I could see that Lukas was not inclined to join the discussion, for he remembered the debacle that had ensued in this hall when he defended Longfellow, and he wished no repetition of that anguish. But Emma prodded him: ‘What have you to lose?’ and he proceeded to show her.
With his first words, Yoder detonated a bomb: ‘We’ve heard a great deal tonight about the heroism and intellectual grandeur of Ezra Pound, but every speaker has evaded one terrible fact regarding this man, the fact that in my mind supersedes all others. How many in this audience are Jewish? Raise your hands high, please, because you are testifiers to the point I hope to make.’ When a considerable number of hands lifted, including that of Jenny Sorkin but not of Ms. Marmelle, Yoder said gravely: ‘Thank you. If Ezra Pound had had his way, you would not be here tonight. Indeed, you would never have existed, because your parents would have gone the way of the Jews of Germany and Poland and Greece and Czechoslovakia. They would have been exterminated.’
His words created a furor, with the English professor crying: ‘Oh, that’s infamous,’ and another professor from Penn shouting: ‘Let me respond!’ Some students, led by my grandson, booed Yoder while others, including Jenny Sorkin, applauded and tried to drown out the boos. President Rossiter, who had become increasingly uneasy with the tenor of the talks, stared ahead impassively until his wife goaded him into action. Then without much conviction he moved toward the microphone and was able to restore a semblance of order, muttering: ‘This is a college audience and we must observe the rules of comity. Our good neighbor Lukas Yoder was summoned to the microphone. He didn’t grab it on his own. Please, I beg of you, let him speak.’
Lukas, who had said nothing during the near riot nor made any move to protect himself, stood at that moment at the conclusion of a working life; he had a universe of ideas he wanted to share; but when quiet was restored he shot off in a direction that astounded us all, even Emma:
‘I have written my last book [There were many cries of ‘No! No! but he ignored them] and I’ve written in a style that is clearly old-fashioned, even outmoded.’ [More protests.] But if I were starting over tonight as a beginning writer I wouldn’t dream of doing it the way I did. I would be adventurous. I’d use new styles, new forms, new discoveries in psychology, new approaches to the reader, new everything. I am addicted to constant change in all things.
‘To tell you the truth, I sometimes find my Amish friends’ adherence to outmoded customs preposterous. But the way they adhere to the fundamentals pleases me very much, and in my own work I’ve tried to copy their stoutness of character.
‘So in the discussion tonight I find myself heartily in favor of young artists being bold enough to break bonds, but I also believe that the artist has an obligation to his or her society—to help the disparate elements cling together in mutual interests—to support good government—to care for the unfortunate, and give assistance to young people who yearn to become artists. I find myself in harmony with them.
‘But I am not in harmony with anyone who argues that a drive for freedom of expression entitles him to engage in treason against his nation or advocate the extermination of people he doesn’t like.’
He retired from the front of the hall to modest applause from his supporters and silence from the thoughtful, but all seemed moved by his revelations about himself as a writer and by his willingness to remind his colleagues of the permanent moral values of the human race. When he reached his seat Emma said simply: ‘It had to be done. Let some fresh air into this room.’
For me at least the symposium had thrown such blinding light on Pound’s treason that I was hungry for further exploration of a crucial point I had not been sufficiently forthright to raise in my long afternoon discussion with Yvonne. So when she drove me home in her rented car, we sat for some moments in the driveway as I asked the question that tormented me: ‘Ever since Streibert quit his job or was fired—no one will tell me which—Timothy’s been driving down to Temple to meet with him. Says he needs Streibert’s help on Dialogue, but I’m worried that it could become something, shall we say, more complicated?’
‘You mean is he, shall we say, a negative influence on him?’
‘You really are helpful.’
‘Mrs. Garland, this afternoon I told you as strongly as I could, your grandson is totally self-directed. No one has undue influence on him.’ Then she laughed and made a point I had never considered: ‘Mrs. Garland, your grandson also works with me. Comes sometimes to New York to do so. Do you ever torment yourself with the question: “Might she lead him into error?” ’
‘You’re saying he’s so strong he’s in no danger?’
