Chapter V: Part 5

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
Stops in the veins and numbness comes upon them.
Oblivion it may be--but give me music!

Oh yes, this girl, Elenor Murray, well
This talk about her home is half and half,
Part true, part false. Her daddy nips a little,
Has always done so. Like myself, the bills
Have always deviled him. But just the same
That home was not so bad. Some years ago,
She was a little girl of thirteen maybe,
Her father rented one of my pianos
For Elenor to learn on, and of course
The rent was always back, I didn't care,
Except for my collectors, and besides
She was so nice. So music hungry, practiced
So hard to learn, I used to let the rent
Run just as long as I could let it run.
And even then I used to feel ashamed
To ask her father for it.

As I said
She was thirteen, and one Thanksgiving day
They asked me there to dinner, and I went,
Brushed off my other coat and shaved myself,
I looked all right, my shoes were polished too.
You'd never think I polished them to look
At these to-day. And now I tell you what
I saw myself: nice linen on the table,
And pretty silver, plated, I suppose;
Good glass-ware, and a dinner that was splendid,
Wine made from wild grapes spiced with cinnamon,
It had a kick, too. And the home was furnished
Like what you'd think: good carpets, chairs, a lounge,
Some pictures on the wall--all good enough.
And this girl was as lively as a cricket,
She was the liveliest thing I ever saw;
And that's what ailed her, if you want my word.
She had more life than she knew how to use,
And had not learned her own machine.

And after
We had the dinner we came in the parlor.
And then her mother asked her to play something,
And she sat down and played tra-la; tra-la,
One of these waltzes, I remember now
As pretty as these verses in the paper
On love, or something sentimental. Yes,
She played it well. For I had rented them
One of my pets. They asked me then to play
And I tried out some Bach and other things,
And improvised. And Elenor stood by,
And asked what's that when I was improvising.
I laughed and said, Sonata of Starved Rock,
Or Deer Park Glen in Winter, anything--
She looked at me with eyes as big as that.

Well, as I said, the home was good enough.
Still like myself with these collectors, Elenor
Was bothered, drawn aside, and scratched no doubt
From walking through the briars. Just the same
The trouble with her life, if it was trouble,
And no musician would regard it trouble,
The trouble was her nature strove to be
All fire, and subtilize to the essence of fire,
Which was her nature's law, and Nature's law,
The only normal law, as I have found;
For so Canudo says, as I read lately,
Who gave me words for what I knew from life.

Now if you want my theories I go on.
You do? All right. What was this Elenor Murray?
She was the lover, do you understand?
She had her lovers maybe, I don't know,
That's not the point with lovers, any more,
Than it's the point to have pianos--no!
Lovers, pianos are the self-same thing;
Instruments for the soul, the source of fire,
The crucible for flames that turn from red
To blue, then white, then fierce transparencies.
Then if the lover be not known by lovers
How is she known? Why think of Elenor Murray,
Who tries all things and educates herself,
Goes traveling, would sing and play, becomes
A member of a church with ritual, music,
Incense and color, things that steal the senses,
And bring oblivion. Don't you see the girl
Moving her soul to find her soul, and passing
Through loves and hatreds, seeking everywhere
Herself she loved, in others, agonizing
For hate of father, so they tell me now?
But first because she hated in herself
What lineaments of her father she saw in self.
And all the while, I think, she strove to conquer
This hatred, every hatred, sensing freedom
For her own soul through liberating self
From hatreds. So, you see how someone near,
Repugnant, disesteemed, may furnish strength
And vision, too, by gazing on that one
From day to day, not to be like that one:
And so our hatreds help us, those we hate
Become our saviors.

Here's the problem now
In finding self, the soul--it's with ourselves,
Within ourselves throughout the ticklish quest
From first to last, and lovers and pianos
Are instruments of salvation, yet they take
The self but to the self, and say now find,
Explore and know. And then, as all before,
The problem is how much of mind to use,
How much of instinct, phototropic sense,
That turns instinctively to light--green worms
More plant than animal are eyes all over
Because their bodies know the light, no eyes
Where sight is centralized. I've found it now:
What is the intellect but eyes, where sight
Is gathered in two spheres? The more they're used
The darker is the body of the soul.
Now to digress, that's why the Germans lost,
They used the intellect too much; they took
The sea of life and tried to dam it in,
Or use it for canals or water power,
Or make a card-case system of it, maybe,
To keep collectors off, have all run smoothly,
And make a sure thing of it.

