The Novel

  ‘What an amazing statement.’

  ‘Some experts claim that Forster never actually said male friend, but we know that’s what he meant.’

  ‘And Streibert adopted the ideas of these men?’

  ‘To a limited degree. He’s obviously not anti-Semitic. His editor is Jewish and so is the woman student he’s pushing toward publication, Jenny Sorkin. And I’m sure he’d never consider treason. But he has evolved this dubious theory that a writer—’

  I interrupted: ‘What Timothy tried to explain? The Imperative of the Now?’

  ‘Yes. Streibert claims that an artist must be judged by how he handles the great problems of his day. He doesn’t have to write about them, you understand, just be conversant and allude to them in a consistent way. And it’s obligatory that he break with the past in order to comprehend the now. He can study the past—should do so, in fact—to see its errors and the corrections that are needed.’

  I said: ‘That’s a pretty heavy burden to place on the shoulders of a mere writer,’ and she answered: ‘Streibert preaches it’s the only legitimate task. Polishing words and phrases was the job in the last century. Grappling with reality is the obligation in this.’

  ‘Reality? Are you speaking of things like Pound’s treason?’

  ‘Yes. Men who extol Pound for his really fine poetry, and it’s some of the best, and for the tremendous role he played in teaching other poets and even helping them revise their poems to make them more vivid … he seems to have influenced most of the good poets of his age. What was I saying?’

  ‘That professors who extol him—’

  ‘Intellectuals have been almost forced to make Pound their hero. It’s a litmus test: “Support Pound or you cannot stand with us on other matters.” ’

  ‘If I were a fellow poet or an intellectual, I might feel the same way. Like airline pilots who go out on strike and later refuse even to speak with those sitting beside them in the cockpit who didn’t. But tell me more about Pound’s treason. I have only the vaguest recollection. Timothy said there was a hospital that figured.’

  ‘Again the facts are indisputable. During the war Pound’s broadcasts from Italy called for the defeat of England and the United States, perhaps not directly, but he certainly gave “aid and comfort to the enemy.” He also supported the extermination of the Jews and, at the very least, harsh treatment of them. At the end of the war he was captured in Italy by Allied troops and was, I believe, held for a short period in a cage. When he was brought back to the States and indicted for treason, ardent supporters protested that he could not be tried for words he undoubtedly said but didn’t really mean. To make their point these friends did something blatant. While Pound was in custody awaiting trial they awarded him the prestigious Bollingen Prize, confirming their claim that he was America’s greatest poet. The Bollingen Foundation put up the money for the prize, but it was awarded under the auspices of the Library of Congress, and all hell broke loose.’

  ‘But where does the hospital come in?’

  ‘A sad affair. Unwilling to try Pound in a public trial as a traitor, in view of the strong support he had in the intellectual community, the government chickened out, declared him insane, and quietly incarcerated him not in a formal jail but in a wing of St. Elizabeths Hospital for the criminally insane in Washington, thus avoiding a public scandal.’

  ‘That sounds like a mistake,’ I said, and she agreed.

  ‘They kept him there for twelve years. Other poets visited him and there’s an entire literature about “the martyr of St. Elizabeths.” An episode as shameful as anything Pound did in Italy. You know, he wrote some of his best poetry in what was an insane asylum.’

  ‘Let’s get down to cases. What influence do you think Streibert’s ideas about Pound and the role of the artist might have on an impressionable young man like my grandson, who’s had such a dazzling start? Might he become confused?’

  Ms. Benelli did not hesitate, and from the force of her reply I judged that she, too, wanted to protect Timothy: ‘It might lead to his membership in a coterie,’ she said. ‘Membership in a group of young people like himself who convince one another that they live in a special atmosphere in which they see things more clearly than others do—see them differently—are responsive to the superior demands of the immediate present.’

  I had asked these questions because I was worried about my grandson’s future, but now I broke into a quiet chuckle: ‘I’m so pleased that Timothy’s taken up with young Miss Sorkin, who said she was writing books I’d be able to understand. She seems a responsible sort—could prove to be his salvation. But this fascination with Pound and those rascals who betrayed England, I’m afraid I’ll never comprehend them, and I’d deplore seeing Timothy follow in their footsteps.’

