The Accidental President
by Sol Gittleman
This article is an edited
excerpt from a chapter from An Entrepreneurial
University: The Transformation of Tufts 1976–2002 (Tufts
University Press/ University Press of New England). Read more
in an interview with Sol Gittleman, Alice and Nathan Gantcher
University Professor.
Nothing in the previous 124
years of Tufts history could have prepared the university
for the coming of Jean Mayer. He officially assumed the presidency on July 1,
1976, five years before I joined his administration as provost.
That half-decade was, arguably, the most tempestuous, chaotic,
adventurous, and exciting period in the history of Tufts
University. At the center of the whirlwind was Jean Mayer,
obsessed with a vision of personal triumph that he intended
to transfer to this university. He was consumed by his own
optimism and the certainty that he would eventually succeed
in attaining anything that he wanted. In 1967, he had been
passed over as a candidate for the presidency of Tufts in
favor of Burt Hallowell. Nine years later, he was back again
as a candidate, and was once again rejected in favor of Harry
Woolf. Then, as if by an act of fate, Woolf withdrew, and
the Board of Trustees turned to Jean Mayer, finally. He had
attained his first goal: the presidency of a university in
the Boston area that had a medical school. No one on the
Board of Trustees suspected what he had in mind, and I doubt
if any of them understood the complex personality who had
assumed the leadership of this somewhat unassuming and underfunded
small university in Boston. Within a very short period of
time, they would learn.
It is no wonder that the risk-averse search committee would
have passed over Mayer as their first choice. There was nothing
in Jean Mayer’s background that would suggest similarities
to previous Tufts presidents. He was born in Paris on February
19, 1920. His father, Andre, who was forty-five when Jean
was born, was a famous physiologist and had an early interest
in nutrition. He was also a French patriot, served in World
War I, and undoubtedly communicated his dislike of the Germans
to his son, which he actively nurtured for the rest of his
life. Mayer came to science from both of his parents. His
mother had been a laboratory assistant to the eminent Professor,
who married her. She was a practicing physiologist in her
own right. As an undergraduate, Jean first studied history,
and then went on to the Sorbonne. World War II interrupted
the family’s life and Jean’s education after
he had completed his undergraduate studies. The family left
for America, but Mayer returned to Europe to fight against
the Nazis with the Free French. He was commissioned as a
second lieutenant in the field artillery before being captured
by the Germans in 1940. Mayer shot a guard, escaped from
the prison camp, and joined the French underground. He was
on DeGaulle’s staff, attained the rank of major, and
received fourteen decorations, including the Croix de Guerre
with two palms, the Resistance Medal, and the Legion of Honor.
Here was considerably more glory and adventure than one encountered
in your typical New England college president, perhaps with
the exception of Bowdoin’s Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain,
who anchored the right flank at the Little Round Top at Gettysburg
with the Maine 20th Regiment and has gone down in heroic
history. Mayer had married before leaving for France, then
returned to complete his graduate work in the United States
in physiological chemistry at Yale, where he received his
Ph.D. He took some time off in Paris to acquire his D.Sc.
in physiology from the Sorbonne. He joined the Harvard faculty
in 1950, serving as Professor of Nutrition in the School
of Public Health, Lecturer in the History of Science in the
Arts and Sciences, member of the Center for Population Studies,
and Master of Dudley House. When he came to Tufts, he had
been on the Harvard faculty for twenty-seven years. In the
eyes of his Harvard colleagues, he seemed cut from a different,
more dashing and adventurous model. One called him affectionately “the
Little Prince.”
The idea of “academic entrepreneurship” was
a notion very few people in higher education had heard of.
Businessmen might have understood the psyche of the visionary
who is absolutely convinced that he cannot fail and who fearlessly
takes risks in the face of dangers he dismisses. These high-stakes
gamblers, when they encounter rules and obstructions, will
ignore them, because their optimism and certainty have convinced
them that the vision they see is the only goal. For Jean
Mayer, Tufts was an instrument placed in his hand, at the
right time and in the right place, and he knew he would triumph.