To return
How much did Elenor Murray use her mind,
How much her instincts, leave herself alone
Let nature have its way? I think I know:
But first you have the artist soul; and next
The soul half artist, prisoned usually
In limitations where the soul, half artist
Between depressions and discouragements
Rises in hope and knocks. Why, I can tell them
The moment they touch keys or talk to me.
I hear their knuckles knocking on the walls,
Insuperable partitions made of wood,
When seeking tones or words; they have the hint,
But cannot open, manifest themselves.
So was it with this girl, she was all lover,
Half artist, what a torture for a soul,
And what escape for her! She could not play,
Had never played, no matter what the chance.
I think there is no curse like being dumb
When every waking moment, every dream
Keeps crying to speak out. This is her case:
The girl was dumb, like that dumb woman here
Whose dress caught fire, and in the dining room
Was burned to death while all her family
Were in the house, to whom she could not cry!

You asked about her going to the war,
Her sacrifice in that, and if I think
She found expression there--yes, of a kind,
But not the kind she hungered for, not music.
She found adventure there, excitement too.
That uses up the soul's power, takes the place
Of better self-expression. But you see
I do not think self-immolation life,
I know it to be death. Now, look a minute:
Why did she join the church? why to forget!
Why did she go to war? why to forget.
And at the last, this thing called sacrifice
Rose up with meaning in her eyes. You see
They tell around here now she often said:
"I'm going to the war to be swept under."
Now comes your Christian idea: Let me die,
But die in service of the race, in giving
I waste myself for others, give myself!
Let God take notice, and reward the gift!
This is the failure's recourse often-times,
A prodigal flinging of the self--let God
Find what He can of good, or find all good.
I have abandoned all control, all thought
Of finding my soul otherwise, if here
I find my soul, a doubt that makes the gift
Not less abandoned.

This is foolish talk
I know you think, I think it is myself,
At least in part. I know I'm right, however,
In guessing off the reason of her failure,
If failure it is. But pshaw, why talk of failure
About a woman born to live the life
She lived, which could not have been different,
Much different under any circumstance?
She might have married, had a home and children,
What of it? As it is she makes a story,
A flute sound in our symphony--all right!
And I confess, in spite of all I've said,
The profit, the success, may not be known
To any but one's self. Now look at me,
By all accounts I am a failure--look!
For forty years just making poor ends meet,
My love all spent in making good pianos.
I thrill all over picking spruce and wires,
And putting them together--all my love
Gone into this, no head at all for business.
I keep no books, they cheat me out of rent.
I don't know how to sell pianos, when
I sell one I have trouble oftentimes
In getting pay for it. But just the same
I sit here with myself, I know myself,
I've found myself, and when collectors come
I can say come to-morrow, turn about,
And run the scale, or improvise, and smile,
Forget the world!

* * * * *

The three arose and left.
Llewellyn George said: "That's a rarity,
That man is like a precious flower you find
Way off among the weeds and rocky soil,
Grown from a seed blown out of paradise;
I want to call again."

So thus they knew
This much of Elenor Murray's music life.
But on a day a party talk at tea,
Of Elenor Murray and her singing voice
And how she tried to train it--just a riffle
Which passed unknown of Merival. For you know
Your name may come up in a thousand places
At earth's ends, though you live, and do not die
And make a great sensation for a day.
And all unknown to Merival for good
This talk of Lilli Alm and Ludwig Haibt:

LILLI ALM

In Lola Schaefer's studio in the Tower,
Tea being served to painters, poets, singers,
Herr Ludwig Haibt, a none too welcome guest,
Of vital body, brisk, too loud of voice,
And Lilli Alm crossed swords.

It came about
When Ludwig Haibt said: "Have you read the papers
About this Elenor Murray?" And then said:
"I tried to train her voice--she was a failure."
And Lilli Alm who taught the art of song
Looked at him half contemptuous and said:
"Why did she fail?" To which Herr Ludwig answered
"She tried too hard. She made her throat too tense,
And made its muscles stiff by too much thought,
Anxiety for song, the vocal triumph."

