By SLOAN WILSON
Author of "The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit,"
"A Summer Place," "A Sense of Values,"
and the recently published "Georgie Winthrop"
learned it's not the wrapper that counts hut what's inside
'2
Harvard. Perhaps I imagined that
there would be faculty committees
to make me feel at home or some
sort of "big brother" system to en
able seniors to help freshmen.' I did
not realize then that part' of the
genius of Harvard is to teach young
men early that, if they don't have
enough . drive to prove their own
worth,' no one in the great world is
really very interested in proving it
for them.
MY "FACULTY ADVISER" proved to
be a naval officer attached to '
the local ROTC unit who himself
was new to Cambridge and who had
problems of his own. We had a brief
embarrassed meeting and my faculty
advice was over. - . '
If I expected the older students
to go out of their way to relieve my
loneliness, I was speedily disen
chanted. "Harvard indifference" was
. not a phrase coined by enemies of
the institution, but a quality pursued
as a virtue by a large part of the
student , body. A real expert at
"Harvard indifference" could coolly
avert his face without a word when
greeted by an acquaintance he con
sidered a social or intellectual in
ferior, Rudeness was considered by
many to be sophistication.
A Boston boy who lived across the
hall from me in my dormitory was
friendly on the first day, but I shall
never forget his thin smile when I
asked him whether he considered it
necessary to own a dinner coat
When I went down to get my mail
in the morning, I discovered that
most of the other young men in the
dormitory were deluged with heavy
cream-colored envelopes containing
invitations to coming-out parties
given by Boston debutantes. It
seemed that only I got nothing but
bills, advertisements, and invita
tions to Y.M.C.A. dances. The prob
lem, I suddenly felt, was not how to
avoid becoming a snob, but how to
survive in a world where everyone
seemed to be an aristocrat except me.
"Without nobility" that's what I
was in one sense, at least, when I
started at Harvard, and like many
of my peasant forefathers who bro
kenheartedly left Europe for a new
country, I didn't like it. I wanted up.
And . like so many people without
nobility, I discovered all the wrong
methods, all the short cuts. I found
- the right tailor and got a new ward
robe. I met a few boys of ancient
Boston lineage and went out of my
way to become their friend. Most
assiduously I sought to acquire what
I thought to be the habits and knowl
edge of a gentleman. I studied books
about wine and bought English
tobacco. Letters home no longer be
gan with "Dear Dad" but acquired
the salutation, "My dear father."
By the time I got home for Christ
mas vacation I was transformed. The
careless clothes I had picked up at
small-town haberdashery shops had
been supplanted by elegant tweeds
and flannels. A slight Boston accent
had slurred the almost regionless
diction I had acquired from my par
ents. "You've changed," my father
said quietly.
mtjjven IN A democracy there's
Pi nothing wrong with being a
gentleman," I replied, echoing an
elegant senior I had once met.
"How do you define a gentleman?"
my father asked, harking back to his
maddeningly academic ways.
"I think that, first of all, a gentle
man must understand good cigars,
good wines, and good women," I
said, echoing that senior again.
"Tell me about the good cigars
first," my father replied with scarce
ly a smile.
"You can tell a good cigar by the
texture, the aroma, and by the fact .
that the ash doesn't drop off easily,"
I said.
"What's your favorite brand of
cigar?" he asked.
I had him there, because I knew
the name of a 60-cent cigar, and I
didn't think he thought I could come
up with one. I told him, and he
smiled. "That's a good cigar, all
right," he said.
That Christmas I received an ex
pensive box of cigars bearing the
name of. the brand I had told him
about During the remainder of my
vacation I smoked one after every
meal, and my father seemed unusual
ly curious about my reaction. "Is the
aroma the way you want it to be?"
he often asked.
"Oh yes," I said, sniffing the cigar.
"Excellent." -
"The texture?"
"Great!"
"Does the ash hang on long
enough?"
"Of course."
I enjoyed the cigars,' and I was
astonished when, shortly before
it was time for me to take the train
back to college, my father called me
into his study and, shoving a box
toward me, said, "Here I want you
to have your 60-cent cigars."
"But I smoked them!" I said.
"They were nickel cigars that I
rewrapped," he said with a touch of
weariness. "I'm glad you enjoyed
them. I hope you enjoy the real thing
as much."
I took the long unwrapped cigars
without a word, but I didn't feel
much like lighting one of them. All
I could think of was my father ait
ting alone in his study, rewrapping
60 cigars, carefully exchanging
bands, all for the sake of giving me
a much-needed lesson. "I've made a
fool of myself," I said, tears starting
' to my eyes.
"Better early than late," he said,
and he gave me the first hug I had
received since returning home. "Any
way," he concluded, "I've just taught
you half a lesson. Distrust the wrap
pings but don't think that such a
thing as real quality doesn't exist
These things really are good cigars,"
and he lit one of the monsters he had
stripped of cellophane. "They really
are excellent," he said.
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