She evaded my question: ‘Besides, who invited Streibert to your party last night?’
‘I did. I like him. Always have. I find him a wonderful man. Besides, who ran up to kiss him last night?’
‘I’ve always respected him. Still do, despite what he said in the papers. I just hope he gets his act together.’
I said: ‘But an elderly woman can enjoy Streibert for herself yet fear him for her grandson.’
‘You asked if I thought Timothy was strong. He’s a bulldog. I’d hate to get in his way.’ Then she added: ‘I consider him the finest young fellow of his age in America. He really has everything going for him, so rest easy,’ and her statement was so clear and unequivocal that I went to bed saying to myself: To have a son of proved talent who is properly launched, that’s what parents long for. And my sleep was undisturbed.
EARLY MONDAY MORNING, 4 NOVEMBER: On this date, for reasons that will become clear, I left the page blank but some days later Ms. Marmelle was required to give the police a statement detailing how she had spent November 4. The police stenographer took it down verbatim and I have deemed it best to incorporate her narrative instead of trying to reconstruct my own.
Office of the Chief of Police
Dresden, Pennsylvania
Wednesday, 6 November 1991
Statement of Ms. Yvonne Marmelle
Kinetic Press, New York City
Early Monday morning, 4 November 1991, to beat the heavy traffic returning to New York, I drove my car in darkness past the fields of my new home state, Pennsylvania, and into suburban New Jersey, where dawn was creeping in. As I approached the New Jersey entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel, my car radio brought an announcement that gripped my attention. On the heels of news from a meeting of heads of state in Brussels, the newsman said: ‘Last night one of America’s highly regarded authors died in a mysterious …’
I had now penetrated so deep into the tunnel that the broadcast vanished, so in the depths of the tunnel, far below the bottom of the river, I rode in silence, speculating on who the deceased man might be, but as I began to run through the men who would fit the brief description ‘one of America’s highly regarded writers’ I concluded that if it had been Yoder the announcer would surely have said ‘one of America’s best-selling writers,’ for that was the accepted characterization. ‘It could have been Streibert,’ I told myself, ‘but he probably wouldn’t have been given such air time.’ After that I ran through other writers, and as I neared the Manhattan exit of the tunnel I cried: ‘Doesn’t have to be a man. The announcer said nothing about a man,’ and before the radio came back I rapidly ran through women writers in my mind but, of course, to no avail.
Then suddenly out in the open the radio blared quite loudly, for in trying to keep it alive in the tunnel I had turned up the volume. ‘The President has said firmly that if the bill is presented to him with those stipulations he will veto it.’ Irritated, I spun the dial as I drove up Tenth Avenue so slowly that cars began honking. I heard the tail end of several early-morning newscasts and then: ‘Other writers and critics who commented on the death said that Timothy Tull was one of our most promising …’ A police siren blared, lights flashed, and I was edged over to the side of the avenue.
When a policeman bent down to my car window and started yelling at me, I looked at him with what must have been
visible terror: ‘Sir, I’m an editor at a publishing house, and I just heard that one of my authors …’
‘Yeah, that young fellow in Pennsylvania Dutch country, beaten to death, quite horrible … Lady! Lady! Hey, Max! She’s fainted!’
When the police revived me I said weakly: ‘I’m sorry. Can you verify the young man’s name?’
‘No. But they’re sure it was murder, and in Pennsylvania. That’s why we’re checking the tunnels from Jersey.’
‘Can you help me? I feel very weak. I must make a phone call.…’
‘Lady, you can’t stop here. Monday-morning traffic.’
‘The dead man might be my author.’
‘Hey, Max! Protect the car. Just a minute.’ He took me to a phone, helped me as I rummaged through my purse to find my address book, and lent me two quarters as I called a reporter on an early beat at the Times: ‘Izzy, Yvonne Marmelle. Do you have an overnight on the murder of a writer in the Dutch country in Pennsylvania?’