"O, yes, I understand," said Lilli Aim.
Then stabbing him she added, "since you dropped
The Perfect Institute, and dropped the idea
Which stresses training muscles of the tongue,
And all that thing, be fair and shoulder half
The failure of poor Elenor Murray on
Your system's failure. For I chanced to know
The girl myself. She started work with me,
And I am sure that if I had been able--
With time enough I could have done it too--
To rid her mind of muscles and to fix
The thought alone of music in her mind,
She would have sung. Now listen, Ludwig Haibt,
You've come around to see that song's the thing.
I take a pupil and I say to her:
The mind must fix itself on music, say
I would make song, pure tones and beautiful;
That comes from spirit, from the Plato rapture,
Which gets the idea. It is well to know
Some physiology, I grant, to know
When, how to move the vocal organs, feel
How they are moving, through the ear to place
These organs in relation, and to know
The soft palate is drawn against the hard;
The tongue can take positions numerous,
Can be used at the root, a throaty voice;
Or with the tip, produce expressiveness.
But what must we avoid?--rigidity.
And if that girl was over-zealous, then
So much the more her teaching should have kept
Mind off the larynx and the tongue, and fixed
Upon the spiritual matters, so to give
The snake-like power of loosening, contracting
The muscles used for singing. Ludwig Haibt,
I can forgive your system, since abandoned,
I can't forgive your words to-day who say
This woman failed for trying over much,
When I know that your system made her throw
An energy truly wonderful on muscles;
And when I think of your book where you said:
The singing voice is the result, observe
Of physical conditions, like the strings
Or tubes of brass. While granting that it's well
To know the art of tuning up the strings,
And how to place them; after all the art
Of tuning and of placing comes from mind,
The idea, and the art of making song
Is just the breathing of the perfect spirit
Upon the strings. The throat is but the leaves,
Let them be flexible, the mouth's the flower,
The tone the perfume. And your olden way
Of harping on the larynx--well, since you
Turned from it, I'm ungenerous perhaps
To scold you thus to-day.

But this I say,
Let us be frank as teachers: Take the fetich
Of breathing and see how you cripple talent,
Or take that matter of the laryngyscope,
Whereby you photograph a singer's throat,
Caruso's, Galli Curci's at the moment
Of greatest beauty in song, and thus preserve
In photographs before you how the muscles
Looked and were placed that moment. Then attempt
To get the like effect by placing them
In similar fashion. Oh, you know, Herr Ludwig,
These fetiches go by. One thing remains:
The idea in the soul of beauty, music,
The hope to give it forth.

Alas! to think
So many souls are wasted while we teach
This thing or that. The strong survive, of course.
But take this Elenor Murray--why, that girl
Was just a flame, I never saw such hunger
For self-development, and beauty, richness,
In all experience in life--I knew her,
That's why I say so--take her as I say,
And put her to a practice--yours we'll say--
Where this great zeal she had is turned and pressed
Upon the physical, just the very thing
To make her throat constrict, and fill her up
With over anxiety and make her fail.
When had she come to me at first this passion
Directed to the beauty, the idea
Had put her soul at ease to ease her body,
Which gradually and beautifully had answered
That flame of hers.

Well, Ludwig Haibt, you're punished
For wasting several years upon a system
Since put away as half erroneous,
If not quite worthless. But I must confess,
Since I have censured you, to my own sin.
This girl ran out of money, came to me
And told me so. To which I said: "Too bad,
You will have money later, when you do,
Come back to me." She stood a silent moment,
Her hand upon the knob, I saw her tears,
Just little dim tears, then she said good-bye
And vanished from me.

Well, I now repent.
I who have thought of beauty all my life,
And taught the art of sound made beautiful,
Let slip a chance for beauty--why, I think,
A beauty just as great as song! You see
I had a chance to serve a hungering soul--
I could have said just let the money go,
Or let it go until you get the money.
I let that chance for beauty slip. Even now
I see poor Elenor Murray at the door,
Who paused, no doubt, in hope that I would say
What I thought not to say.

