A Eulogy for George Mancini

The title explains it all.....(a companion to February 29th)

 

It brings great sadness to Teague’s Literary Magazine to announce that our beloved Editor In Chief, George Mancini, has passed away.  For thirty years, George dedicated himself to Teague’s mission to bring innovative, new fiction to the public.  The following is a verbatim reproduction of the eulogy given at his funeral. The eulogy was given by George’s long-time friend and protégé, Daniel Link, also an employee of Teague’s.  George never married, and never had any children.  Daniel is now the sole executor of George’s estate. 

 

George Mancini was one the greatest men I’ve ever had the good fortune to know.  Most people do not know that his real name wasn’t George, it was Vincenzo Nikolai, but when his parents immigrated to America from a small Italian village, they wanted their son to succeed, and thought that with a name like Vincenzo Nikolai Mancini he would not, so they decided to call him something more “American.”  A few days after arriving in New York Harbor, Vincenzo Nikolai became George; because his parents figured what could be more American than the father of the Nation?  And so, for the remainder of his life, Vincenzo Nikolai Mancini was known to his colleagues, readers, friends, and loved ones as George, though he never changed it legally. 

He grew up in a New York City slum before it was considered fashionable, and achieved what is today known as the American Dream: creating himself out of nothing.  He never became a millionaire; he never owned a major corporation; but he did achieve the goal he set for himself when he was nine years old (which he would always tell the men around the office): to write a great novel.

I met George, about twenty years ago, or so, when I was very young.  He was the first person that told me I had talent as a writer, and that is something I will never forget; since that day he has become an idol, mentor, and father figure to me.  When I went to work for George at Teauge’s Magazine, some years later, he welcomed me with open arms, and exclaimed upon seeing me for the first time in ten years (without a stirring of his memory mind you), “I knew that one day you would be a writer.  You can always tell the good ones when their young, it’s the way they hold the pen, very professional.”  I was amazed that George was able to recognize me so many years later.  But, as I soon learned, George had an incredible memory, and could remember the smallest details from the most insignificant of events.

As we all know too well, George was the best kind of extrovert.  Always willing to talk at great lengths, and, likewise, listen.  Over the years, I had come to love him as an author, and learned a great deal from George’s published works.  His most influential works being his book of poems Along the Lost Way, his first novel Turnbull & Turnball: Confusing Accounts of a Curious Event by Bewildered People, and his last novel Stars and Stripes For Neva. But working with George for ten years I was able to learn a great deal about the man, and to thankfully call him a friend.

Out of all the stories George told me over the years, I can call two my absolute favorites.  The first being any of his college stories; and the second being about the woman who inspired the novel, considered by many to be his best, The Northlight Inn and Beyond.  I’d like to share both of them with you this afternoon:

George attended the University of Virginia, after he received the money from an old millionaire.  George said that the man was searching for some kind of filial figure, since all of his seven children were girls.  At first George wanted to go to Yale, or Princeton, or one of the Northern Institutions, but the old man, who George always spoke of kindly, though he never mentioned his name, instead always referring to him with a Southern twang as “that ole b*****d,” was a Southerner, through and through, and, as George said, exclaimed upon learning that George wished to go to a Northern School, “Thoz Yankee-suns-uv-b*****s’ll nevarr git mah muhney.” 

So reluctantly, but nonetheless happily, George enrolled in the University of Virginia, where he became very popular among the teachers (for his mind, and willingness to work), his classmates (for his outgoing and jovial disposition), and in the literary circles (for his eagerness and acuity to discuss literature of any kind).  His involvement in these circles led to the development of two things:  The University’s first literary magazine, which published the poems, essays, reviews, serialized novels, and eventually short stories, written by students and local authors; the second was a secret society (now believed to be defunct) that was created by George, his friends, and few other students deemed “worthy” in order to create, discuss, and critique each other’s work.  The society didn’t do much other than that; it was, though, responsible for all of the original plays put on at the University’s theater; though the scripts were only credited to one member, two of them to George, but he’d be the first to admit that the plays were a collaboration between all of the members of the society. 

I was surprised to learn that even though George considered it a secret society (which was called Quill and Ink) it wasn’t very secretive: you could’ve asked any student what Quill and Ink was and they could’ve told you, with extreme accuracy.  George said, “No one really cared.  What does any logic-based person want with a bunch or writers anyway?”  It seemed that the society was based more around exclusivity than secrecy: membership would be capped at ten, or eleven, at a time, because, after that point, “things became less easy to manage,” George said.  Also, I was surprised to find how lax the prerequisites for joining Quill and Ink were.  In fact, once while George was telling me about Quill and Ink he asked me, “Would you like to be a member?” and before I could finished the “Yes, of course,” he nodded his head, blinked his eyes, and said “There you’re a member,” and went on with his previous thought.  Apparently, the only requirements to join were that you had be an active writer, and had to be willing to discuss your and others’ work honestly.  That was it.

The next story is my fondest memory of George, not only was it the last story he ever told me, but during this recollection it was the happiest I’d ever seen him:

One night I was working late in the office (George and I were always the first to arrive in the morning and the last to leave), George came out of his office and said:

“Danny-boy, you still here?  Why don’t you go out? Have a good time. Meet a nice girl.”

I remember thinking how amazing it was that at seventy-five, and with a cane, he was still so vibrant, and acted as if he were a young man, if only a little wiser.

