was only at the

foothills of Olympus, at least he was there, ready to climb. For Ted believed in the American dream. That if you wanted something badly enough and devoted your heart and soul to it, you would ultimately succeed.

And he wanted Harvard with the same "unperishable fire"

that drove Achilles till he conquered Troy.

But then Achilles didn't have to wait on tables every night.

ANDREW ELIOT

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, -

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse. .

TS. ELIOT CLASS OF 1910

T

he newest Eliot to enter Harvard continued a tradition that began in 1649. -

Andrew had a privileged childhood.

Even after they had gracefully divorced, his parents lavished on him all a growing boy could wish for. He had an English nanny and a horde of teddy bears. And from as early as he could recall, they sent him to the most expensive boarding schools and summer camps. They established a trust fund, making his future secure.

In short, they gave him everything except their interest and attention.

Of course they loved him. That went without saying.

Perhaps that- is why they never actually said it. They simply

- assumed he would know that they appreciated what a fine

and independent son he was.

Yet, Andrew was the first of his entire family to feel himself unworthy of admission to Harvard. As he often joked selfdeprecatingly, "They let me in because my name was Eliot and I could spell it."

Clearly, his ancestry cast giant shadows on his

confidence. And, quite understandably, what he regarded as a lack of creativity only magnified his innate inferiority complex.

Actually, he was a rather bright young man. He had a

modest way with words-as witnessed by the diary he kept from prep school onward. He played soccer well. He was a wing whose corner kicks helped many a center-forward score.

That was an index of his personality-he was always happy when he could assist a friend.

And off the field he was kind, thoughtful, and

considerate. Most of all, though he would not have arrogated such a distinction for himself, he was considered by his many friends a darn nice guy.

The university was proud to have him. But, Andrew Eliot

'58 had a quality that set him apart from every other member of his Harvard class. --

He was not ambitious.

J

ust after 5:00 AM. on September 20, a Greyhound bus

- reached the dingy terminal in downtown Boston and disgorged, among its passengers, a tired and sweaty Daniel Rossi. His clothing was a mass of wrinkles and his reddish hair unkempt. Even his glasses were fogged with transcontinental grime.

He had left the West Coast three days earlier with sixty dollars in his pocket, of which he still had fifty-two. For he had all but starved his way across America.

Totally exhausted, he was barely able to drag his single suitcase (full of music scores he'd studied on the journey, and a shirt or two) down to the subway for Harvard Square.

First he trudged to Holworthy 6, his freshman lodgings in the Yard, then registered as quickly as possible so that he could return to Boston and transfer from his California branch to Local No. 9 of the Musicians Union.

"Don't get your hopes up, kid," cautioned the secretary.

"We got a million piano players out of work. - Actually, the only keyboard jobs available are holy ones. You see, the Lord just pays the union minimum." Pointing her long,

vermilion-painted fingernail toward the small white notices pinned on a bulletin board, she added wryly, "Choose

your-religion, kid."

After a careful study of the possibilities, Danny returned with two scraps of paper.

"These would be great for me," he said. "Organist on

Friday night and Saturday morning at the temple in Maiden, and Sunday morning at this church in Quincy. Are they

still available?"

"That's why they're hangin' there, kid. But, as you can

see, the bread they're offering's more like Ritz crackers.'

"Yeah," Danny replied, "but I can really use whatever

money I can get my hands on. Do you get many Saturday-night dance gigs?"

"Gee, you sure seem hungry. Got a big family to support or somethin'?"

'-'No. I'm a freshman at Harvard and need the dough for tuition."

"How come those rich guys irs Cambridge didn't give you a scholarship?" -

"It's a long story," Danny said uneasily. "But I'd be grateful if you'd keep me in mind. In any case, I'll stay in touch."

"I'm sure you will, kid.

Just before eight the preceding day, Jason Gilbert, Jr., had awakened in Syosset, Long Island.

The sun always seemed to shine more -brightly in his bedroom. Perhaps it was reflected from his many glittering trophies.

He shaved, put on a new Chemise Lacoste, then hauled his luggage, as well as assorted tennis and squash rackets, down to his 1950 Mercury coupé convertible. He was looking forward to roaring up the Post Road in the buggy he had lovingly