Tea at the President's

One hundred sixty-nine freshmen and I dropped in on President and Mrs. Conant for tea last Thursday afternoon. "There were a lot more last week," said a stony-faced immobile young woman who stood leaning beside the Conant's front door, registering the tea traffic on a small counting gadget.

We were welcomed by a heavy-set young man who called himself our "baby dean." After pinning on badges bearing our names and home states, we were led into the room where the Conants were receiving. "Mrs. Conant has bursitis, so won't be shaking hands today," whispered an officiating beadle, as the small group of curious visitors was ushered in.

After introductions, which included some comment or topical reference to each guest's home state, we were conducted into the dining room where two ladies were pouring tea at opposite ends of a candle-lit table. "I feel that these affairs will accomplish a great deal even if they only get the freshmen into the civilizing habit of tea-drinking," someone was saying, as I reached for some sandwiches, obeying a primitive urge.

Various University officials and their wives were scattered around the room, and around each was a tight circle of car-leaning freshmen. Throughout the room the recent Boston election was a conversational favorite. "Well, I'll say one thing," said one jovial official, "Curley wouldn't live to be 120 if he were an athletic director."

Further along, someone was saying what a fine group this freshman class was, theoretically anyway. "More potential athletes and newspaper editors," added the gentleman, by way of example. In another corner: "The secret is to work not hard, but intelligently. Find the intellectual speed at which you work the most efficiently, and stay there...Find your pace...Remember everyone can't be top dog around here..."

Overheated from the tea, I followed a group of freshmen infiltrating into the ballroom, in search of chocolate milk and root beer. "Now, I bet YOU play the piano!" a young lady was saying. "Not even chop sticks!" (She wiggled two fingers in the air to simulate the playing of chop-sticks.) "Hmm. There must be someone here...," she said, looking around the room.

When the receiving line was closed, the Conants joined their guests in the ballroom, Mrs. Conant taking one end of the barren room, Mr. Conant the other. Along about this time a piano-player had been found, and a thundering chorus of "Some Enchanted Evening" soon filled the room.

Mrs. Conant, still holding a bouquet to ward off unknowing handshakers, was discussing the impracticality of the President's House, as a home. "It was built by President Lowell whose idea of something grand was that spiral staircase over there. It's fine for allowing ladies to sweep down in a full skirt and a train, but it seems as if the staircase came first and the house as an after-thought." Someone asked her if she had occasion to sweep down with a train much, and she laughed and said not much. "Of course, this place is practical when you are entertaining the Prime Minister of India, but it's hard bringing up a family in it. Imagine eating breakfast on that enormous table. We tried to build a nook some place but couldn't....Of course, this ball room came in handy when the boys had their electric trains."

The group around Mr. Conant was almost impenetrable, a fact which caused fretting among these circling on the periphery. In the vortex, Mr. Conant was slowly revolving as questions--the usual questions--were put to him.

The freshman at the piano was now rendering "Slaughter on 10th Avenue." My third tonic bottle was emptied, and I headed for supper, passing, on the way out, one guest with a Boy Scout badge in his lapel. Only one of the freshmen had been in uniform--khakis and blazer--and most wore matching coats and trousers. It won't be so in four years.