One morning in 1928, as Victor studied the ticker, Dickey Drake stalked in and threw the
Harvard Alumni Magazine
on his desk. “Bad form, Victor. Very bad form.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What you said in this month’s issue.” Dickey read, “‘I support President Lowell’s new house system. I believe it can be both national and democratic in nature.’ A lot of blather, Victor. The system we had worked just fine.”
“Not if you were poor,” answered Victor, “or couldn’t get into a club.”
“Did you know that Lowell is going to make everyone pay for meals in the houses, even if they take their meals in the clubs?”
“The clubmen can afford it,” said Victor.
“Lowell is out to kill the clubs.” Dickey aimed a finger at Victor. “You once told me that when your boys were old enough, you’d want them both to be Porcellians.”
“I want them to be good students and good citizens. The house system will give them the chance. They’ll live in the Yard as freshmen, then move into one of the houses with a few hundred students, where they’ll live, eat, mingle, have their own tutors. . . .”
“Social engineering.”
“I should think you’d like it, you’re such an Anglophile. It’s modeled on the system at Oxford and Cambridge.”
“But it’s all so artificial . . . bringing poor boys and rich boys together in some neo-Georgian palace by the Charles.”
“Dickey, you’re a snob,” said Victor.
“And you’re a class traitor.”
In the report for 1931, Victor wrote:
Barbara and I have moved year-round to Manchester-by-the-Sea, where our family has summered for years. The town is quiet, and the train reaches Boston in an hour. I can still get to the office before the open on Wall Street, and the problems of the city can be left behind at night. The problems of Wall Street cannot, although at Wedge, Fleming, and Royce, our philosophy has protected us. I am proud to say that we began to withdraw from the market in the spring of ’29, when it became apparent that stock prices were racing far ahead of earnings. On the home front we are happier than ever. Our two sons grow like weeds on the front lawn. And Barbara fills the house with her paintings. To make room for them, we have even contributed to the college several portraits of Harvardians in our line. Go see them in the new Fogg Art Museum.
In the spring of his twentieth reunion year, Victor and other leaders of the reunion classes were invited on a walk with President Lowell, a sort of fund-raising tour.
They began in the science area, north of the Yard, before the giant rhinoceroses at the entrance to the biology laboratories, and they came away certain of Harvard’s preeminence in science. They walked past Langdell Hall, new home of the Law School, and were comforted that American jurisprudence was in good hands. They admired the Fogg Art Museum but did not go in; simply knowing that it existed assured them that good minds were caring for the cultural life of college and nation. They looked up at Memorial Church, which honored the dead of the Great War with a tall white spire, its delicacy a counterpoint to Widener’s bulk, its elegance suggestive of the neo-Georgian beauty they would find along the river.
Then they walked out of the Yard and south toward the new walls of red brick, the chimneys and bell towers, the orderly rows of windows and slate-covered dormers—the houses, imposing themselves on the curve of the Charles yet conforming to the ancient pattern of Cambridge streets.
By now, Victor had slipped in beside Lowell.
“Ah, Victor. What do you think?” asked the old man.
“Hard to believe how handsome it is.”
“Just two years ago, the house system was no more than a dream. And now . . .”
Ahead of them was the largest house, named for the Lowell family, with a bell tower modeled after Independence Hall. A perfect symbol, thought Victor, for a system meant to foster in young men a sense of democratic idealism and responsibility. Of those to whom much had been given, it proclaimed, much was expected.
“Marvelous, sir,” he said.
“We’ve broken up the Gold Coast now,” said Lowell. “We’re doing our best to give everyone a chance.”
“I was a Gold Coaster,” said Victor. “But I think you’ve done something remarkable here, even if you haven’t given
everyone
a chance.”
Lowell made a little grunt, then hurried ahead.
The tour ended on the Weeks footbridge, which connected the river houses and the Business School. Lowell told them to reflect on what they saw: magnificent examples of Colonial Revival architecture on both sides of the river, buildings that echoed America’s idealistic beginnings and looked toward an orderly future. He reminded them that the money for the Business School had come from Wall Street giant George F. Baker and the money for the houses from Standard Oil heir Edward Harkness. And neither was a Harvard man. What’s more, Harkness had gone to Yale!