  ‘Have you a VCR?’ and when I looked blank: ‘The gismo that plays movies through your television?’

  ‘Had one, but could never figure out how to use it. Gave it away.’

  ‘No problem. We have one at the library.’

  ‘To show what?’

  ‘The big video rental shop in Allentown has a wonderful film, a two-hour TV show, done at some university. Explains all you need to know about Ezra Pound.’

  ‘It’s important that I see that film.’

  She said: ‘Name the day,’ and it was arranged that two days hence, if the film was available, she and I would meet in the library at five in the afternoon to see the film The Prisoner of St. Elizabeths.

  FRIDAY, 11 OCTOBER: At five today in the Dresden Public Library, a rather small but tidy stone building in the center of town, I had a riveting introduction to treason and its genesis. I felt at home in the film projection room because, although Andrew Carnegie, the Scots philanthropist, had given the library to our town in the early 1900s, the modernizations had been paid for by my husband, upon goading by me, and after his death it had been one of my principal charities. I loved the staid old building and its sense of Scottish responsibility. Did a wealthy man ever make a better contribution to his society than Carnegie with his hundreds of libraries in towns like Dresden?

  A prudent man, he would have been shocked by what unreeled in his library today, because Ms. Benelli easily fitted a cassette into her VCR, a machine that had defeated me, and we sat back to watch a harrowing summary of Ezra Pound’s confusion, tragedy and ultimate triumph.

  The film was composed of two parts, intricately interwoven: first, historic clips that had caught the arrogant poet in a surprising number of different situations and, second, a studio re-creation of the more important moments in his life. In these a British actor who had been made up to look like Pound did an amazing job of blending the real with the imaginary.

  We saw Pound as a revolutionary young man from Idaho, totally at odds with his generation, as a hesitant teacher, as an exile in Italy, as an apologist for Benito Mussolini and an advocate for the Italian and German victory in Europe and, by extension, the world. In these real scenes, photographed during the period when Mussolini appeared to be winning on all fronts, Pound revealed himself as contemptuous of all things American.

  Extremely pitiful, regardless of what Pound had done, were the scenes that immediately followed the defeat of Mussolini and Hitler, for then the vengeful American victors, enraged by Pound’s treasonous broadcasts during the war, arrested him and threw him into a small cage made of steel mesh and open on all sides, top and bottom, to the weather. Treated like a caged animal, he was visible to the public and scorned by all. Less brutal but more morally questionable were the episodes in which American government officials, afraid to try him publicly for treason because they knew they had only a fragile case against him—for he had merely harangued, not engaged in physical acts of treason—fell back on the device of getting some doctor to certify him insane. They then incarcerated him, without trial, in Washington’s St. Elizabeths Hospital for the criminally insane for many long years.

  I had to agree with the filmmakers that the steel cage and the s
purious hospital imprisonment were blots on American justice, but even so I could not excuse Pound for his assumptions of superiority, his treason and his evil anti-Semitism. When Ms. Benelli asked me after the film ended: ‘Any questions?’ I shook my head ‘No,’ for there were too many to voice. But later, when I was alone in the big room, watching the lights of cars as they moved along Rhenish Road in the far distance, I burst into laughter: ‘Those silly asses! Those contemptible traitors who thought they alone could assess modern history, who knew that Communist Russia must ultimately rule supreme, what would they say if they were alive now, when Communism has collapsed everywhere? Revealing itself to have been hollow all along?’ And I thought of my prosaic husband, whom Pound would have scorned because he was a simple American trying to run a steel mill in an efficient, productive way. How right Larrimore had been in what he understood society to be, how terribly wrong Pound had been. I wanted none of his errors contaminating my grandson.

  THURSDAY, 24 OCTOBER: Today I felt for the first time like an elder statesman. The elder part I experience constantly, for I am getting on, and I feel it in my arthritic knuckles; it was the statesman part that surprised me, for I was consulted professionally by two much younger women.