To speak to those people who knew him best before he came
to Tufts and to those who dealt most closely with him in
those early years, one encounters a picture difficult to
get in focus.
He was alternately described as infinitely charming, witty,
duplicitous, ambitious, brilliant, intellectual, opportunistic,
generous, vain, slippery, loyal, possessed of an inner standard
of excellence, and charismatic. Although he had spent most
of his adult life in higher education, Mayer was singularly
unwilling to deal with any of the trappings of traditional
academic decision-making, either as a faculty member or as
an administrator. He wanted autonomy. He was accustomed to
it in the laboratories that he ran in the public health school
at Harvard; and he did whatever was necessary to maintain
control over the enterprise he now led. To be sure, he had
a Board of Trustees of more than thirty members, but he felt
accountable only to a small number on the Executive Committee,
and he successfully orchestrated them, at least at the outset,
before they came to realize that this was no ordinary American
college president. He had no intention of being weighed down
by search committees. Not two months after his assumption
of the presidency, he wrote to Henry Kissinger:
(August 27, 1976)
Dear Henry:
Rumor has it that at sometime in the not too distant future,
and whatever the outcome of the national election, you
may decide that you want to lay down the mantle of Secretary
of State which you have worn so successfully in the past
years. In this connection I am writing to ask you whether
you might be at all interested in the Deanship of the Fletcher
School of Law and Diplomacy…. I am sure that should
you be interested we could arrive at an agreement on such
matters as salary and administrative help.
Sincerely yours,
Jean Mayer
This kind of independent action was typical of what became “the
Mayer Style of Management,” which was generally marked
by disinformation or non-information. He was often the only
person who knew what he was doing. There was only one chain
in his chain of command: his own.
No one could have predicted the impact on American higher
edu-cation that the meeting of two relatively obscure young
Washington staffers had when they first encountered Jean
Mayer in 1969. Mayer, after nearly twenty years on the faculty
of the School of Public Health at Harvard, had established
a reputation as one of the leading figures in the field of
nutrition and public policy. He had learned how to deal with
the seats of power in the nation’s capital, and it
was no accident that Richard Nixon appointed this lifelong
Democrat as Chairman of the first White House Conference
on Food, Nutrition and Health. This “conference” was
not intended to be a weeklong academic event. Mayer expected
that it would continue for years, in order to advance a serious
agenda dealing with the nation’s health and preventative
medicine through nutritional policy, something all very new
both for the vast United States Department of Agriculture
bureaucracy and a medical establishment with very little
interest in prevention and nutrition.
The conference was well organized, and Mayer met two smart,
young staff members who had experience in the often unfathomable
maze of USDA programs, considered by many the most confusing
and complex department of government in all of Washington,
D.C. One was a lawyer, a recent graduate of Cornell, named
Gerald Cassidy; his associate was Kenneth Schlossberg. Mayer
soon discovered that Schlossberg and Cassidy had remarkable
insights and access; their knowledge of the workings of the
USDA was very impressive.
In 1976, when now President Jean Mayer of Tufts University
was contacted by the recently established consulting firm
of Schlossberg & Cassidy Associates, he had already come
to appreciate the brains and energy of these two entrepreneurs,
who shared the same capacity to move things that Mayer did.
Mayer had assumed the presidency of Tufts only days before
the call from Gerry Cassidy.
They had a proposition. With their knowledge of the USDA
appropriation process and their connections within the agency
and with congressional delegations who they worked with on
agricultural issues, the consultants could identify vast
sums of money, and with congressional connections reaching
as far down as their personal relationships with staff members
on Senate and House committees, they could direct large grants
of dollars to a specific institution—or university—via
a line item appropriation, directed by a congressman who
would order USDA to make this targeted appropriation.
