The President Bows Out

When a turn-of-the-century Harvard secretary was asked the whereabouts of

A. Lawrence Lowell, her immediate answer became a legend. "The president," she said, "has gone to Washington to call on Mr. Taft." Many Harvard presidents have earned such awe. Of the four men who have ruled Harvard since 1869, three were giants among educators --Lowell, Charles W. Eliot and James

B. Conant. The fourth, Nathan Marsh Pusey, a tough, capable and frequently courageous man, led a more complex university in a time that sustained few titans. Last week, in a long-awaited move, he announced his early retirement.

Before his appointment in 1953, Classical Scholar Pusey had spent nine years as the easygoing but highly principled president of Lawrence College (800 students) in Appleton, Wis. At Harvard, his persistence became a flaw. Long admired for integrity, he was eventually criticized for Olympian remoteness.

Rage and Reform. The first Harvard president not raised in New England, Pusey remained aloof from much of the faculty, and believed that his job allowed him little time to get to know his students. With his strong sense of personal morality, Pusey stoutly defended the rights--and jobs--of Harvard professors who drew the wrath of his onetime Appleton neighbor, Joe McCarthy. But in a different situation, his steadfast independence and his instinct to protect Harvard proved costly. Faced last spring with the S.D.S. occupation of University Hall, Pusey refused to negotiate and angered a large part of the Harvard community when he summoned police without consulting faculty and student leaders.

Pusey was an articulate defender of American education, and an effective advocate of federal spending to make it work. At Harvard, he restored the divinity school to national eminence, and appointed a series of innovative deans who went far toward reaching Pusey's great goal--making Harvard pre-eminent not only in most academic disciplines, but in all. A splendid fundraiser, Pusey tripled Harvard's endowment, more than doubled its endowed chairs, quadrupled its budget and put up 50 buildings. But during his 17-year incumbency, a decade of noninvolvement on campus merged with a decade of rage and reform, and in the end, much at Harvard changed faster than its 24th president.

Pusey will leave in June 1971, two years ahead of mandatory retirement. Characteristically, last spring's upheaval did not hasten his decision. Pusey made his retirement plans known to members of the Harvard Corporation more than a year ago, well before the April fracas. He fixed the exact date last June.

Pusey's successor will be selected by the seven-man Harvard Corporation, which consists of Pusey, the university treasurer and five fellows. The decision must be approved by the 32 members of the Board of Overseers. Corporation Fellow Francis H. Burr, a Boston lawyer, will solicit suggestions from every segment of the Harvard community --overseers, alumni, faculty, students and perhaps even employees. "The search," he says, "will be as broad as possible and as unstructured as I can make it."

Four names are now being mentioned, though all may fade before the search is over. Yaleman McGeorge Bundy, 50, now head of the Ford Foundation, was admired during his tenure as Dean of Harvard's Faculty of Arts and Sciences, but is tainted by his past role in the Viet Nam War during the Johnson Administration. Hugh Calkins, 46, a Cleveland lawyer and corporation member, gained student respect for his efforts to explain the Administration's position during the April crisis, but he is not a scholar. James Q. Wilson, 38, a professor of government, has personal charm and experience in Harvard politics, but he is not an alumnus. Archibald Cox, 57, law professor and former Solicitor General, who was called on to examine and report on Columbia's 1968 disruptions, is viewed as a possible interim choice. Whatever the decision, a Harvard administrator asked: "Who in his right mind would want that kind of job?" He is not the first to wonder. "If any man wishes to be humbled and mortified," mused President Edward Holyoke on his deathbed in 1769, "let him become the president of Harvard College."

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