  First Ms. Marmelle, down on a working visit to her four authors in our small but talent-rich area—one having led fortuitously to the next—asked if I would allow her to pose a few questions and, supposing they related to my grandson, I agreed.

  When she arrived at Windsong, she startled me with the frankness of her approach: ‘Mrs. Garland, I’ve been gratified with the protection you try to provide your grandson. Now I need some. You know Dresden better than anyone. Would the town be ready to accept a woman, alone, who wanted to buy a house here?’

  ‘Of course—you’d be welcome here. You know many local people already.’

  ‘Where might I find a house?’

  ‘Adam Troxel always has a dozen to sell, a trustworthy man But why would a city girl with a fine job want to lose herself in a little country town?’

  ‘Recent events have affected me badly in New York—the sale of our company to the Germans, the death of my last surviving aunt—they’ve sort of used up the city for me. I’m older, too, forty-seven, so if I’m to make a shift it’d better be now.’

  ‘You’re not changing publishers?’

  ‘Not for the present, but I do want to sink some roots outside the concrete jungle. New York’s not an especially hospitable place for single women.’

  I’d been told that Yvonne had been married in her earlier years to a difficult man named Rattner—all talent, no character—and that he’d been killed during some ugly affair in Greenwich Village. If so, she handled her widowhood with distinction, and I liked what I had seen of her. She was a sharp, courageous woman who had mastered the art of survival in a man’s world. Besides, she’d helped get my grandson started right, and for that alone I was indebted.

  ‘Leave your car here, and we’ll have Oscar show us the area. Out in the country or in town?’

  ‘In town. I want neighbors. In fact, I need them.’

  As we drifted out past some attractive houses on the road to the college, she rejected each one that I proposed, but when we doubled back on College Road and approached Dresden from the northeast, I felt her attention quicken and was not surprised when she called to Oscar: ‘Please, slow down here!’ And there to our left, at the very edge of town, stood an old two-story house that exuded appeal; it seemed to cry: ‘Stop and see what I have to offer!’

  ‘Is this what you have in mind?’

  ‘Could be. Oscar, can we turn left four times so that I can see it from all directions?’ and as we finished the circuit she pointed to the sign: FOR SALE TROXEL & BINGEN. ‘Are they reputable people?’ she asked, and I told her: ‘I’ve known Troxel for years. One of the best. Young Bingen I don’t know.’

  ‘Could we stop by their office?’ and that was how a New York editor started proceedings that would lead to her emigrating to a small Dutch community.

  My second consultation was even more startling, for having helped my grandson’s editor find a home, I was now asked to help his young lady friend find a resolution to a writer’s block that had immobilized her. It was Jenny Sorkin, whom I already liked, and when Timothy brought her to Windsong I saw that she was wearing a new T-shirt: IF YOU THINK YOU FEEL GOOD, YOU OUGHT TO FEEL ME.

  I had no idea why she wanted to talk with me, but Timothy explained: ‘Grandmother, Jenny’s finished her football novel, but New York thinks polishing is needed and everyone’s been giving her advice. Streibert did, he was her professor. I did, I’m her professor now. And Ms. Marmelle keeps heaping it on.’

  ‘After that exalted barrage, what could I possibly contribute?’

  ‘A great deal, the capstone possibly. I mean, you’re the only one of us, including Yvonne, who’s a reader. You consume books, you don’t write them. Jenny could profit from your touch, especially since Streibert’s fled to Temple and left her stranded.’

  ‘What’s the book about? My knowledge of football is limited,’ I warned, but with an ingratiating smile Jenny brushed that aside: ‘The book’s really about people, and about the kind of nineteen-year-old girl you might have been at that age.’

  ‘I’ve never seen a novel when it was aborning. I’d be honored to take a try.’

  ‘You saw mine,’ Timothy said, and I replied: ‘I meant a novel I could read—as if it were a book.’ Turning to Jenny, I said: ‘Come back in two days. I’m a fast reader.’