It did not take President Mayer more than a moment to realize
what an opportunity lay before him and his new university,
more resource-poor than any he had ever encountered. He saw
that in an instant Tufts could move from the list of also-rans
and have-nots in higher education. He believed that he had
ideas that were indeed marketable, but that, given the way
federal dollars for colleges and universities were appropriated
and awarded, Tufts simply was not competitive. He knew that
the rich only got richer, and the poor were left outside
the gates. There was no way that Tufts University, even with
the academic innovations he was planning, could compete successfully
for peer-reviewed grants with the giants of the land grant
universities or with the private research universities of
the Ivy League. He knew how the game was played at Harvard
and at the other resource-rich universities, and he knew
that Tufts simply could not play on the same field, with
the same rules. So, as he did so often, he decided to make
up his own rules. When he saw the opportunity presented by
these two young entrepreneurs, he jumped at it.
They had started a consulting firm based in Washington, D.C.,
one that would cater specifically to the needs of universities
that normally did not have access to peer-reviewed grants.
Would Tufts be their first client? Without hesitation, President
Mayer said yes.
Mayer assumed the presidency of Tufts on July 1, 1976. He
met with the Executive Committee of the Board for the first
time that summer. At that meeting he presented a proposal
to contract with the consulting firm of Schlossberg & Cassidy.
The Executive Committee’s approval proved to be their
most important affirmation of the Mayer presidency during
his entire term as Tufts’ leader. Nothing played a
larger role in the transformation of Tufts under Jean Mayer’s
stewardship. As usual, it was a high-risk venture; the Board
had no idea what was at stake.
Mayer’s association with Schlossberg & Cassidy
represented the historic beginning of what was to become
a huge academic industry and opened a conflict that continues
to this day in higher education research. The journalistic
establishment reduced and simplified the issue and identified
it with one word that indeed had some agricultural flourish
to it: Pork. Jean Mayer was the first university president
who saw the potential for the development of worthwhile programs
that would never see the light of day if they had to compete
through the established peer-review process and traditional
funding provided by predetermined budget commitments. But,
Mayer saw another path: with leverage from congressional
delegations, the agencies could be told that the money should
be earmarked for a certain university. Mayer realized that,
regardless of agency reluctance, once the Congress placed
its muscle behind a project and insisted that the project
be funded, no agency would risk the wrath of an appropriations
committee chair, or the committee staff, for that matter.
Both Schlossberg and Cassidy were exceptionally wired into
these critical committees.
Some years later, the partners had a falling out, and Schlossberg & Cassidy
Associates became Gerald Cassidy Associates, the most influential
lobbying firm for universities in the country. Gerry Cassidy
and Jean Mayer were kindred spirits. For as long as Jean
Mayer was president of Tufts University, Cassidy remained
a grateful friend. The ultimate beneficiary was Tufts, but
the debate concerning what are now described as academic
earmarks will continue. The amount of money allocated by
this method rose from less than $17 million in 1980 to nearly
$1.7 billion in 2001, by which time these earmarked funds
represented nearly 10% of all federal funding for academic
research.
The creation of a veterinary school at Tufts University
might be recorded as Jean Mayer’s most risky roll of
the dice. It was his greatest act of defiance, and he did
it against all odds. Massachusetts was not a player in the
evolution of veterinary education in the United States. .
. . The most productive effort to that time came with the
establishment in 1938 of Middlesex University, founded in
Waltham, Massachusetts, which had as its main academic focus
a school of veterinary medicine. It graduated 243 veterinarians
before closing in 1947.
Clearly, there did not seem to be much of a future for veterinary
medicine in Massachusetts or New England when Jean Mayer
assumed the presidency of Tufts in 1976. . . . You can imagine
the stunned response to now president Mayer’s announcement
at his inaugural address in the summer of 1976 that one of
his highest priorities was to be the establishment of a veterinary
school at Tufts. Not only that, but Mayer informed the audience
that veterinary medicine was on the edge of a tremendous
revolution in research. By the 1990s, he asserted, veterinarians
will be active in the fields of nutrition, marine and equine
medicine, toxicology, public health, and environmental science.