So, Ludwig Haibt,
We are a poor lot--let us have some tea!
"We are a poor lot," Ludwig Haibt replied.
"But since this is confessional, I absolve you,
If you'll permit me, from your sin. Will you
Absolve me, if I say I'm sorry too?
I'll tell you something, it is really true:--
I changed my system more I think because
Of what I learned from teaching Elenor Murray
Than on account of any other person.
She demonstrated better where my system
Was lacking than all pupils that I had.
And so I changed it; and of course I say
The thing is music, just as poets say
The thing is beauty, not the rhyme and words,
With which they bring it, instruments that's all,
And not the thing--but beauty."

So they talked,
Forgave each other. And that very day
Two priests were talking of confessionals
A mile or so from the Tower, where Lilli Alm
And Ludwig Haibt were having tea. You say
The coroner was ignorant of this!
What is the part it plays with Elenor Murray?
Or with the inquest? Wait a little yet
And see if Merival has told to him
What thing of value touching Elenor Murray
Is lodged in Father Whimsett's heart or words.

FATHER WHIMSETT

Looking like Raphael's Perugino, eyes
So slightly, subtly aquiline, as brown
As a buck-eye, amorous, flamed, but lightly dimmed
Through thought of self while sitting for the artist;
A nose well bridged with bone for will, the nostrils
Distended as if sniffing diaphanous fire;
A very bow for lips, the under lip
Rich, kissable like a woman's; heavy cheeks
Propped with a rounded tower of flesh for neck:
Thus Perugino looked, says Raphael,
And thus looked Father Whimsett at his desk,
With vertical creases, where the nose and brow
Together come, between the eye-brows slanting
Unequally, half clown-wise, half Mephisto,
With just a touch of that abandoned humor,
And laughter at the world, the race of men,
Mephisto had for mischief, which the priest
Has for a sense which looks upon the dream
And smiles, yet pities those who move in it.
And Father Whimsett smokes and reads and smiles.
He soon will hold confessional. For days
he has heard nothing but complaints of lovers,
And searched for nullities, impediments,
Through which to give sore stricken hearts relief:
There was the youth too drunk to know he married
A woman never baptized. Now the youth
Has found another--oh this is the one!
And comes and says: Oh, holy father, help me,
May I be free to marry her I love,
And get the church's blessing when a court
Dissolves the civil contract? Holy Father,
I knew not what I did, cannot remember
Where I was married, when, my mind's a blank--
It was the drink, you know.

And so it goes,
The will is eyeless through concupiscence,
And that absolves the soul that's penitent.
And Father Whimsett reads his Latin books,
Searches for subtleties for faithful souls,
Whereby the faithful souls may have their wish,
Yet keep the gospel, too.

These Latin books
Leave him fatigued, but not fatigued to turn
Plotinus, Xenophon, Boccacio,
Ars Amatoria and Remedia Amoris.
And just this moment Father Whimsett reads
Catullus, killing time, before he hears
Confession, gets the music of Catullus
Along the light that enters at the eye:
Etherial strings plucked by the intellect
To vibrate to the inner ear. At times
He must re-light his half-forgot cigar.
And while the music of the Latin verse,
Which is an echo, as he stops to light
His half-forgot cigar, is wafted through
His meditation, as a tune is heard
After the keys are stayed, it blends, becomes
The soul, interpretation of these stories,
Which lovers tell him in these later days.
And now the clock upon the mantel chimes
The quarter of the hour. Up goes Catullus
By Ovid on the shelf. The dead cigar
Is thrown away. He rises from the chair--
When Father Conway enters, just to visit
Some idle moments, smoke and have a talk.
And Father Whimsett takes his seat again,
Waves Father Conway to a comfort chair,
Says "Have a smoke," and Father Conway smokes,
And sees Catullus, says you read Catullus,
And lays the morning _Times_ upon the table,
And says to Father Whimsett: "Every day
The _Times_ has stories better than Catullus,
And episodes which Horace would have used.
I wish we had a poet who would take
This city of Chicago, write it up,
The old Chicago, and the new Chicago,
The race track, old cafes and gambling places,
The prize fights, wrestling matches, sporting houses,
As Horace wrote up Rome. Or if we had
A Virgil he would find an epic theme
In this American matter, typical
Of our America, one phase or more
Concerning Elenor Murray. Here to-day
There is a story, of some letters found
In Arthur Fouche's mansion, under the floor,
Sensational, dramatic.

