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20 THIS DIFFICULT INDIVIDUAL 1959), exposes the rigged insanity trial of President Lincoln's widow to invalidate the possible influence of her son, Robert Todd Lincoln, in the elections of 1876. As soon as they were over, and only two hours after the results were known, Mrs. Lincoln was given a new sanity hearing and released. As Rex Lampman said of the inmates of St. Elizabeths, "Most of these people are here because somebody wants them to be here." While Ezra Pound labored under the disabilities of life in a madhouse, I continued my studies at the Institute. I learned that a very devoted and talented couple who taught there, Rudd and Polly Fleming, were regular visitors to Ezra Pound. They often went directly from our classrooms, driving past the Capitol building on their way to the madhouse. One afternoon, they suggested that I might like to meet Pound. Out of modesty, I demurred, but when the invitation was repeated the following week, I accepted. On a gray November afternoon in 1949, I rode with them to the grim walled fortress of St. Elizabeths. Before we went into the admitting office, Polly Fleming cautioned me to say that I had already visited Pound. The procedure for obtaining permission to see him was rather complicated and timeconsuming. A letter of clearance had to be obtained from Dr. Overholser, as well as a note from Pound, saying that he was willing to meet me. This red tape could be avoided by replying to the attendant on one's first visit, in answer to the query, "Have you visited Pound before?", a cheerful "Yes." I managed this answer without difficulty, but I was rather nervous as we left the administration building. Although I had met a good many celebrities, I realized that Pound might prove to be disconcerting. He was a living legend who overshadowed every other figure in modern letters, and I hardly felt prepared to meet him. My hesitancy was not a personal weakness, for in later years I often made appointments for well-known personalities to meet Pound, only to have them back out at the last moment. One cosmopolitan lady, a principal backer of the magazine Poetry, got cold feet three days in succession before I gave up the effort to introduce her to Pound. On another occasion, a famed literary critic fled Washington on the day that I had agreed to take him to St. Elizabeths. A previous administrator had attempted, with little success, to
EZRA POUND 21 enliven the dreary atmosphere of the hospital by naming the wards after various trees. The ward in which Ezra was lodged was known as the "Chestnut" ward, which we reached by crossing the courtyard. I followed the Flemings up a steep spiral of iron stairs. The walls were covered with dirty, flaking enamel, and obviously they had not been cleaned for many years. I was instinctively repelled by the unpleasant odor of the ward. One flight up, we came to a door that was closed and locked. Rudd pressed a tiny button in the wall, and we heard an electric bell echoing through the unseen interior. After a wait of several minutes, the door was opened by a stocky gentleman with kindly eyes. A ring of enormous keys was strapped to his waist, reminding me of a drawing I had once seen of a medieval gaoler. I later learned that he was the brother of a Congressman, and I delighted Pound by observing that both of these admirable brothers had devoted their lives to the care of the mentally retarded. We were led down a long, gloomy corridor, which was never lit by the light of the sun. A radio blaring from an alcove showed that the patients did not lack for recreation, although the volume indicated that some of them must be deaf. At the further end of the hall, partially shielded by a folding screen, which failed to conceal him or his guests from the glares of the livelier inmates, sat Ezra Pound. As the Flemings introduced me, Pound sprang up from his chair and grasped my hand. His piercing eyes and pointed beard reminded me at once of the late King George V of England. Despite the aura of gloom that pervaded this place of shadows, he seemed cheerful and energetic. This was his way of withstanding the hell into which Fate, as the federal government is sometimes known, had deposited him. During the ensuing decade, I seldom saw one of his visitors who was as filled with vitality and optimism as himself. Ezra sank back into his chair and leaned his head against a cushion. He informed me that he was unable to hold up his head for long because of some difficulty with the vertebrae in his neck. In the chair next to him sat his wife, Dorothy Shakespear Pound. Hers is a classic English profile; her eyes are as bright, courageous, and youthful as her husband's. We dragged up some more chairs, and formed a semi-circle in front of Pound. At that time, he was receiving very few visitors, and no one else
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EZRA POUND 21<br />
enliven the dreary atmosphere of the hospital by naming the wards<br />
after various trees. The ward in which Ezra was lodged was known<br />
as the "Chestnut" ward, which we reached by crossing the courtyard.<br />
I followed the Flemings up a steep spiral of iron stairs. The<br />
walls were covered with dirty, flaking enamel, and obviously they<br />
had not been cleaned for many years. I was instinctively repelled by<br />
the unpleasant odor of the ward. One flight up, we came to a door<br />
that was closed and locked. Rudd pressed a tiny button in the wall,<br />
and we heard an electric bell echoing through the unseen interior.<br />
After a wait of several minutes, the door was opened by a stocky<br />
gentleman with kindly eyes. A ring of enormous keys was strapped<br />
to his waist, reminding me of a drawing I had once seen of a<br />
medieval gaoler. I later learned that he was the brother of a<br />
Congressman, and I delighted Pound by observing that both of<br />
these admirable brothers had devoted their lives to the care of the<br />
mentally retarded.<br />
We were led down a long, gloomy corridor, which was never lit<br />
by the light of the sun. A radio blaring from an alcove showed that<br />
the patients did not lack for recreation, although the volume indicated<br />
that some of them must be deaf. At the further end of the hall,<br />
partially shielded by a folding screen, which failed to conceal him or<br />
his guests from the glares of the livelier inmates, sat Ezra Pound.<br />
As the Flemings introduced me, Pound sprang up from his chair<br />
and grasped my hand. His piercing eyes and pointed beard reminded<br />
me at once of the late King George V of England. Despite<br />
the aura of gloom that pervaded this place of shadows, he seemed<br />
cheerful and energetic. This was his way of withstanding the hell<br />
into which Fate, as the federal government is sometimes known, had<br />
deposited him. During the ensuing decade, I seldom saw one of his<br />
visitors who was as filled with vitality and optimism as himself.<br />
Ezra sank back into his chair and leaned his head against a<br />
cushion. He informed me that he was unable to hold up his head<br />
for long because of some difficulty with the vertebrae in his neck.<br />
In the chair next to him sat his wife, Dorothy Shakespear Pound.<br />
Hers is a classic English profile; her eyes are as bright, courageous,<br />
and youthful as her husband's. We dragged up some more chairs,<br />
and formed a semi-circle in front of Pound.<br />
At that time, he was receiving very few visitors, and no one else