He also had another motive. As the Master of Harvard’s
Dudley House, Mayer had watched generations of Massachusetts
students fail to gain admittance to the out-of-state veterinary
schools. Ninety-eight percent of New England applicants to
the nation’s veterinary schools were rejected because
of state residency requirements. Of the thirty-eight New
England students who were admitted to twenty-two veterinary
schools, twenty-six were subsidized by Massachusetts at an
annual cost of $221,000.
This was classic Jean Mayer. He had come to a university
with a history of conservative, cautious management, poor
in resources, with no particular reputation for creative
or innovative research, and he announced to the world that
the institution was about to embark on a dramatically new
academic adventure that had had a history of failure in New
England; furthermore, he assured the listening audience that
the journey was without peril, that the veterinary school
would be a cooperative venture, with start-up and operating
costs funded jointly by the six New England states. There
would be no problem with the land, either. President Mayer
was aware that the 1,100 acres of the Grafton State Hospital
grounds near Worcester had been set aside by Governor Frank
Sargent for some appropriate use. Sargent, who was one of
the state officials advocating a regional veterinary school,
made certain that the land would remain available after he
announced the closing of the hospital and its activities
in January of 1972.
Soon after his inaugural speech, the entrepreneurial optimist
began rolling, while hypnotizing a Board of Trustees not
really accustomed to such activities from a Tufts president.
By August of 1976, not two months after taking office, Mayer
had gotten Schlossberg and Cassidy signed to a contract,
and they were actively working through the corridors of Congress,
looking for earmark opportunities. The president had also
found an ally on campus. During the interview process for
the presidency, Mayer had met a faculty member and associate
dean of the Dental School, Thomas Murnane, and there was
a chemical reaction that lasted for as long as Mayer was
president of Tufts. Dr. Murnane had been a Tufts undergraduate
before attending the Dental School and also acquiring a Ph.D.
from Tufts in basic sciences. His entire academic life had
been spent at Tufts, waiting for someone to come along who
could inspire him. Tom Murnane possessed many of the same
characteristics of optimism, guile, and charm that gave the
Tufts president his unique persona. Together, they presented
the Tufts community with an energy package seldom seen and
rarely trusted. They moved with the speed of a whirlwind,
or as others might say with less charity, a cobra. Once he
became president, Mayer sent Murnane to the governors of
the New England states with the plans for a regional veterinary
school. At first, there was hesitant but modest commitment.
The New England Governors Conference contributed two separate
$100,000 planning grants. However, soon it became apparent
that the New England states, as they had often in the past,
would walk away from regional cooperation. Even though this
cooperation had been the cornerstone of Mayer’s pitch
to his Board of Trustees, the states’ abandonment did
not deter him. By the summer of 1978 New England regional
cooperation was dead. But, by that time, the work of Schlossberg
and Cassidy had begun paying off. Thanks to the strong support
of the Massachusetts congressional delegation, Tufts received
in early 1978 a $10 million federal appropriation from the
Department of Health, Education and Welfare for the construction
of a veterinary school at Tufts University. In October of
that year, the commonwealth gave title to Tufts of a 634-acre
parcel of land that had been part of the Grafton State Hospital.
The price was one dollar. To those traditional Tufts trustees,
Mayer was either a magician or a madman; they were not sure
which. Suddenly, they realized that they were in this venture
alone, without the other New England states and with uncertain
commonwealth commitment, outside of the free land. When the
preliminary figures came in by the fall of 1978, the cost
of the school was to be $31 million, an unheard of figure
for Tufts.
There was no slowing him down. By the fall of 1978 Mayer
had himself a dean of the Veterinary School, Albert M. Jonas,
Professor of Comparative Medicine and Pathology at the Yale
Medical School. Jonas was a veterinarian who had never been
on the faculty of any veterinary school. Recruitment for
students had begun for a class to enter in the fall of 1979,
the charter class, before the Board of Trustees had given
final approval to establish the school.
