Saint of the Month: Ralph Gladstone

You wouldn’t know the name Ralph Gladstone unless you’re really into classic Greek drama. His 1955 translation of Euripides’ The Heracleidae (or The Children of Herecles if you prefer) is still in print in the first volume of Euripides’ works in The Complete Greek Tragedies published by the University of Chicago Press. By Ralph’s own account, this is but a modest contribution to world literature; nevertheless, I like to think that as long as professors of classics are requiring students to read Euripides, there will be a little bit of Gladstone wit alive in the world.

I had the honor of making this erudite octogenarian’s acquaintance over three years ago on my rounds as a volunteer chaplain at the Delaware Valley Veterans’ Home in Philadelphia. One of the Lutheran residents told me about this fabulous gentleman who was an Ivy League graduate. “He’d probably like to meet you,” my co-religionist explained. “I don’t think he gets any visitors, and he’d appreciate a conversation with someone intelligent.”

On that recommendation, I went in search of Ralph Gladstone. I discovered an affable, animated gent in his late eighties sitting in a wheelchair in a room which looked like the used book stalls of a flea market. Volumes of every size and description were piled almost floor to ceiling in the half of the room which Ralph occupied. His bed was littered with books and newspapers, and I wondered how he managed to clear enough space on it in which to sleep.

I introduced myself. The old gentleman’s thin frame seemed to vibrate with nervous energy. His eyes were pale blue like a weimaraner’s, and he smiled and laughed easily. I never knew him not to have some kind of stain on his T-shirt, and I had the impression that he’d long since stopped giving a crap about his personal appearance. I opened the conversation by asking him if it were true he was an Ivy Leaguer. From that point on the conversation began and didn’t stop. We had found each other—two overly talkative eggheads who relished the art of conversation.

I spent more time with Ralph than with any of the other residents. This might seem a bit odd if you consider that Ralph was actually Jewish. He had no interest in the religion of his ancestors, however, and frequently enjoyed the German service at the near-by Lutheran church which gave him opportunity to practice his German language skill. His linguistic skills were not inconsiderable either. He spoke German and French fluently, and kept in practice by watching DVD’s of foreign films which he ordered over the internet. He was a great film buff and we spent hours discussing classic movies. He’d often lend me a DVD and ask my opinion of it when I returned it.

Our chats veered into the subjects of politics, history, and literature. In addition to his translations and teaching, he had found joy for many years as a volunteer docent at the Edgar Allan Poe house on Spring Garden Street where he’d made many friends over the years. We rarely touched on religion, although Ralph said he liked reading my blog. Our relationship was no Tuesdays with Morrie. I simply enjoyed his company and loved hearing about his life. He had been a student at Columbia University in the early 1940’s but was drafted into the Army during World War II. “I was no hero,” Ralph would say. His first task as an army private was at Ft. Dix, reading and writing letters home for illiterate servicemen. He was then transferred to Ft. Benning, GA where he spent the duration peeling spuds and longing to return to Columbia.

After the war, Ralph headed back to college in New York City in time to witness the Beat Generation organizing their anarchic movement. He was present during the sensational Carr/Kammerer murder case. “I knew Lucien Carr,” Ralph told me. “He was very charismatic. I wasn’t impressed.” Ralph also crossed paths with Allen Ginsberg and had a similar reaction to the Beat poet.

After Columbia, Gladstone made his way to Paris where he taught and translated. Once I gave him a used copy of Stanley Karnow’s Paris in the Fifties which he enjoyed immensely. “He mentioned some of the people I knew,” he told me excitedly. So pleased was he with the Karnow volume that he gave me David McCullough’s wonderful book of Americans in Paris, The Greater Journey. I think I got the better of the swop.

I asked Ralph about Paris often. He never revealed much more than the fact that he’d enjoyed living there, and among his acquaintances was the Oscar-winning actress Louise Rainer. When I asked him if he’d ever married, his response was, “No, but I came close a few times.”

I would often find Ralph in the second floor library of the Veterans’ home. He was a solitary figure, preferring the company of books to fellow veterans with whom he had little in common. He could be ferociously witty in describing those who irritated him, yet I never knew him to be openly hostile or bitter or mean-spirited. His books and movies and internet surfing gave him satisfaction, and he was determined to keep his mind as lively and active as he could. Indeed, I was impressed with his use of technology, and always amused by his ability to jump from subject to subject with the mental energy of a five-year-old.

In this last year I saw less of Ralph as diabetic neuropathy claimed his right foot and then the entire leg up to his hip. He spent more time away in the hospital. I reproach myself for not hunting him down in the rehab facility. The last time I saw him he was being wheeled back into his room to be changed. He had a forlorn expression on his face and whispered, “I can barely talk.” I gave him a kiss on the forehead and told him that I’d see him the next time I was at the home. I knew, however, that I never would. A few days later I was informed of his death.

Was Ralph a saint? Certainly not in the sense with which we usually employ the word. But his friendship did more for this Lutheran pastor than I probably did for him. His life-long intellectual curiosity inspires me, and makes me fear old age a little less. His guileless acceptance of age and illness and his lack of bitterness I will always admire. And I will be inspired to enjoy life while it lasts, and give thanks for those who love language.