Lassonde, 57, had begun to ponder his philanthropic goals in 1997. University fund-raisers had approached him about supporting other projects, but Lassonde wanted to respond to the needs of the industry that had made him wealthy. That meant training students gifted in the sciences, who were more often choosing to pursue computer engineering. Mining programs, Lassonde explains, tend to be somewhat vocational, because this cyclical industry fluctuates with the price of commodities. “But this is how I could contribute money, as well as industry expertise and contacts,” he says.

For the University of Toronto’s vice president and chief advancement officer, Jon Dellandrea, the offer came from out of nowhere. The university was accustomed to making decisions about its own academic priorities, a common practice in university fund-raising. “We didn’t just want to ask rich people for money,” Dellandrea says. “It’s who might best help us to accomplish academic goals.”

That is why Dellandrea warned Robert Prichard, the university’s president at the time, against letting even a friendly philanthropist with deep pockets set any kind of academic agenda. Dellandrea thought the university should simply recruit philanthropists who wanted to sign on to specific projects. “We really shouldn’t have donors telling us what to do,” Dellandrea recalls saying. Prichard replied, “I don’t mind being told what to do, if it’s in the best interest of the university.”

So Lassonde pledged $5 million of his own money and eventually helped raise $20 million from industry colleagues, as well as from the W.M. Keck Foundation, which gave $5 million. Collaborating with the program’s first hire, professor Will Bawden—the Pierre Lassonde chair in mineral engineering—Lassonde helped launch the undergraduate Lassonde Mineral Engineering Program and the graduate-level Lassonde Institute in 2000. Dellandrea admits that the experiment, which was controversial at first, worked. “Pierre had it right,” he says. The programs have attracted top researchers in fields from mine design and seismology to rock mechanics. Thanks to some 20 annual $20,000 undergraduate scholarships, enrollment has shot from six first-year students in 1997 to 34 in 2004.

STRINGS ATTACHED
Unlike Lassonde’s experience, active involvement by donors is not always so seamless. It can sometimes lead to bad blood and even, occasionally, litigation. Though such cases are rare, experts say, they typically occur when a donor or a foundation run by the donor’s heirs feels that the university or institution is not using the funds for their original purpose. Take the current lawsuit against Princeton University filed by the children of wealthy A&P grocery heirs Charles and Marie Robertson. They gave Princeton $35 million in 1961 to establish a foundation that would support graduate studies at the university’s Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs. The original grant eventually grew to some $550 million. According to the university’s newspaper, the Daily Princetonian, the Robertson heirs filed suit in 2002, accusing Princeton of ignoring the gift’s original purpose, which was to train Wilson School graduate students for careers in government, especially in international service. The Robertson heirs claimed that few graduates ended up choosing such paths. They also accused the university of diverting millions of dollars into other projects, such as the construction of a building not exclusively used for the Wilson School. According to the Princetonian, a tentative trial date has been set for October.

Conflicts may also arise when the donor’s stated purpose threatens an institution’s desire to set academic guidelines, says Renata Rafferty, a consultant to donors and author of Don’t Just Give It Away: How to Make the Most of Your Charitable Giving. “Donors should be aware that academic freedom is the primary concern for universities,” she says, and they should balance their stipulations accordingly. The kind of donor requests that could trigger unpleasant consequences include demands for seats on committees in charge of hiring professors, charting a department’s curriculum or choosing scholarship recipients.

Some donors have learned this lesson the hard way. In 1995, Yale University returned a $20 million gift from alumnus donor Lee Bass because of a perceived threat to the university’s academic freedom. He gave Yale the money in 1991 to establish a program in Western civilization that never got off the ground. When Bass became irritated that the program stalled, he asked to approve the professors chosen to teach the curriculum. Shortly thereafter, according to the Chronicle of Philanthropy, Yale’s president felt the only choice was to return Bass’ gift with interest, stating, “Friends must disagree from time to time.”