In the meantime, neither the national nor Tufts community
could believe what it was witnessing. Obstacles were everywhere,
and support around the institution was minimal. The deans
of the veterinary schools at Cornell and Penn were actively
campaigning against the establishment of a Tufts Veterinary
School. They mobilized their alumni associations in New England
and testified before Congress. These veterinary schools had
for years enjoyed the contracts from the New England states
and lusted after these students and dollars. Closer to home,
the most unhappiness came from the faculty and administration
of the Medical School, who saw resources so scarce as to
be almost non-existent going to a new school and a rival
for attention. In spite of a background in public health,
Mayer had arrived at Tufts with precious little credibility
with the Medical School. Nutrition was a field that simply
did not interest the clinical or basic sciences faculty of
the medical profession, at Tufts or for that matter anywhere
in the country. I remember my first interview as provost
with the chairman of the Department of Molecular and Microbiology,
while standing in front of the recently constructed Human
Nutrition Research Center on the downtown Boston campus. “That
building might as well be on the planet Krypton, as far as
my department is concerned. We are not interested in human
nutrition. No one down here is.” That attitude basically
represented the opinion of a great many in the medical profession
across the nation in the early 1980s. In Mayer’s first
two years, his preoccupation with veterinary medicine and
later nutrition really drove the Medical School faculty into
a fury. While he was promising the Medical School all sorts
of new monies and incremental faculty, every dollar he could
get from the federal treasury seemed to pass through the
Medical School and find its way to the Vet School or to Nutrition.
There was rage downtown on the health sciences campus. When
the trustees finally approved the establishment of the Veterinary
School by a vote on October 28, 1978, the document still
contained language that pointed to agreements with the other
New England states, even though Mayer knew that by early
October Maine, Vermont, and Connecticut had completely backed
out. It also contained language underlining the Medical School’s
frustration, calling for the chairman of the board to appoint
an ad hoc committee of trustees to ensure “that any
financing of a short-fall in donated funds will not impose
an unreasonable burden on the Medical School and that it
shall be the responsibility of the Executive Committee and
the standing committees to work actively with the President
and the University Administration in the development of the
[Medical] School and to report thereon regularly to the Board
of Trustees.”
By September 1979, just over three years from his first announcement,
Jean Mayer had created the Tufts University School of Veterinary
Medicine. . . . The $10 million construction grant had permitted
work to start on a large-animal facility on the Grafton campus,
and an entering class had been recruited, along with a dean,
faculty, and administration.
One could only look on in wonder at how this had all happened.
The fact that President Mayer had advanced his nutritional
agenda in his inauguration speech did not make any particular
impression. Nor did the construction of a fourteen-story
human nutrition research laboratory in the middle of the
health sciences campus. It should have. . . . [H]ere comes
Jean Mayer, Ph.D., committed to the field of nutrition, which
in the minds of most of the medical community at Tufts and
the rest of the country meant very little scientifically
and was represented in the Medical School and its primary
teaching hospital, the New England Medical Center, by the
Frances Stern Nutrition Center, established in 1918 to train
nutritionists. By the 1970s the center was providing patient
services in the various Tufts hospitals, and Professor Johanna
Dwyer, an earlier Mayer assistant, had brought professional
and scientific credibility to the field as director of the
center, unrecognized as she might have been. In the official
history of the Tufts University School of Medicine, Century
of Excellence, there is no mention of the Frances Stern Center
or of nutrition. They were invisible to the general medical
community.
If there was any terrain on which Jean Mayer felt more secure
than usual, it was when he was dealing with national nutritional
issues. He did not need faculty allies at Tufts or anywhere.
