4pQonT

EZRA POUND 299
wine into a thermos bottle before leaving home so that the guards
would suppose they were bringing their usual tea; but since half
the fun was to uncork the bottle on the premises, it was not such
an exciting afternoon. It is the only time I can recall having drunk
wine from a thermos bottle.
It was early in 1950 that I made the acquaintance of Elizabeth
Bishop, who was then Consultant in Poetry at the Library of
Congress. This post is held for one-year periods by various poets
who are in good standing with the current administration. No
revolutionaries need apply.
Elizabeth was a lady, from the Back Bay of Boston. There was
a fortune somewhere in the background (Eaton paper or something
of that order), and she dressed with excellent taste. She had
a mellifluous voice, and it was always a delight to hear her read
her poetry. Some of these readings are now available on records.
Also, she kept an excellent sherry on hand at the Library, the only
Consultant who has shown such consideration for visitors.
Elizabeth wished to go out and see Ezra, but she needed moral
support. At any rate, she would never go out unless I accompanied
her. I mentioned the wine problem, but did not enlarge upon the
attitude of the hospital authorities. Whenever Elizabeth went out
with me, she brought not one but two bottles. Furthermore, these
were more costly than those I had been able to provide. Usually
she brought one German and one French variety, a good Moselle
or a Liebfraumilch, and perhaps an Haut Sauterne.
Despite the reinforcement of the wine, Elizabeth was never
comfortable in Ezra's presence. I think that she looked upon him
as a sort of naughty old grandfather whose habits are somewhat
questionable, but who, after all, is one's ancestor. She insisted that
the way in which he twisted the ends of his beard gave him a
quite diabolical appearance. One afternoon, when the conversation
lagged, Elizabeth volunteered the information that she was studying
German. Ezra looked up and said, "Humph! That won't be much
help to you!" The inference was that Elizabeth was beyond any
sort of assistance, and she sank into a glum silence.
Although she visited the hospital as a filial duty, Elizabeth
occasionally suggested to her literary friends that they go out. She