Gottlieb Gerald

I knew her, why of course. And you want me?         What can I say? I don't know how she died.         I know what people say. But if you want         To hear about her, as I knew the girl,         Sit down a minute. Wait, a customer!...         It was a fellow with a bill, these fellows         Who come for money make me smile. Good God!         Where shall I get the money, when pianos,         Such as I make, are devilish hard to sell?         Now listen to this tune! Dumm, dumm, dumm, dumm,         How's that for quality, sweet clear and pure?         Now listen to these chords I take from Bach!         Oh no, I never played much, just for self.         Well, you might say my passion for this work         Is due to this: I pick the wire strings,         The spruce boards and all that for instruments         That suit my ear at last. When I have built         A piano, then I sit and play upon it,         And find forgetfulness and rapture through it.         And well I need forgetfulness, for the bills         Are never paid, collectors always come.         I keep a little lawyer almost busy,         Lest some one get a judgment, levy a writ         Upon my prizes here, this one in chief.         Oh, well, I pay at last, I always pay,         But I must have my time. And in the days         When these collectors swarm too much I find         Oblivion in music, run my hands         Over the keys I've tuned. I wish I had         Some life of Cristofori, just to see         If he was dodging bills when tuning strings.         Perhaps that Silberman who made pianos         For Frederick the Great had money enough,         And needed no oblivion from bills.         You see I'm getting old now, sixty-eight;         And this I say, that life is far too short         For man to use his conquests and his wisdoms.         This spirit, mind, is a machine, piano,         And has its laws of harmony and use.         Well, it seems funny that a man just learns         The secrets of his being, how to love,         How to forget, what to select, what life         Is natural to him, and only living         According to one's nature is increase -         All else is waste - when wind blows on your back,         Just as I sit sometimes when these collectors         Come in on me - and so you find it's Death,         Who levies on your life; no little lawyer         Can keep him off with stays of execution,         Or supersedeas, I think it is.         Well, as I said, a man must live his nature,         And dump the rules; this Christianity         Makes people wear steel corsets to grow straight,         And they don't grow so, for they scarcely breathe,         They're laced so tight; and all their vital organs         Are piled up and repressed until they groan.         Then what? They lace up tighter, till the blood         Stops in the veins and numbness comes upon them.         Oblivion it may be - but give me music!         Oh yes, this girl, Elenor Murray, well         This talk about her home is half and half,         Part true, part false. Her daddy nips a little,         Has always done so. Like myself, the bills         Have always deviled him. But just the same         That home was not so bad. Some years ago,         She was a little girl of thirteen maybe,         Her father rented one of my pianos         For Elenor to learn on, and of course         The rent was always back, I didn't care,         Except for my collectors, and besides         She was so nice. So music hungry, practiced         So hard to learn, I used to let the rent         Run just as long as I could let it run.         And even then I used to feel ashamed         To ask her father for it.             As I said         She was thirteen, and one Thanksgiving day         They asked me there to dinner, and I went,         Brushed off my other coat and shaved myself,         I looked all right, my shoes were polished too.         You'd never think I polished them to look         At these to-day. And now I tell you what         I saw myself: nice linen on the table,         And pretty silver, plated, I suppose;         Good glass-ware, and a dinner that was splendid,         Wine made from wild grapes spiced with cinnamon,         It had a kick, too. And the home was furnished         Like what you'd think: good carpets, chairs, a lounge,         Some pictures on the wall - all good enough.         And this girl was as lively as a cricket,         She was the liveliest thing I ever saw;         And that's what ailed her, if you want my word.         She had more life than she knew how to use,         And had not learned her own machine.             And after         We had the dinner we came in the parlor.         And then her mother asked her to play something,         And she sat down and played tra-la; tra-la,         One of these waltzes, I remember now         As pretty as these verses in the paper         On love, or something sentimental. Yes,         She played it well. For I had rented them         One of my pets. They asked me then to play         And I tried out some Bach and other things,         And improvised. And Elenor stood by,         And asked what's that when I was improvising.         I laughed and said, Sonata of Starved Rock,         Or Deer Park Glen in Winter, anything -         She looked at me with eyes as big as that.         Well, as I said, the home was good enough.         Still like myself with these collectors, Elenor         Was bothered, drawn aside, and scratched no doubt         From walking through the briars. Just the same         The trouble with her life, if it was trouble,         And no musician would regard it trouble,         The trouble was her nature strove to be         All fire, and subtilize to the essence of fire,         Which was her nature's law, and Nature's law,         The only normal law, as I have found;         For so Canudo says, as I read lately,         Who gave me words for what I knew from life.         Now if you want my theories I go on.         You do? All right. What was this Elenor Murray?         She was the lover, do you understand?         She had her lovers maybe, I don't know,         That's not the point with lovers, any more,         Than it's the point to have pianos - no!         Lovers, pianos are the self-same thing;         Instruments for the soul, the source of fire,         The crucible for flames that turn from red         To blue, then white, then fierce transparencies.         