He was marvelously connected to the appropriate congressional
committees dealing with the Department of Agriculture, and
Schlossberg and Cassidy could do the rest. Within weeks of
his assumption of presidential leadership at Tufts, Mayer
was laying the groundwork in Washington, D.C., for a comprehensive
nutritional agenda at Tufts that would dazzle the academic
community in Boston and the country. He proposed that the
United States Department of Agriculture fund the capital
and on-going scientific costs of a human nutrition research
center operated at Tufts University to investigate the human
nutrition requirements in the normal aging process. Mayer
had convinced the Massachusetts delegation, and the delegation
instructed the USDA: Do it. The Agricultural Research Service,
the appropriate funding agency within the USDA, was furious.
But, the ARS was helpless. All the wires had been placed,
with the Senate and House committees coordinated by Schlossberg
and Cassidy, who had very special connections from their
White House Conference days with the committees dealing with
nutritional issues.
What made it more aggravating was that Mayer was right. The
lack of research into nutritional standards for an aging
population was disgraceful, he said, and no other universities
were picking up on this. Mayer was proving that earmarking
could make scientific contributions to the country.
His activities also caught the attention of the Boston higher
education community. As 1977 progressed, Harvard, Massachusetts
Institute of Technology, and Boston University each in its
own way attempted to inform the federal government that Tufts
lacked expertise in the field of nutrition, and that only
a four-university cooperative program could provide enough
resources to guarantee success. Mayer, however, had already
recruited the key members of the Harvard School of Public
Health’s Department of Nutrition for Tufts, but the
pressure from the other institutions continued. MIT tried
in vain to get part of the proposed center placed on its
campus.
The Tufts medical community had not seen any new construction
for basic sciences research in decades. Plans had been drawn
up by generations of Medical School deans, with no results.
One can only imagine the impact of an announcement in 1977
of a federal allocation of $2 million to make engineering
and architectural studies for the construction of a USDA-owned
and Tufts-operated USDA human nutrition research center on
aging, a proposed fifteen-story state-of-the-art facility
and laboratory. Shortly thereafter it was announced by the
Boston Redevelopment Authority that Tufts had acquired space
at 711 Washington Street, adjacent to the health sciences
campus in downtown Boston, for the building. Jaws dropped
again when the $20 million construction allocation was announced,
along with initial operating funds of $7 million for nearly
a dozen research programs, covering investigation into lipoproteins,
nutrition and aging; nutrition, aging, and cardiovascular
metabolism; vitamin K–dependent proteins in hemostasis;
nutritional epidemiology; bone density; body composition
and nutrient needs; micronutrient absorption and metabolism;
nutrition and eye lens function; and nutrition and free radical
reactions, research that sounded very much like basic sciences
activities, but focusing on nutritional issues. Mayer had
lined up the exiled scientists from Harvard and MIT, and
had even found a few jewels on the Tufts faculty who were
willing and had been waiting, people like Norman Krinsky,
a Ph.D. who had come to the Medical School in 1960 in pharmacology,
had published his first paper that year on vitamin A and
carotenoids, switched to the Department of Biochemistry in
1967, and now took full advantage of the collaborative opportunities
in the Human Nutrition Research Center.
Yet, the Tufts president’s agenda was even more complicated
than that suggested by the research center in Boston. Mayer
was at heart a public policy advocate; he wanted to make
change in Washington, and for that he needed social scientists
who would help him find a national and international forum.
In November of 1976, a few months after his arrival, the
trustees approved the creation of a Nutrition Institute within
the Arts and Sciences. It was in the Arts and Sciences where
he felt he would place the social scientists and physiological
psychologists whom he brought with him from Harvard. Their
impact would prove to be enormous. A young research fellow
from the Harvard School of Public Health, Robin Kanarek,
joined the Arts and Sciences Department of Psychology in
1977. Mayer turned all of his grants over to her, and she
instantly had more funding than the entire Tufts Department
of Psychology! In June of 1977, Stanley Gershoff left Harvard,
and within four years he would be named the first dean of
the only School of Nutrition—and one with a policy
emphasis—in the United States. In May of 1981, the
school was created by approval of the Board of Trustees,
who had accepted in the past three years the establishment
of two new schools, neither of which could look to any endowment.