‘Came in after midnight. Nothing in the morning paper but two writers are working on it.’
‘The man’s name?’
‘Timothy Tull. Did that wild upside-down book, everyone said he was a genius, the new Truman Capote.’
‘Brutally murdered?’
‘I believe the first announcement, from the local sheriff, said “horribly beaten.” ’
Fearing that I might faint again, I appealed to my policeman for help, then gained control and walked with him back to my car. ‘It was as I feared. A young man of unbelievable talent.’
‘How far you driving this car?’
‘Garage on East Sixty-ninth.’
‘You sure you can make it?’
‘Yes,’ I mumbled, but when I looked at the officer’s fresh young face I saw Timothy at the dawn of his glorious new life, and my legs began to buckle. I did not break into tears, but I did fall limply into the officer’s arms: ‘Please help me home. It would not be safe for others on the road for me to drive.’
When I reached my apartment and recovered with the aid of a soothing shower, I called one of the literary editors at the Times, announced myself and told the secretary who answered: ‘It’s vitally important. Please have Angelica call me.’
In a surprisingly short time my friend called back, prepared for my questions: ‘We have a full report on the brutal facts. Absolutely nothing on the cause or the killer.’ Sitting down, I said: ‘Go ahead,’ and Angelica spoke rapidly: ‘Timothy Tull, twenty-three years old, son of blah-blah-blah, both dead, grandson of the distinguished steel magnate, Larrimore Garland, now dead, and his wife, Jane, still living and benefactress of the arts. Then there’s a bit about Kaleidoscope and its upside-down pages, and you’re mentioned as the editor who launched him.’
‘The murder?’
‘We’ll get to it. Body found at four A.M. Monday morning, that’s today. By the chauffeur, name of Oscar. On the grounds of Windsong, family estate, ninety yards from the house. Badly mutilated by some instrument that could not be identified—that is, not even its type could be determined. Dead dog lying nearby, name of Xerxes. No motive can be guessed. No identity of the murderer. Nothing on or near the corpse to indicate anything about the crime, except that Tull and his dog apparently tried to defend themselves. His right forearm was broken as if he had attempted to ward off a blow. No gunfire evident, no weapon found.’
My friend’s next question was: ‘Would you have any comments on his death?’ and I said: ‘Only about three hours’ worth.’ Angelica said: ‘I’ll have Paula call you. She’s working on the story, I believe,’ and when Paula called, eager for news that would intensify the public’s reaction to the tragedy by bringing his death more intimately into focus, my grief became undammed, and I told of how I had met him, of his wit, his gentleness with his grandmother, and of how, at an early age, he not only wrote his amazing Kaleidoscope but also won an appointment helping to teach creative writing at Mecklenberg. I made it a glowing summary of a young life.
Then, to round out her story, Paula asked: ‘Did he leave any unpublished work?’ and I remembered that perfectly typed three quarters of Timothy’s second novel, and I had a powerful premonition that I ought to establish right now, in the first moments after his death, that a nearly completed novel was in being. So without calculating the conflicts I might be setting in motion, I said with great care: ‘On Friday, it must have been the first, I saw at the home of his grandmother an almost completed novel—probably seventy-five percent finished. I was allowed to read a substantial portion and I predict it will be a sensation.’
‘Did you say that about his first book, when you saw it in manuscript?’
‘It’s on record that I did.’
‘The title of the new one?’ Without hesitation I said: ‘Dialogue, and it’s going to be bigger than Kaleidoscope.’
It’s important that the surprising things I did next be noted, and if anyone thinks that I was callous about this, or unmindful of the great tragedy in which I was involved, he or she is mistaken. I became an editor battling to protect both the survival and the validity of an important work of art. In these moments, I could think of only two things: the slain novelist and his unfinished work.