Father Whimsett
Looked steadily at Father Conway, blew
A funnel of tobacco smoke and said:
I scarcely read the _Times_ these days, too busy--
I've had a run of rich confessionals.
The war is ended, but they still come on,
And most are lovers in the coils of love.
I had one yesterday that made me think
Of one I had a year ago last spring,
The point was this: they say forgive me father,
For I have sinned, then as the case proceeds
A greater sin comes forth, I mean the sin
Of saying sin is good, cannot be sin:
I loved the man, or how can love be sin?
Well, as a human soul I see the point,
But have no option, must lay to and say
Acknowledgment, contrition and the promise
To sin no more, is necessary to
Win absolution. Now to show the matter,
Here comes a woman, says I leave for France
To serve, to die. I have a premonition
That I shall die abroad; or if I live,
I have had fears, I shall be taken, wronged,
So driven by this honor to destroy
Myself, goes on and says, I tell you all
These fears of mine that you may search my heart,
More gladly may absolve me. Then she says,
These fears worked in my soul until I took
The step which I confess, before I leave.
I wait and she proceeds:

"O, holy father,
There is a man whom I have loved for years,
These five years past, such hopeless, happy years.
I love him and he loves me, holy father.
He holds me sacred as his wife, he loves me
With the most holy love. It cannot be
That any love like ours is guilty love,
Can have no other quality than good,
If it be love."

Well, here's a pretty soul
To sit in the confessional! So I say,
Why do you come to me? Loving your sin,
Confessing it, denying it in one breath,
Leaves you in sin without forgiveness.
Well, then she tacks about and says "I sinned,
And I am sorry. Wait a minute, father,
And see the flesh and spirit mixed again."
She wants to tell me all, I let her go.
And so she says: "His wife's an invalid,
Has been no wife to him. Besides," she says--
Now watch this thrust to pierce my holy shield--
"She is not in the church's eye his wife,
She never was baptized"--I almost laughed,
But answered her, You think adultery
Is less adultery in a case like this?
"Well, no," she says, "but could he be divorced
The church would marry us." Go on, I said,
And then she paused a little and went on:
"I said I loved this man, and it is true,
And years ago I gave myself to him,
And then his wife found out there was a woman--
But not that I was the woman--years ago
At confirmation I confessed it all,
Need only say this time I gave him up,
And crushed him out with work--was chaste for years.
And then I met a man, a different man
Who stirred me otherwise, kept after me.
At last I weakened, sinned three months ago,
And suffered for it. For he took me, left me.
As if he wanted body of me alone,
And was not pleased with that. And after that,
I think that I was mad, a furious passion
Was kindled by this second man, and left
With nothing to employ its flame. Two weeks
Went by, he did not seek me out, none knew
The hour of our departure. Then I thought
How little I had been to this first lover,
And of the years when I denied him--so
To recompense his love, to serve him, father,
Yes, to allay this passion newly raised
By this new lover, whom I thought I loved,
I went to my old lover, free of will,
And took his lips and said to him, O take me,
I am yours to do with as you choose to-night.
He turned as pale as snow and shook with fear,
His heart beat in his throat. I terrified him
With this great will of mine in this small body.
I went on while he stood there by the window,
His back toward me. Make me wholly yours,
Take no precaution, prudence throw away
As mean, unworthy. Let your life precede,
Forestall the intruder's, if one be. And if
A child must be, yours shall it be."

"He turned,
And took me in his arms...."

"And so to make
As nearly as might be a marriage, father,
I took--but let me tell you: I had thought
His wife might die at any time, so thinking
During these years I had bought bridal things;
A veil, embroideries, silk lingerie.
And I took to our room my negligee,
Boudoir cap, satin slippers, so to make
All beautiful as we were married, father.
How have I sinned? I cannot deem it wrong.
Do I not soil my soul with penitence,
And smut this loveliness with penitence?
Can I regret my work, nor take a hurt
Upon my very soul? How keep it clean
Confessing what I did (if I thought so)
As evil and unclean?"