“You need to find a woman when you’re young,” he went on, “not when you get be my age, because by this time all the good ones are taken.”  Then a wide smile, as if he was remembering something long since passed, came onto his face. “Did I ever tell you about Elli?”  I shook my head, because, surprisingly, he had never mentioned any women named anything before, not with this kind of smile on his face.  “Well, a long time ago, before you were even born, I fell in love with a very beautiful, woman named Elli.”  Then George sat down in the chair directly across from me and began to tell me the story about the women that stole his heart some forty years earlier.

“In February of 1847, I went abroad to England (I must have been about, oh, 28 at the time), I wasn’t very well known in England yet, so I had no one to stay with, and ended up making a home at the Northlight Inn.  One night I was down in the pub beneath the lodgings and it was there I saw the most beautiful young woman I have ever laid my eyes on.  A raven-headed goddess, in my opinion, that had the most perfect porcelain skin, and the most striking sapphire eyes I’ve ever looked into.  The first time I saw her I couldn’t do anything but look.  It was this incredible feeling that there was no possibility that she was real, and was probably just a figment of my imagination.

“A little while later, she left the pub, alone, and I ran upstairs to my room, grabbed my pen and notebook, and began feverishly writing something that just sprang from me. 

“The next night I went down to the pub again, hoping she would be there, and sure enough she was.  And you know what happened?  The exact same thing that happened the night before.  While she was in the room, there was this feeling as if my chest and stomach were about to cave in, and when she left, I immediately ran up to my room, and began to write, almost with a panic.  I had found a muse.

“The third night I went down to the pub once more, to find that she was sitting, alone, at the table that I regulared; when she saw me, she beckoned me over and we talked until the drunks had left and the sun came up.  Needless to say, for most of the night I was a stuttering imbecile, and I didn’t get comfortable until very early in the morning.

“When the sun came pouring through the windows, she asked very politely if I wouldn’t mind her coming up to my room to sleep.  I said, ‘Of course not, and that it would be a pleasure to have company.’  By the time I had closed the door behind us she had already undressed and was fast asleep, underneath the blanket I had brought from home.  This didn’t matter to me, because I was wide awake, and as if possessed by something, I began to write even more fervently than I had the two previous nights.

“She awoke some hours later, I’m not sure how long it was, because I was too busy writing.  I heard her stir, but paid it no mind, because I was too involved in my work.  Draping the blanket over herself, she came up behind me, and kissed me on the neck ever so gently; it startled me at first, but was a feeling that would come to comfort me eventually.  I’ll never forget her scent, like a green field on a foggy day, it was absolutely wonderful.  I know, without a doubt, that’s what heaven is: the feeling of being with her; the feeling of complete and utter bliss.

“I had planned to stay in London for only about a month, but ended up staying through till the summer.  And it’s good thing I did because from the first moment I saw Elli, I was madly in love with her, and I had unknowingly started writing my greatest piece of fiction, finishing it in just under five months.”

This is where I made my first and only statement during his story. “Why did you leave?” I asked.

“I left because she left.” George paused and looked down at the floor.

“One night, in early July,” he continued, “I came back to room, after work (at the London Times, a position I took to support Elli and myself).  When I walked in I found her sitting on the bed, her eyes were bloodshot, and her face was tear streaked.  She looked up at me and told me that she was pregnant.  I was absolutely ecstatic:  I was in love with the most beautiful woman, I had a wonderful job, and I was going to start a family.  Elli however was not so happy.

“I had never seen her so inconsolable.  She told me that her pregnancy meant that she would have to go back home.  I told her that I would have no problem going back with her.  She said, though, it would not be possible, because she lived very far north.  Trying to lighten the mood, I asked ‘Scotland?’  She told me that it was a cold, barren place that I wouldn’t be able to live in for long, and even if I was able to, I wouldn’t be allowed to stay, because her people did not like outsiders. 

“Tears rolling down her cheek, she kissed me on the neck, and then did something that confuses me to this day.  She took my hand, placed it on her stomach, and whispered in my ear, ‘Our child will be born on February 29^th, she will be more beautiful than the last sunset, and she will live a life in which time seems to stand still, just as I do.  I love you.’  She kissed me one final time, and then in an instant she vanished, like she’d never been there at all. And I was alone.

“I waited for her.  I waited a long time for her. But she never came back.  And I haven’t seen her since.  For the past forty-four years I have hoped that one day Elli and my daughter would come back, because for forty-four years I have loved both of them.”  It was the only time I’d ever seen George without a smile and a tear in his eye.

“Do you understand what I’m trying to say to you Danny?  You only get one chance at real love, so don’t waste it in here.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.  Then George nodded, got up from his chair, and walked back into his office.  I remember thinking, as he walked away, how old he looked now.

The next morning I walked into the office, before everyone else, as usual, and found George in his office slumped over in his chair.  He’d never left the office (he was still wearing the same suit); most likely, he fell asleep in his chair, and passed very peacefully.  As the shock of what had happened set in, I shed a tear; not for me, not for the magazine, not even for him (because George always joked, “When I die, I don’t want anyone to crying over my coffin. Who wants a bunch of people getting his best clothes wet?”).  The tear was for the daughter he never knew, because she would never get to see what a kind, benevolent genius her father was.  And it was for Elli; because I know that wherever she is, she’s shedding one for him. 

I hope that if heaven exists, which George firmly believed it did, it’s everything he expected it to be: the feeling of complete and utter bliss; the feeling of being in love; the feeling of spending one more night with Elli.

I’d like to conclude now with a quote from George’s book Tables Turned and Bridges Burned:

      “Sometimes things just happen for a reason.”