THE UNDERGRADUATE CHAIR

SMOOTHLY and effortlessly, the academic year in Hanover has begun, as if the town had never known a summer; which I suppose is the sign of a vital tradition, or at least of an entrenched and absorbing way of life. Things pick up where they left off, and not a stitch is dropped or a beat missed; the months away shrivel like inanities and take on vague and alien shapes as they fade before the continuum of the College. The individual, of course, may protest: the upperclassman may choose to be bored, and the freshman may decide to be confused; but the effect on Dartmouth as a whole is negligible. Though the pattern above shifts and changes, something holds underneath, and stays the same, or more probably moves .and expands so imperceptibly that its progress must be intuited rather than conceived, and can only be clearly observed from the vantage of decades, or even centuries.

Consider particular symptoms, or possibly the more accurate word is syndromes, of the moment. By now, every freshman should have written the obligatory foliage letter to his parents, describing in breathless detail the brightening colors of the leaves and interspersing his panegyric to nature with hints for more money; and every senior should be contemplating the advantages and disadvantages of graduate school, and beginning to send away for catalogues, application forms, and a monstrously familiar paraphernalia of bureaucratic ingenuity that will bring him emotionally full circle, back to the fall before he went away to college, and finally leave him staring fixedly into the fire, wondering if during the past four years he's really gone anywhere at all.

Such things are to be expected, as are the flurries of elation and depression, as predictible as snow in December, that accompanied this year's fraternity rushing. Actually, though, the rush just ended seemed both qualitatively and quantitatively different from what it has been in the past. For one thing, it was conducted at most houses with all the studied spontaneity of a Victorian charade; everything was calculated, standards were stricter and narrower and applied more readily, and selectivity approached the limits of self-extinction, which has been the trend of recent years in Dartmouth fraternities. And sure enough, when all the shouting had died down to hoarse mumblings and countless tired feet were tingling like tuning forks over post-mortems, statistics proved that the total of men sunk this September was considerably less than that of last September, and that the houses on campus who are at present in serious financial difficulty made no apparent allowances for this fact in forming and filling their pledge classes. Such spirit under duress! But then the question remains: whom shall one admire or pity the more - the ever-increasing number outside who stay away or the ever-diminishing number inside who stay inflexible?

There is, indeed, no doubt that the whole fraternity system is in a state of transition, and even perhaps of twilight. A recent pledge raid that I witnessed was climaxed by an exchange of hostages in, of all places, Baker Library, and right in front of the main circulation desk too. It was a scene of such classic dignity and restraint as would have inspired the gelid brush of Jacques Louis David, and only the requisite centurion and parchment scroll inscribed in Ciceronian Latin were lacking to make the full effect. Is this the direction Dartmouth fraternities are taking? An exquisite sense of civilization, yes - but, I can hear some old alumnus grumble, rather effete.

The most obvious example on campus of the untried and unexploited, however, is not the new pledge classes, but Hopkins Center, which now looms attrac- tively across the mall from Baker in a state more finished than not, and only incomplete, as a matter of record, in certain interior areas like the theaters and Spaulding Auditorium. The music department, moreover, has already, and with no discernible reluctance, relinquished the neo-Gothic charms of Bartlett and moved into its quarters in the section of Hopkins facing Lebanon Street, where it is now happily ensconced with no less than twenty-eight new Steinway pianos - fourteen grands and as many uprights, or so the story goes.

I have been spending a good deal of time at the Hop lately, both officially and not-so-officially, and herewith offer, for what they are worth, some scattered impressions of the place that I laboriously collated during five minutes of an enforced sojourn in the waiting room at Dick's House (which left me approximately an hour and a half to read an aged Saturday Evening Post before I was called, but that is another story).

First of all, I think I should reassure all traditionalists and habitual doubting-Thomases in the audience by saying that the Center not only resolutely blends with the predominant architectural style of the College, whatever that may be, but is a handsome effort in its own right, despite certain facetious comments now current on its resemblance to a group of grain elevators. I rather question the justice of the comparison, and I suspect to a great extent it and others like it stem from the fact that unlike most modern buildings, the Center does not shun the curved line but positively luxuriates in it; a characteristic which imparts a welcome dash and exuberance to the whole complex, and effectually prevents it from looking like the second best drive-in bank in Pierre, South Dakota, a fate only too common in contemporary design.

Secondly, it must be mentioned that Hopkins Center almost literally smells of money - which, I hasten to add, is meant as a sincere compliment. All of us, I am sure, have had the experience of touring some highly touted, multi-million dollar edifice and time and again wondering where in heaven all those millions went to - for the result seems sadly disproportionate to the vast expenditure. Such is not the case in the Center. You know, you can feel, exactly where and for what the money was spent: for that gorgeous walnut paneling in Spaulding Auditorium, for those striking wroughtiron and yellow-cushioned chairs in the band room, for the magnificent cyclorama on the main stage, and for a hundred other beautiful and comfortable and useful things. In short, whether or not Hopkins Center ever fulfills its proposed role in furthering the integration and implementation of the arts at Dartmouth, it as already delivered full value physically. If it will do so spiritually remains to be seen. But, as far as that goes, the idea and the instrument both exist at the present moment, and both are admirable; all they need to do now is meet and coalesce.

Another, and for the time being, more vivid fusion of idea and instrument is evident in this year's Dartmouth football team which, so far this season, has chalked up three consecutive victories and provided endless opportunities for triumphant chortling and back-sapping among graduates and undergraduates alike. The Penn game on the 6th, was, I thought, particularly memorable, occurring as it did at the height of the prolonged siege of rain that assaulted Hanover in early October. I missed the first half, which, as it turned out, was less than regrettable, since the playing during the first two quarters was, according to reliable sources, as dreary as the weather. But the second half was a heart-warming, if head-drenching spectacle, featuring an almost endless succession of felicitous fumbles by Pennsylvania and some adroit running and staccato passing by the Big Green, all of which was viewed with only slightly dampened enthusiasm by an indomitable throng liquid to the very linings of their raincoats, huddled under blankets, newspapers, plastic bags, and umbrellas that ranged in color from black to electric blue and vermilion, shivering at the chill water running down the collective neck, and confronted, past the slippery wood and concrete of the stands and over the soggy turf of the field, with a vision of autumn hills crisp in gold and pale green against the gray, drizzling sky.

Several hours later, dryer and for various reasons considerably warmer, I was watching the twist being danced with great solemnity, if little grace, in a fraternity basement whose ceiling would have a difficult time accommodating Matt Dillon, which only goes to show the variety of diversion available at Dartmouth. If, as I said at the beginning, college life is a continuum, it is also at times a kaleidoscope - and mantled in the profundity of that observation, I'll take up my winnings and whistle my way home until next month.

Dartmouth students who were serving as summer interns in Washington pose withthree alumni members of Congress. L. to r: Peter Stern '63, John Monagan '33 (Dem-Conn.), who was host at lunch, Thomas B. Curtis '32 (Rep-Missouri), Norman Buchsbaum '63, Michael Cardozo 63, William Subin '63, Timothy Kraft '63, Jay Moyer'62, Clark MacGregor '44 (Rep-Minn.), and Gary Spiess '62.

With this issue Carl E. Maves '63 of La Canada, California, assumes occupancy of The Undergraduate Chair. Maves, who has been a columnist for The Dartmouth and an English honors student, is now a Senior Fellow in English. He entered Dartmouth as an Alfred P. Sloan National Scholar and as a freshman was a member of Dartmouth's G. E. College Bowl team. He is on the directorate of the Dartmouth Players, belongs to Delta Upsilon fraternity, and last year was a member of Green Key.