The devil again
Entered with casuistry, as you perceive.
And so to make an end, I said to her,
You must bring to this sacrament a heart
Contrite and humble, promise me beside
To sin no more. The case is in your hands,
You can confess with lips, deny with heart,
God only knows, I don't, it's on your soul
To speak the truth or lie to me. Confess
And I'll absolve you.--For in truth my heart
Was touched by what she said, her lovely voice.

But now the story deepened. For she said,
I have not told you all. And she renewed:
"Suppose you pack your trunk and have your lunch,
Go to the station, but no train arrives,
And there you wait and wait, until you're hungry,
And nothing to do but wait, no place to lunch,
You cannot leave the station, lest the train
Should come while you are gone. Well, so it was,
The weeks went by, and still we were not called.
And I had closed my old life, sat and waited
The time of leaving to begin new life.
And after I had sinned with my first lover,
Parted from him, said farewell, ended it,
Could not go back to him, at least could think
Of no way to return that would not dull
The hour we lived together, look, this man,
This second lover looks me up again
And overwhelms me with a flaming passion.
It seemed he had thought over what I was,
Become all fire for me. He came to me,
And said, I love you, love you, looked at me,
And I could see the love-light in his eyes,
The light that woman knows. Well, I was weak,
Lonely and bored. He stirred my love besides;
And then a curious thought came in my brain:
The spirit is not found save through the flesh,
O holy father, and I thought to self,
Bring, as you may, these trials close together
In point of time and see where spirit is,
Where flesh directs to spirit most. And so
I went with him again, and found in truth
I loved him, he was mine and I was his,
We two were for each other, my old lover
Was just my love's beginning, not my love
Fully and wholly, rapturously, this man
Body and spirit harmonized with me.
I found him through the love of my old lover,
And knew by contrast, memory of the two
And this immediate comparison
Of spirits and of bodies, that this man
Who left me, whom I turned from to the first,
As I have tried to tell you, was the one.
O holy father, he is married, too.
And as I leave for France this ends as well;
No child in me from either. I confess
That I have sinned most grievously, I repent
And promise I shall sin no more."

And so,
I gave her absolution. Well, you see
The church was dark, but I knew who it was,
I knew the voice. She left. Another penitent
Entered with a story. What is this?
Here is a woman who's promiscuous.
Tried number one and then tries number two,
And comes and tells me, she has taken proof,
Weighed evidence of spirit and of body,
And thinks she knows at last, affirms as much.
Such conduct will not do, that's plain enough,
Not even if the truth of love is known
This way, no other way.

Then Father Conway
Began as follows: "I've a case like that,
A woman married, but she found her husband
Was just the cup of Tantulus and so...."

But Father Whimsett said, "Why, look at that,
I'm over-due a quarter of an hour.
Come in to-morrow, father, tell me then."
The two priests rose and left the room together.

JOHN CAMPBELL AND CARL EATON

Carl Eaton and John Campbell both were raised
With Elenor Murray in LeRoy. The mother
Of Eaton lived there; but these boys had gone,
Now grown to manhood to Chicago, where
They kept the old days of companionship.
And Mrs. Eaton saw the coroner,
And told him how she saved her son from Elenor,
And broke their troth--because upon a time
Elenor Murray, though betrothed, to Carl
Went riding with John Campbell, and returned
At two o'clock in the morning, drunk, and stood
Helpless and weary, holding to the gate.
For which she broke the engagement of her son
To Elenor Murray. That was truth to her,
And truth to Merival, for the time, at least.
But this John Campbell and Carl Eaton meet
One evening at a table drinking beer,
And talk about the inquest, Elenor;
Since much is published in the _Times_ to stir
Their memories of her. And John speaks up:
"Well, Carl, now Elenor Murray is no more,
And we are friends so long, I'd like to know
What do you think of her?"

"About the time,
That May before she finished High School, Elenor
Broke loose, ran wild, do you remember, Carl?
She had some trouble in her home, I heard--
She told me so. That Alma Bell affair
Made all the fellows wonder, as you know,
What kind of game she was, if she was game
For me, or you, or anyone. Besides
She had flirting eye, a winning laugh,
And she was eighteen, and a cherry ripe.
This Alma Bell affair and ills at home
Made her spurt up and dart out like a fuse
Which burns to powder wet and powder heated
Until it burns; she burned, you see, and stopped
When principles or something quenched the flame.
I walked with her from school a time or two,
When she was hinting, flirting with her eyes,
I know it now, but what a dunce I was,
As most men when they're twenty."

