June 10, 1958
As a kind of anodyne for the trauma of our symbolic rebirth, Harvard arranges a series of assorted ceremonies for Senior Week, culminating in Thursday morning’s sacred laying on of hands.
The Baccalaureate Service on Sunday in Memorial Church was a pretty desultory affair. At least, that’s what I heard from one of the guys who actually went. It wasn’t exactly a big draw.
Monday’s formal dance—for some reason called the Senior Spread—was much better attended. About half The Class filled the Lowell House courtyard, clad in rented white dinner jackets, dancing into the wee hours to the mellow saxophone sounds of Les and Larry Elgart’s orchestra.
I guess if it had an educational purpose, which I assume everything at Harvard does, it was to give us a preview of what it would be like to be middle-aged.
The band gave an occasional nod to musical modernity with one or two cha-cha-chas—the current terpsichorean vogue—and also some Elvis tunes. But it was soft and gentle stuff like “Love Me Tender.”
Oh yes, we did have dates. I blush to say that Newall and I had a social arrangement with Jason, somewhat analogous to my sartorial-exchange policy with Ted Lambros. We got his hand-me-downs.
But, of course, when you get an ex from Gilbert, they are still in exceptionally fine condition. As Joe Keezer might put it, “hardly worn.” The only problem is they still have this vestigial attachment to Jason.
The result being that while he was dancing with this incredible blonde (a tennis journalist he’d picked up at some tournament), Lucy, my so-called date, and Melissa, who was supposed to be with Newall, kept angling to stay in his line of vision in hopes they could scrounge a single dance with our Class Leader.
Needless to say, even with our own considerable charm, Dickie and I didn’t get to first base with either of our girls. But at least we had a lovely on our arms, which I suspect was the motivation for a lot of the pairings that evening. I think that Ted and Sara were among the maybe dozen or so couples who were actually involved romantically.
Tomorrow night we have yet another jolly event—for which Gilbert has already obtained me an escort—a moonlight cruise in Boston Harbor. Newall is going to pass on that one since, for some irrational reason, he’s afraid he might get seasick. And how would that look the next morning, when he’s due to be commissioned as a naval officer?
But as this artificial carnival continues, I keep wondering more and more why no one really seems to be enjoying it.
And I’ve come to what I think is a profound conclusion. The Class is really not a class. I mean, we’re not a brotherhood—or anything at all cohesive for that matter.
In fact, the time we spent here was a kind of truce. A cease-fire in the war for fame and power. And in two more days the guns come out again.
Though it had rained intermittently throughout the earlier part of Commencement Week, Harvard’s apparent connections in Very High Places succeeded in making Thursday, June 12, 1958, a hot and sunny day, perfect for the university’s 322d Commencement Ceremony.
Everyone seemed to be in costume. From the rented black caps and gowns of the undergraduates to the electric pink of the doctoral candidates. Or the eighteenth-century garb of the sheriff of Middlesex County, who rode in on horseback to open the proceedings.
Led by Jason Gilbert and the two other marshals, The Class of ’58 marched through the Yard, around University Hall, and into the vast area between Memorial Church and Widener Library. For a few hours every year, rows of wooden seats spring up and this sylvan space is magically transformed into “Tercentenary Theater.”
As had been the practice for three centuries, the solemnities began with an oration in Latin—which perhaps sixteen people understood and everybody else pretended to.
This year’s speaker, selected two weeks earlier by the Classics Department, was Theodore Lambros of Cambridge, Massachusetts. His speech was entitled “De optima genere felicitatis“—on the noblest form of happiness.
The Latin salutatorian’s task is, as the word suggests, to greet the dignitaries present in hierarchical order. First President Pusey, then the governor of Massachusetts, deans, pastors, and so forth.
But the crowd is really waiting for the traditional greetings to the Radcliffe girls (who, of course, come at the very end).
Nec vos ommittamus, puellae pulcherrimae Radcltiffiane, quas socias studemus vivendi, ridendi, bibendi.…
Nor shall we overlook you, Most exquisite Radcliffe maidens, Whom we zealously pursue as companions for Living, laughing, and quaffing.…
Twenty thousand pairs of hands applauded. But none more vigorously than those of the proud Lambros family.
After all the salutations, the orator is supposed to pronounce a small homily. And Ted had chosen as his message the fact that the highest form of happiness was to be found in truly unselfish friendship toward one’s fellow man.
It was not long thereafter that President Pusey bade The Class of ’58 rise to its feet and its representatives mount the steps of Memorial Church to join “the fellowship of educated men.”
First Marshal Jason Gilbert walked to the podium to accept the symbolic diploma for all of them.
Sitting near the stage in a section reserved for relatives of the participants, Jason’s father overheard a female voice exclaim, “He looks just like something out of Scott Fitzgerald.”
Mr. Gilbert turned to caution his wife not to speak so loudly. But in doing so, he realized that Betsy was crying and the compliment had been articulated by another woman sitting in their row. And he smiled and thought, There’s no prouder father in this whole damn place.
He was not correct, of course. There were nearly a thousand fathers of The Class of ’58 among those present, all of whom were sharing what they thought was the zenith of euphoria and pride.
Four years earlier, 1, 162 young men had entered Harvard with The Class of ’58. Today, 1,031 of them received diplomas. Just over ten percent had failed to stay the course. In ancient Roman terms, they had been decimated.
Some who had flunked out along the way might perhaps come back in a later year and finish their degrees. Still others had surrendered their ambition to be Harvard men either by giving up their sanity or taking their own lives. But no one thought of them today, for this was a time for congratulation, not compassion.
Not even Jason gave a thought to David Davidson, his freshman roommate, who was still resident in Massachusetts Mental Hospital, undaunted by his temporary setback, still dreaming of future scientific glory.
Half an hour later, The Class broke into smaller groups to have luncheon in their houses.
Back at Eliot, Art and Gisela Rossi’s meal with Danny would be simultaneously a farewell. For he’d be leaving the next morning to return to Tanglewood—as soloist this summer. And after that to Europe to begin the concert tour that Hurok had arranged.
His mother couldn’t keep from asking why Maria was not there. For she had really liked the girl.
Art Rossi was more understanding. “Come on, honey,” he whispered, “she was probably just a passing fancy. Dan’s too young and clever to let himself get hooked so soon.”
Danny kept up the charade and smiled. Though inwardly he was aggrieved that when he’d asked her to be his date “just for old times’ sake,” Maria had declined.
George Keller had resigned himself to eating lunch alone on a courtyard step. Clearly, no one near and dear to him was that day present. Then Andrew Eliot approached him. “Hey, George,” he said good-naturedly, “do me a favor, huh? Come on over to our table and talk to some of my stepsisters. I mean, I can’t remember half their names but some of them are cute.”
“Thank you, Andrew, that is most cordial. I’d be ravished to join you.”
As George rose to walk to the Eliot family table in the courtyard of the house called Eliot, with his classmate Andrew of that same name, the latter whispered to him, “George, your English is terrific. But don’t say ‘ravished.’ Say my sister—any one of them—is ravishing.”