Within a minute after talking to Paula I was on the phone to Windsong, where Martha Benelli was handling calls on behalf of Mrs. Garland. I was insistent: ‘It isn’t that I must speak to her, she must speak to me. Tell her the fate of her grandson’s reputation is in her hands. Tell her that, forcefully.…’
Apparently these were the only words that could budge the bereaved woman, for Ms. Benelli said: ‘She’s coming,’ but it was many moments before she reached the phone, and when she spoke her voice was a shadowy whisper, ‘Yvonne,’ then silence broken at last by a sob: ‘It’s beyond understanding, but thank you for calling. I wish you were here.’ Afraid that she was about to hang up, I said hurriedly and with force: ‘Mrs. Garland, Jane, I need your help.’
‘My help? I can hardly breathe.’
‘Jane! Listen! You and I have much work to do—now—to save Timothy’s place in literary history—in your world of books.’
There was a long pause, during which Mrs. Garland must have been drawing on her deepest reserves of strength, for when she spoke again, her voice was clear, her resolve firm: ‘Tell me what I must do.’
‘I believe Timothy left his manuscript with you that day I saw it.’
‘He did.’
‘And you still have the pages?’
‘I do.’
‘Good. Mrs. Garland, you and I will fight to establish the tremendous validity of Timothy’s contribution. Now listen carefully to what I say, for every instruction is crucial. Get the manuscript, give it to Ms. Benelli. Have her take it immediately to a copy store in Dresden and have three copies made of every page. At the bottom of each page show a cardboard with today’s date, 4 November 1991, and her name.
‘Then she must take the whole bundle to a notary public, who will wrap one set of sheets into a tight package, seal it with sealing wax and notarize it with the date and the librarian as witness. When that’s done, she’s to take the sealed package to the bank, rent a safe deposit box in her name, place the manuscript inside, lock the box and keep the key. She can then return the original and two copies to you. You keep the original and send me the two Xeroxes.’
Mrs. Garland asked: ‘Do you wish to repeat those instructions to Ms. Benelli?’ and I said: ‘Yes, tell her to get a pencil and paper.’ Only when I was sure the manuscript would be protected did I say to Mrs. Garland: ‘I was terrified when I heard the news. I fainted and a policeman had to drive me home.’
‘I can hardly bear it. I loved him so much, and he had such promise,’ and I said: ‘It’s to protect that promise that we must notarize everything we do. Years from now people will begin to claim that he didn’t write his second book. That we fabricated it after his death.’
‘You and I will not let that happen,’ Mrs. Garland said. I then launched a b
lizzard of calls. To my office I reported that I must return immediately to Pennsylvania, and because of my fainting spell that morning, I hoped that Chuck from our office could come up, get my Olds from the garage and drive me to Dresden. That done, I knew I could not escape involving Karl Streibert at Temple, for he had known Timothy on the intellectual level more intimately than any of us. But this posed an ugly problem, since he had publicly rejected both Kinetic and me, and although we had repaired the damage that night at the 7&7, there was still friction between us because of his savage review of Stone Walls. What I would now require was almost daily contact with him as we discussed emotional materials and I did not know if either of us was equal to that strain. I knew I must call him, but a premonitory impulse warned me to call Jenny Sorkin first: ‘Jenny? Yvonne Marmelle. Let’s have no tears, neither you nor me.… Did Timothy leave any portion of his new novel with you? Oh, thank God! The better part of a chapter? Three individual scenes but not linked together? I’m going to give you mystifying but absolutely essential instructions, and I want you to follow them in every detail.’ I repeated what I had told the librarian, and added: ‘If you need money for this, borrow it. I’ll be at the inn this afternoon. Tell no one of this. No one. We’re taking these steps to protect the reputation of a remarkable young man, whom you and I knew, each in our special way. Help me.’
Only then did I have the courage to call Streibert, for I did not know how he would react to hearing from me, and it took some time to track him down at Temple, but when at last he came to the phone he cried: ‘Yvonne! Thank God you’ve called!’ and he broke down in tears. When he regained control he explained: ‘I came to my class knowing nothing, but a student, aware that I had known Tull at Mecklenberg, blurted out: “Professor, did you hear that Timothy Tull was murdered last night?” I had to leave the lecture hall and come to the faculty retiring room, where I am now.’