1 MAY 1964, Page 9

Return to Princeton

From PETER ROWLEY NEW YORK

THE day after my return from England to New York I got a, postcard from the Daily Princetonian, urging me to subscribe and assuring me that my memories of Princeton University were 'quite vivid.' They were indeed—memories of long spring afternoons drinking beer and playing tennis, memories of semi-orgiastic parties, memories of a kindly but separate faculty with whom one had little contact except for the prescribed university schedule, memories of ridiculous ' old grads' in orange and black costumes revelling at reunions, memories of a semi-F. Scott Fitzgeraldian world of glamour, social prestige, the right clubs, the proper accent and clothes, memories of beautiful imitation Eng- lish Gothic architecture, spreading lawns and the all-too-symbolic 'Tiger,' the university's mascot. 1 was a student there ten years ago.

Ten years ago I could ride towards Princeton by car and gaze admiringly from about a mile off at an unbroken line of forest, preceded by farms on either side of the road, and then in the distance the graduate college tower. There was usually a slight reddish russet haze on the horizon, a blue from the trees—the romance of Princeton was upon one. Today that almost per- fect vista is broken by a flat-topped building with two small towers resembling prison blockhouses. Does F. Scott Fitzgerald's ghost flee from the sight? It could scarcely be called This Side of Paradise.

Ten years ago I could escort a visitor around the university (incidentally my family also lives there; so this was and still is a frequent enter- tainment for weekend guests—`the architectural tour') without concern of mediocrity. The lawns would spread beautifully green, the towers with gargoyles would soar as they should, leafy vistas through archways were discernible—an atmo- sphere of tranquillity, rural charm, academic comfort, 'dons' pursuing knowledge unhurried by time. There was, of course, one possible hazard, if one was with an English visitor. I can remem- ber escorting an English girl, showing her the most splendid sights, providing a light amusing commentary: 'That's the new Firestone library. We used to have water pistol fights there on the roofs in the spring' (you can see I did a great deal of studying at Princeton), and at the end she said matter-of-factly with slight disinterest, 'It's just like Oxford and Cambridge.' But other guests—English or American—were more appreciative.

Now I'm afraid my tour is hampered by some desecrations erected in the last few years—the engineering quadrangle, rectangular, modern (but not good modern), occupying the once-rustic base- ball field; the ruination of a courtyard of elms and lawns where my classmates used to play touch football by another new uninspiring build- ing; currently mud and construction posts on another stretch of lawn and pavements; the once perfect view from Blair Arch subtly but notice- ably broken by a new university store. (It was here one spring that we used to suntan on the lawns, where a classmate jumped out of a first- floor window hoping to get to the men's room quicker—it was in the basement; temporarily in hospital he got into further trouble when, asked by the university psychiatrist why he did it, he replied, 'It was the easiest way out'.)

One's reactions to Princeton over the years are curious. I left at the age of twenty in December, 1954 (great emotional crisis; how could one leave Princeton). By 19156 or 1957 I would return to the library, wait to meet a friend in the lobby, and look at the undergraduates. 'They look so young.' Then their 'dates,' the hundreds of girls from smart Eastern colleges and some not-so- smart who arrived for the big weekends like `Junior Prom' in early March, 'House Parties' in May, the 'Princeton-Yale' football game in the autumn. Were they this young when one was an undergraduate? Surely, ours was more attractive, chic, polished, surely there were more from Vassar, etc.

Though many of these reactions are subjective and some must be false, there is one change that even a misty-eyed alumnus of twenty-nine can detect. I had noticed it before but it was reaffirmed by a trip last week to Princeton escort- ing about fourteen Negro college students from Mississippi, who were spending their spring holi- day in New York. They were met by seven or so almost immaculately clad young Princeton- ians, undergraduates. One could tell their hosts, whom the university selects to guide such tours

around the college grounds, were aware they were 'Princeton men.' Yet they seemed more serious, and they were. Perhaps not this group, but the undergraduates as a whole show more individuality in their clothing. In our day khaki pants, a button-down• blue or white shirt, 'sneakers,' a grey or brown sweater were de rigueur. In my, day you entered one of the so- called 'big five' eating clubs—Cottage, Colonial, Cap and Gown, Ivy and Tiger—and you could go no higher socially. Today the middle-bracket clubs, so the Princeton Alumni Weekly tells me, are the most sought-after, the 'big five' having difficulty recruiting socially acceptable candi- dates. Democratisation has set in.