But the doubts are transitory. He enjoys being grandiose. And the stance as mentor carries over to the role of Master. "When you have been Master as long as I have," he muses, "you tend to create a metaphysic about it." For him Eliot House is like a mediaeval orrery where students and tutors spin by in differential sequences like so many planets and constellations. Students take three years, tutors five to seven. "Why do all these men want to come to Harvard?" asks Finley rhetorically. "Ah, because the man won't be lost in the mass. This is what these Eastern things stand for."

For Finley the essence and strength of Harvard is the House system, the College's defense against the pressure and particularization of the University. "Berkeley shows how good Harvard is. Those fellows out there have no connection with anything." A bit of brick-and-ivy security, "Eliot House is the village within a metropolis."

Finley has created for his House an image which, like a thesis, is the length and shadow of temperament. Wrote e. e. cummings of John Finley, "he generates a particular precision of vitality which our fathers called 'character.'" Eliot House has a vision of itself as a good and distinctive place, a mixture of Greek excellence diluted by the leisurely style of Romantic and Victorian tradition. The image attracts a certain type of boy who likes to think of himself as reserved, safely aristocratic, and casually intellectual. "The president of St. Paul's School has been here since time immemorial," says one senior. Not everyone fits the image; perhaps no one does. But it exists.

Reality, bears only traces of it. To be sure, on Spring Weekend, Finley's boys play at cricket and bowls in the courtyard, and the excellent House Chamber Music Society performs woodwind and trumpet concerti on the lawn. Apart from Finley, however, the House seems tame and ordinary. There is no literary magazine, drama review, seminar program, serious artistic production--not even a psychedelic light show-dance happening. Instead, the House Committee sponsors a movie series which includes such favorites as Bad Day at Black Rock and The Americanization of Emily. Even the number of preppies has been vastly exaggerated. Of the juniors and seniors in Eliot House 47 per cent come from private schools, compared to 40 per cent for the College as a whole.

Finley holds fast to the image, even though the House does not measure up to it. He attempts to ensure quality by taking inordinate care in selecting the boys he wants.

His prerogative in the selection process was challenged last year when officialdom proposed that each House should contain a cross section of the student body. Finley's eyebrows still snap at references to the arbitrary plan of placement. "We mustn't have the authorities shunt men about. The Houses will be driven to uniformity." Eliot House seniors steeped in the Finley tradition of taste and style are equally opposed to random selection. Says one Eliot House upperclassman of the sophomores admitted under the new system, "You can see a certain sloppiness now in the dining hall. You know, the Winthrop House High School Harry type."

Finley speaks fondly of his boys, "this wonderful stream of undergraduates. Students are fun for me, pure unadulterated sunshine. Rather than sit next to a Mrs. Jones at some second rate dinner party, I much prefer to talk to the crazy nut from Topeka who drives a motorcycle, and is bright but is getting an E in Physics 112."

Finley makes a point of learning the name of each incoming sophomore. Every year he writes some 150 letters of recommendation for seniors applying to foundations and graduate schools. The elegantly phrased epistles (one senior was termed "a veritable Apollo") are enthusiastic and effective.

A few years ago, after the House crew had won an initial victory at Henley, the oarsmen received a telegram from the Master: "Hurra for brilliant prothetic start." Like a gracious Alfred Hitchcock, Finley plays a cameo role in every House Christmas' production. He always concludes the evening's festivities with a ritualistic invocation: Floreat domus de Eliot.

These manifestations of concern can inspire great loyalty in undergraduates. In 1953, when Finley was rumored to be a possible choice for the presidency of Harvard, one enthusiast climbed a tree and announced that he would not come down until Finley was selected. (Pusey was chosen; so far as is known, the boy climbed down.)

But Finley may have lost contact with his boys, just as students in his course say that he has lost contact with them. That is, "the nut from Topeka" is more the creation of his willful imagination than a reality. To achieve color and unity in his perceptions, Finley tends to latch on to a misconception or simple trait and then create an entire character around it. "Finley does not talk with you," runs the frequent complaint, "he talks at you." Says one senior. "I hope I never lose the capacity to listen."

Cloistered Eliot House has only one entrance. The House Committee has to struggle each year to obtain Finley's permission to leave open a gate leading to Memorial Drive. The main archway is guarded, fittingly enough, by a superintendent in a three-piece suit with a gold watch fob. Within this protective and comfortable setting, Finley has become a self-conscious anachronism who, though he may sound like a broken gramaphone at times, serves an important and colorful function as a symbol of Harvard past. He enjoys the role. "I sometimes see myself as a tree under which the arcadia of Harvard life takes place. When you reach a certain stage in life, you are cast in the role of a perpetuator. I try to perpetuate the institution and do what I can for the young."

There is a story about Finley, probably apocryphal. Out for a brisk morning walk along the River Charles, the Master espied two Cantabridgian fisherman. Flinging his arm up in a classical pose, he saluted, "Salve pescatores." One of the unbelieving townies turned around and growled, "Screw you, Mac." But, after all, Eliot House is surrounded by walls and sheltered by tradition. There are no windmills in the courtyard and the archway is guarded. "He's a proud lion," says one Eliot House senior in a rare Harvardian burst of sentiment. "I respect him."