Erich Segal - The Class

Then there’s Lowell House, a Georgian masterpiece, convenient to the Final Clubs, whose master is more English than the queen. Withal, a very tweedy place.

But Harvard’s undisputed preppie paradise is … Eliot House. Needless to say, both. Wig and Newall want to make it their first choice. But I’m a bit uneasy at the prospect of inhabiting this rather awesome red-brick monument to my great-grandfather (his statue’s even in the courtyard).

Still, Wig and Newall were really hot to go where most of our friends already are ensconced. We had the makings of a real dilemma, till an unexpected visitor surprised us fairly late one evening.

Fortunately, no one was too drunk to hear the knocking at the door.

Newall stood up unsteadily to greet our nocturnal guest. I suddenly heard him cry out, “Jesus Christ!” and hurried to the door to hear our visitor reply, “Not quite, young man, I’m just His humble servant.”

It was none other than Professor Finley. I mean the man himself — in our own dorm!

He happened to be passing by on his late evening promenade, and thought he’d take the liberty of popping in to ask where we’d be applying for next year. And especially if Eliot was “privileged” to be among our choices.

We quickly assured him that it was, although he sensed that I myself had qualms about being Andrew Eliot in Eliot House, whose master was the Eliot Professor of Greek.

In fact, he’d come to reassure me.

He did not expect me to translate the Bible for the Indians, or become the President of Harvard. And yet he was certain that in my own way I’d make my mark somehow.

I don’t know if I was more stunned or just moved. I mean, this great professor thought that I might actually develop into — I don’t know — something.

The next morning I was still not really sure that John H. Finley actually had come in person to our room.

But, even if it was a dream, the three of us are going to go to Eliot. Because even the ghost of Finley — if it was only that — is good enough to spellbind anyone.

When Jason Gilbert picked up the Crimson outside his door each morning, he turned his immediate attention to the sports page to see if any of his exploits had been mentioned. After that, he read the front page to learn what was happening around the college. Finally, if he had time, he checked the world news, which was always briefly outlined in a corner.

For this reason he failed to notice a brief item reporting that, for the first time in memory, a freshman had won the annual concerto contest of the Harvard-Radcliffe Orchestra.

On the evening of April 12, 1955, Daniel Rossi ’58 would be playing Liszt’s E-Flat Concerto.

Jason learned of this only three days later, when an envelope was slipped under his door.

Dear Gilbert,

If you hadn’t helped me with the Step Test, I probably would never have been able to practice enough to win.

Here, as promised, are two tickets. Bring a friend.

Jason smiled. That freshman-week experience was such a distant memory, he’d never given Danny’s words a second thought. But now he could invite Annie Russell, the most sought-after girl at Radcliffe. Jason had long been looking for a suitable occasion. And this was a great one.

On the night of April 12, all of Harvard’s talent watchers crowded into Sanders Theater to examine what had been predicted as a new comet entering their galaxy.

No one was more aware of the impending scrutiny than the soloist himself.

Danny stood in the wings, watching with mounting anxiety as the hail continued to fill with intimidating personalities. Not only were his Harvard professors present, but he recognized important figures from the city’s famous conservatories. My God, even John Finley was there.

During the exhilarating weeks of rehearsal he had looked forward with a kind of manic joy to this grand occasion — the moment to parade his pianistic talents before a thousand bigwigs. He had suddenly felt like a giant.

That is, until last night. For on the eve of what he had been sure would be his Harvard coronation, he could not get to sleep. He tossed. He turned. He fantasized catastrophe. Arid moaned as if it were inevitable.

I’ll be a laughingstock, he thought. I’ll faint when I walk out on stage. Or else I’ll trip. Or maybe play my entrance much too soon. Or too late. Or completely forget the music.

They’ll be rolling in the aisles. And not just Orange County ladies, but a thousand of the world’s most knowledgeable people. What a disaster. Why did I ever go out for this goddamn contest anyway?

He felt his forehead. It was hot and moist. Maybe I’m sick, he thought. He hoped. Maybe they’ll have to cancel my appearance. Oh please, God, make me have the flu. Or even something fairly serious.

To his increased distress, the next morning he felt reasonably healthy. And thus resigned himself to face the evening guillotine in Sanders Theater.

He stood backstage all alone, wishing he were somewhere else.

Don Lowenstein, who was conducting, came back to ask him if he was ready. Danny wanted to say no. But something autonomic made him nod.

He took a breath, said inwardly, “Oh shit,” and walked on stage, his eyes fixed on the floor. Just before sitting at the piano, he bowed slightly to the audience, acknowledging their polite applause. Mercifully, the spotlights blinded him and he could see no faces.

Then an uncanny thing occurred.

No sooner was he at the keyboard than his fear transformed into a new sensation. Excitement. He was burning to make music.

He signaled readiness to Don.

The motion of the opening baton put Danny in a strange, hypnotic trance. He dreamed that he was playing flawlessly. Far better than at any prior moment in his life.

The sounds of “Bravo!” flew at him from every corner of the hall. And applause that seemed without diminuendo.

The atmosphere surrounding Danny afterward reminded Jason of the finals of a tennis championship. They did everything but pick him up and carry him around the theater on their shoulders. Gray eminences of the music community were lined up like fans to shake his hand.

Yet, the moment Danny noticed Jason, he broke free and hurried to the edge of the stage to greet him.

“You were fantastic,” Jason warmly hailed him. “We were really glad to get the tickets. Oh, I’d like to introduce my date, Miss Annie Russell, ’57.”

“Hi.” Danny smiled. “Are you at The Cliffe?”

“Yes,” she answered, beaming, “And can I be the millionth person to say you were absolutely fabulous tonight.”

“Thanks,” said Danny. And then quickly added in apologetic tones, “Hey look, I’m really sorry, but I’ve gotta go shake more professors’ hands. Let’s get together for a meal sometime, huh, Jason? It was nice to meet you, Annie.”

He waved goodbye and sprinted off.

The next afternoon, buoyed by her vivacious attitude all evening, Jason telephoned Annie to invite her to the football game next Saturday.

“I’m really sorry,” she replied, “I’m going down to Connecticut.”

“Oh, a date at Yale?”

“No. Danny’s playing with the Hartford Symphony.”

Shit, thought Jason as he hung up, bursting with frustration. That’s a lesson for you.

Never help a Harvard classmate — even up a step.

On Tuesday, April 24, 1955, winter was still very much in the Cambridge air. Yet, official administrative statistics suggest that a metaphorical ray of sunlight shone into the lives of 71.6 percent of Harvard’s 322d freshman class. For this elated majority had been accepted by the house of their first choice.

To the trio in Wig G-21 it came as no surprise, since their admission had been heralded a month earlier by the visitation of a distinguished archangel. But they were delighted to learn that they had been assigned a suite that enjoyed a river view. Not many sophomores got such choice accommodations.