And Lowell made his pitch: “If outsiders could do all this for Harvard, how much more should Harvard men like all of you be expected to do? How much . . . how much . . .”
Lowell’s words faded for Victor. He was at the edge of the group now, thinking about all that Lowell had achieved, not only in remaking the body of the university but also its soul. He had been gifted with great vision.
But he had his blind spots, too. He had denied Marie Curie an honorary degree because she was a woman, or so the story went. He had approved a memorandum to house masters, telling them not to accept more Jews than “what the traffic will bear.” He had sought to protect young white gentlemen from the sight of black men who did not merely serve in the dining halls but actually dined in them. Lowell, like Harvard and America itself, still had far to go in the fight against ignorance.
So in late 1935, Victor wrote:
It is impossible to believe that a quarter century has flown past. We of 1911 are fortunate to enjoy our twenty-fifth reunion in the spring and the Tercentenary in the fall. And you’ll see me at both, since I am secretary of the Alumni Association.
Barbara enjoys painting and volunteering, I find relaxation in shaving strokes from my handicap. Our older boy is off to Phillips Andover, and his brother will leave next year. We are proud of them but loath to lose them to young adulthood. They both love Harvard football games, which we attend in our 1934 Ford beach wagon.
On the business front, Wedge, Fleming, and Royce has developed a series of stock-buying funds to spread risks and maintain profits for large investors and small, even during the downturn. I refuse to use the term
depression
. I reserve that for my feelings when I look to Europe and the Far East. Let us hope that when we fought the War to End All Wars, we were not deceiving ourselves. Let us hope that the Harvard man in the White House perseveres and that Harvard does the same.
There is an epitaph on the grave of one of my ancestors. “Seek truth through the years, but seek it for all.” This should be carved next to “Veritas” on the Harvard seal. For if all are not inspired to seek the truth, ignorance will prevail and dark clouds will produce a deluge that drowns us all.
The night that he finished his 1936 report, he took out that thin sheet of onionskin once more, read it, and wondered what he would do when the gilt-edged envelope with all of its symbolism was finally within his grasp. And it would be. As secretary of the Alumni Association, he would be there when it finally came to light.
iii
It was the morning of September 8, 1936. Victor Wedge sat at the president’s table in the faculty meeting room of University Hall.
On the walls, the portraits of Harvard presidents gazed down. In the chairs around the room sat two dozen alumni. Though the day was warm and sunshine poured through the Palladian windows of University Hall, each gentleman wore a three-piece suit or, if he was an official of the Alumni Association, striped trousers and swallow-tailed coat.
On the president’s table lay the packet of letters from 1836. It was wrapped in brown paper, bound with string, sealed in wax. President Quincy’s handwriting was still easily read. Harvard’s new president, an ascetic-looking young chemist named James Bryant Conant, stood over the packet, ready to break the seals.
Seated around the table with Victor were the vice president of the Alumni Association, the director of the university libraries, the chief flag marshal of the Class of ’11—formidable gentlemen all—and Abbot Lawrence Lowell.
The president emeritus was turned out in a light gray suit, as though he knew it would distinguish him in a sea of dark fabric. He had entered the room with his usual quick step; he had punctuated every greeting with his characteristic nod, a gesture that some said he learned from Teddy and taught to Franklin. But for all his energy, Abbot Lawrence Lowell was ancient. What hair he had left was pure white. So was his mustache. And his eyes had all but disappeared into the puffy bags around them, as though he were a boxer pounded not by fists but by time.
And if Lowell was now ancient, Victor Wedge had to be growing old, even though he had looked better than most anyone at his twenty-fifth reunion. He was still trim and vigorous, with only a little gray at his temples and in his mustache. But the same river that swept Lowell toward the sea drew Victor, too. And that realization made him feel even closer to a woman who had ridden that river past the burning of Harvard Hall and the American Revolution and had anticipated this day in 1936. He had decided that he owed it to her to see the contents of that gilt-edged envelope before anyone else did.