  SATURDAY, 26 OCTOBER: I have rarely had more fun in reading anything than I did with Jenny’s manuscript. It was a hilarious account of a naive-clever hillbilly type of girl and her misadventures with six football players from six Western universities, and the reason I enjoyed it so much was one that neither Jenny nor Timothy would have anticipated. My late husband happened to have been chairman of the regents’ committee that supervised college sports at Mecklenberg, with heavy emphasis on football. He exulted with the team, of which he had once been captain, when it defeated Lafayette, groaned when it lost to nearby Lehigh, and was featured in The New York Times as the Mecklenberg alumnus who had placed his college in jeopardy by paying its athletes under the table. As a result of my husband’s involvement I knew something about college sports and found Miss Sorkin’s book refreshing even though I knew little about the Western universities she described.

  But as a lifelong compulsive reader I could detect the strengths and weaknesses of her draft so that when she returned to Windsong this afternoon I was prepared with a page of notes and queries. As she arranged her chair to face me in the big room, I jumped right in: ‘Utterly beguiling, Miss Sorkin.’

  ‘You can call me Jenny, Jane.’

  ‘You can call me Mrs. Garland, Jenny.’

  ‘We could do a vaudeville skit with that, Mrs. Garland, and I appreciate what you just said about the manuscript.’

  ‘I understand why Ms. Marmelle has accepted this. But …’

  ‘But …’ Jenny could not mask her disappointment: ‘I can’t think of a single thing more to do.’

  ‘I can. It’s been bothering me for the past two days, and at four this morning I finally figured out the weakness, and it’s one that could limit this book. You’ve written it as a delicious comment on contemporary life among the best of our young people. But you didn’t intend it to be only a comedy, did you? You were probing for something deeper, more significant, isn’t that right?’

  ‘I’ve vaguely wondered about that.’

  ‘Good. No more apologies or evasions. Your novel cries out for some scene that adds a darker coloring, an almost tragic presentiment. The story must have it, or it remains only a superficial comedy.’

  I saw that any inclination on Jenny’s part to resist was vanishing and to my surprise she uttered a weak ‘I agree.’ I was disappointed that she had not fought to protect her position.

  ‘Let’s put our heads together and think of the one footba
ll player—or I suppose it could be the poet, although I’d respond less to him—to whom something vital could happen … the scene that would rivet the reader. Let’s take the incident first.’

  ‘No,’ Jenny said with a forcefulness I did not expect. ‘Let’s take the player first, because I wouldn’t want him to appear too early in the story. The overall mood of the novel wouldn’t have been established.’ I liked the way she was now defending her work; for some reason I could not have explained, I was rooting for her.

  ‘We could switch the order of their appearance.’

  ‘Impossible. That’s been carefully orchestrated. An alteration of that kind—’ She stopped. ‘It would screw up all the values.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear you say that. Means you’ve been thinking … even better, that you have a gut feeling.’

  ‘So I think we’re stuck with Number Five,’ Jenny said. ‘You were right, the poet would give us nothing. And I’ve fallen in love with the gorilla at Nebraska State. “For away games we carry him in a cage.” ’

  ‘I like that. So you’ve settled on Five?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Together we ran through a dismal roster of catastrophes that routinely overtake football players and I suggested: ‘Maybe he gets caught taking drugs or steroids two weeks before the Heisman voting?’ But she demurred: ‘That’s been overdone. Ben Johnson and the Olympics.’

  ‘He gets tangled with gamblers and they escape but he’s exposed?’ Again she shook her head: ‘No, the Pete Rose melodrama played too long on local television.’ Then, to encourage me to make additional suggestions, she said: ‘I never expected this, Mrs. Garland. You know your sports,’ and I said: ‘Why not? My husband was the czar of sports here at Mecklenberg. Castigated in the Times for financing near illiterates under the table. Could it be that your boy has parents who are in poor health, and because of poverty, have inadequate doctors? No, that was done on a television show last week.’