For Tufts, here was risk-taking on a truly grand scale. And
there was still more to come.
In the autumn of 1976, Donald MacJannet was beset by worry.
He was about to meet the new president of his alma mater,
Tufts University, from where he had graduated in 1916. The
eighty-year-old educator had been running private schools
and camps in Europe for more than forty years, His first
effort, the MacJannet School for Young Americans, was located
outside of Paris. After opening a second school at St. Cloud,
MacJannet purchased a plot of land on Lake Annecy in the
Haute Savoie region in the village of Talloires, the site
of an eleventh-century Benedictine monastery. It was here
that his destiny would take him, and the MacJannet Camps—Camp
L’Aiglon for Boys and Camp Alouette for Girls—soon
established a reputation as a high-quality college preparatory
experience in Europe. He and his wife, Charlotte, attracted
celebrity adolescents such as Prince Philip and Indira Gandhi,
and only the Nazi occupation interrupted their activities.
They spent the war years in the United States and returned
to Europe in 1952, to renew their work.
In 1958, with the Benedictine buildings falling into ruins,
the Priory where the monks had eaten was put on the market
for sale. The building was a huge pile with a large main
hall, and Mrs. MacJannet led the bidding and acquired the
property for $10,000, along with enormous needs for reconstruction
and rehabilitation, for which the MacJannets had no resources
other than their considerable energy and wits. The camps
finally closed in 1964, and it was about that time that Mr.
MacJannet began asking Tufts Presidents if they would be
interested in acquiring a facility in an idyllic part of
France that could serve as a potential European study center.
From the perspective of Tufts administrators and trustees,
this was the last thing they would have needed. European
adventures in property acquisition by American universities
were frightening institutions with far greater resources
than Tufts. Harvard University had just gone through the
epic struggle to decide what to do with the bequest of one
of its distinguished alumni [Bernard Berenson],who died and
left his European properties, the Villa I Tatti, to his alma
mater.
With the history of I Tatti well known to all, Donald MacJannet
made little headway with either Presidents Wessell or Hallowell.
The last thing they needed was an unendowed, falling-down
eleventh-century ruin in some mountainous region near the
Italian border in France. His offer was rejected out of hand.
But, Mr. MacJannet had three great loves in his life: his
wife Charlotte, the campgrounds and Priory, and Tufts. He
had heard about the new president, who was French. For Mr.
MacJannet, this was his last and best opportunity. No guts,
no glory, and MacJannet met with Jean Mayer.
Mayer did not hesitate for a moment. He knew the region well,
its staggering beauty and the reputation of its people. When
from time to time he would regale me with war stories, President
Mayer reminisced about “mon generale DeGaulle” and
how DeGaulle said that there were only two countries that
really fought the Nazis: Yugoslavia and the Haute-Savoie.
Mayer had enormous regard for the people of the region, where
some of the most ferocious fighting by French Resistance
forces against the Germans and Italians took place. He told
this octogenarian and loyal Tufts alumnus that he would be
delighted to accept the property, and it was his intention
to turn it into a European Studies Center to give Tufts a
visible space on the continent. He accepted Mr. MacJannet’s
gratitude, as well as what the founding director Professor
Seymour Simches described as “a large box filled with
unpaid bills and back taxes.”
One can only wonder what sorcery Jean Mayer indulged in to
get the trustees, in May of 1979, to accept the facilities
in Talloires for Tufts. By this time there was a full-scale
revolt against President Mayer within his own administration
and the trustees were admitting that they could not control
him. Nonetheless, the crumbling Priory—Mr. MacJannet
did heroic maintenance by himself and with volunteers—was
officially inaugurated as a Tufts University campus, with
a tiny endowment. Tufts-in-Talloires joined the Veterinary
School and the soon-to-be-named School of Nutrition as three
financially unsupported educational ventures begun by the
new Tufts President.
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