“I will now open the packet,” said Conant.
Gentlemen leaned forward. Victor rubbed the palms of his hands on his trousers.
The red wax seals popped, the string and paper came away, and there was . . . an inner folder. Conant carefully opened it and there were . . . letters. Some had been opened and stacked neatly. Others had remained in envelopes, also stacked neatly and tied.
Victor inclined his head and looked for an edge of gold leaf.
Conant examined the packet, lifted a few letters, thumbed the pile of envelopes.
Victor saw a flash of gold and resolved not to take his eyes off of it.
“Unfortunately, gentlemen,” said Conant, “it seems as if the packet contains letters and nothing else. No newspapers, no engravings, no medallions.”
“Would the president read a letter or two?” asked Lowell.
Conant looked over at Samuel Eliot Morison, a historian in owl-shaped glasses and bow tie. “Professor Morison will be inspecting them, but I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“I can’t wait myself,” said Morison.
And Victor Wedge put both hands on the table, just inches from the folder.
Conant turned over one letter and picked up another, then turned to another, until he found one to his liking. “This comes from Samuel Wragg of Charleston, South Carolina, Class of 1790. He concludes: ‘May the Sons of Harvard University celebrate her centennial anniversaries to the end of time, each celebration witnessing her increasing reputation.’”
“Hear, hear,” said Lowell.
“Perhaps I should read one that was kept in an envelope.” Conant moved his hand to that packet and broke the string holding the envelopes together.
Victor rubbed the tips of his fingers against his thumbs. There would be a moment, very soon, when the gilt-edged envelope would be within his grasp.
Conant picked up the first envelope. “On the flap, it says, ‘Not to be opened until 1936.’ There are several like that, and as you can see, the wishes of the authors were respected.” Conant opened the envelope and said, “Perhaps this is why: ‘To the Gentlemen of the Future: Excuse me for this frank expression of feelings. But I am compelled to say that I owe nothing to the president, professors, and tutors of Harvard college from 1810 to 1814. I hope you do not say as little for the Harvard of your time.’”
This brought healthy laughter. Even in that group, most men tried to maintain a bit of cynicism about a college that took itself so seriously. And all considered it was a sign of good character to be able to laugh at themselves.
When the laughter died, Conant said, “With that, I’ll hear a motion to adjourn.”
So moved, seconded, approved. Then the gentlemen in the room were on their feet, milling about, clattering their coffee cups and spoons, and turning their attention to the best part of any alumni meeting—the conversation.
But at the president’s table, there was still business to be done. Victor stood and gestured to a sheet of paper on the table. “Gentlemen, before Professor Morison takes the packet, we must all sign to attest to what we’ve witnessed.”
“Ah, yes,” said Conant. “Quite right.”
“Yes, indeed,” said the vice president of the Alumni Association.
Conant said, “And as President Lowell signs, perhaps—”
With his left hand, Victor was sliding the signing sheet across the table toward Lowell, while with his right, he was sliding the gilt-edge envelope toward himself. And Conant was saying, “Perhaps a photograph.”
And . . .
flash!
All the gentlemen around the table turned to the camera, except for Lowell, who was taking out his pen and preparing to sign.
Victor blinked away the blue spot that went floating past. He looked at the camera as another bulb was popped into place and . . .
flash!
Victor had the envelope, and the photographer had him. But in the moment that most of the gentlemen in the room were blinded by the second flash, Victor moved the envelope to his pocket. Then all were turning to watch Lowell sign the sheet. Then . . .
flash!
Victor slid his hand to his pocket and pushed the envelope deeper.
Victor studied the letter, followed its directions, and late one evening, he became the first person in a century and a half to set eyes on the manuscript of
Love’s Labours Won
. Once he had allowed his sense of awe to settle, he made his decision.
Harvard’s president might co-sign the diplomas of Radcliffe graduates, but in too many ways, ignorance still prevailed. So Victor did what he thought Lydia would have wanted, what the Callahans would have appreciated, what his descendants, he hoped, would consider profound rather than clever.