Then if the lover be not known by lovers         How is she known? Why think of Elenor Murray,         Who tries all things and educates herself,         Goes traveling, would sing and play, becomes         A member of a church with ritual, music,         Incense and color, things that steal the senses,         And bring oblivion. Don't you see the girl         Moving her soul to find her soul, and passing         Through loves and hatreds, seeking everywhere         Herself she loved, in others, agonizing         For hate of father, so they tell me now?         But first because she hated in herself         What lineaments of her father she saw in self.         And all the while, I think, she strove to conquer         This hatred, every hatred, sensing freedom         For her own soul through liberating self         From hatreds. So, you see how someone near,         Repugnant, disesteemed, may furnish strength         And vision, too, by gazing on that one         From day to day, not to be like that one:         And so our hatreds help us, those we hate         Become our saviors.             Here's the problem now         In finding self, the soul - it's with ourselves,         Within ourselves throughout the ticklish quest         From first to last, and lovers and pianos         Are instruments of salvation, yet they take         The self but to the self, and say now find,         Explore and know. And then, as all before,         The problem is how much of mind to use,         How much of instinct, phototropic sense,         That turns instinctively to light - green worms         More plant than animal are eyes all over         Because their bodies know the light, no eyes         Where sight is centralized. I've found it now:         What is the intellect but eyes, where sight         Is gathered in two spheres? The more they're used         The darker is the body of the soul.         Now to digress, that's why the Germans lost,         They used the intellect too much; they took         The sea of life and tried to dam it in,         Or use it for canals or water power,         Or make a card-case system of it, maybe,         To keep collectors off, have all run smoothly,         And make a sure thing of it.             To return         How much did Elenor Murray use her mind,         How much her instincts, leave herself alone         Let nature have its way? I think I know:         But first you have the artist soul; and next         The soul half artist, prisoned usually         In limitations where the soul, half artist         Between depressions and discouragements         Rises in hope and knocks. Why, I can tell them         The moment they touch keys or talk to me.         I hear their knuckles knocking on the walls,         Insuperable partitions made of wood,         When seeking tones or words; they have the hint,         But cannot open, manifest themselves.         So was it with this girl, she was all lover,         Half artist, what a torture for a soul,         And what escape for her! She could not play,         Had never played, no matter what the chance.         I think there is no curse like being dumb         When every waking moment, every dream         Keeps crying to speak out. This is her case:         The girl was dumb, like that dumb woman here         Whose dress caught fire, and in the dining room         Was burned to death while all her family         Were in the house, to whom she could not cry!         You asked about her going to the war,         Her sacrifice in that, and if I think         She found expression there - yes, of a kind,         But not the kind she hungered for, not music.         She found adventure there, excitement too.         That uses up the soul's power, takes the place         Of better self-expression. But you see         I do not think self-immolation life,         I know it to be death. Now, look a minute:         Why did she join the church? why to forget!         Why did she go to war? why to forget.         And at the last, this thing called sacrifice         Rose up with meaning in her eyes. You see         They tell around here now she often said:         "I'm going to the war to be swept under."         Now comes your Christian idea: Let me die,         But die in service of the race, in giving         I waste myself for others, give myself!         Let God take notice, and reward the gift!         This is the failure's recourse often-times,         A prodigal flinging of the self - let God         Find what He can of good, or find all good.         I have abandoned all control, all thought         Of finding my soul otherwise, if here         I find my soul, a doubt that makes the gift         Not less abandoned.          This is foolish talk         I know you think, I think it is myself,         At least in part. I know I'm right, however,         In guessing off the reason of her failure,         If failure it is. But pshaw, why talk of failure         About a woman born to live the life         She lived, which could not have been different,         Much different under any circumstance?         She might have married, had a home and children,         What of it? As it is she makes a story,         A flute sound in our symphony - all right!         And I confess, in spite of all I've said,         The profit, the success, may not be known         To any but one's self. Now look at me,         By all accounts I am a failure - look!         For forty years just making poor ends meet,         My love all spent in making good pianos.         I thrill all over picking spruce and wires,         And putting them together - all my love         Gone into this, no head at all for business.         I keep no books, they cheat me out of rent.         I don't know how to sell pianos, when         I sell one I have trouble oftentimes         In getting pay for it. But just the same         I sit here with myself, I know myself,         I've found myself, and when collectors come         I can say come to-morrow, turn about,         And run the scale, or improvise, and smile,         Forget the world!         *        *        *        *        *         The three arose and left.         Llewellyn George said: "That's a rarity,         That man is like a precious flower you find         Way off among the weeds and rocky soil,         Grown from a seed blown out of paradise;         I want to call again."         So thus they knew         This much of Elenor Murray's music life.         But on a day a party talk at tea,         Of Elenor Murray and her singing voice         And how she tried to train it - just a riffle         Which passed unknown of Merival. For you know         Your name may come up in a thousand places         At earth's ends, though you live, and do not die         And make a great sensation for a day.         And all unknown to Merival for good         This talk of Lilli Alm and Ludwig Haibt: