Coroner Merival heard that Gottlieb Gerald Knew Elenor Murray and her family life; And knew her love for music, how she tried To play on the piano. On an evening He went with Winthrop Marion to the place,-- Llewellyn George dropped in to hear, as well-- Where Gottlieb Gerald sold pianos--dreamed, Read Kant at times, a scholar, but a failure, His life a waste in business. Gottlieb Gerald Spoke to them in these words:-- 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