"Well, now listen!
A little later on an evening,
I see her buggy riding with Roy Green,
That rake, do you remember him, deadbeat,
Half drunkard then, corrupted piece of flesh?
She sat up in defiance by his side,
Her chin stuck out to tell the staring ones:
Go talk or censure to your heart's content.
And people stood and stared to see her pass
And shook their heads and wondered."

"Afterward
I learned from her this was the night at home
Her father and her mother had a quarrel.
Her mother asked her father to buy Elenor
A new dress for commencement, and the father
Was drinking and rebuffed her, so they quarreled.
And rode with him to shame her father, coming
After a long ride in the country home
At ten o'clock or so."

"Well, then I thought,
If she will ride with Roy Green, I go back
To hinting and to flirting eyes and guess
The girl will ride with me, or something more.
So I begin to circle round the girl,
And walk with her, and take her riding too.
She drops Roy Green for me--what does he care?
He's had enough of her or never cared--
Which is it? there's the secret for a man
As long as women interest him--who knows
What the precedent fellow was to her?
Roy Green takes to another and another.
He died a year ago, as you'll remember,
What were his secrets, agony? he seemed
A man to me who lived and never thought."

"So Elenor Murray went with me. Oh, well,
She gave me kisses, let me hold her tight,
We used to stop along the country ways
And kiss as long as we had breath to kiss,
And she would gasp and tremble."

"Then, at last
A chum I had began to laugh at me,
For, I was now in love with Elenor Murray.
Don't let her make a fool of you, he said,
No girl who ever traveled with Roy Green
Was not what he desired her, nor, before
The kind of girl he wanted. Don't you know
Roy Green is laughing at you in his sleeve,
And boasts that Elenor Murray was all his?
You see that stung me, for I thought at twenty
Girls do not go so far, that only women
Who sell themselves do so, or now and then
A girl who is betrayed by hopes of marriage.
And here was thrust upon me something devilish:
The fair girl that I loved was wise already,
And fooling me, and drinking in my love
In mockery of me. This was my first
Heart sickness, jaundice of the soul--dear me!
And how I suffered, lay awake of nights,
And wondered, doubted, hoped, or cursed myself,
And cursed the girl as well. And I would think
Of flirting eyes and hints and how she came
To me before she went with this Roy Green.
And I would hear the older men give hints
About their conquests, speak of ways and signs
From which to tell a woman. On the train
Hear drummers boast and drop apothogems;
The woman who drinks with you will be yours;
Or she who gives herself to you will give
To someone else; you know the kind of talk?
Where wisdom of the sort is averaged up,
But misses finer instances, the beauties
Among the million phases of the thing.
And, so at last I thought the girl was game.
And had been snared, already. Why should I
Be just a cooing dove, why not a hawk?
We were out riding on a summer's night,
A moon and all the rest, the scent of flowers,
And many kisses, as on other times.
At last with this sole object in my mind
Long concentrated, purposed, all at once
I found myself turned violent, with hands
At grapple, twisting, forcing, and this girl
In terror pleading with me. In a moment
When I took time for breath, she said to me:
'I will not ride with you--you let me out.'
To which I said: 'You'll do what I desire
Or you can walk ten miles back to LeRoy,
And find Roy Green, you like him better, maybe.'
And she said: 'Let me out,' and she jumped out,
And would not ride with me another step,
Though I repented saying, come and ride.
I think it was a mile or more I drove
The horse slowed up to keep her company,
And then I cracked the whip and hurried on,
And left her walking, looked from time to time
To see her in the roadway, then drove on
And reached LeRoy, which Elenor reached that morning
At one or two."

"Well, then what was the riddle?
Was she in love with Roy Green yet, was she
But playing with me, was I crude, left handed,
Had she changed over, was she trying me
To fasten in the hook of matrimony,
Or was she good, and all this corner talk
Of Roy Green just the dirt of dirty minds?
You know the speculations, and you know
How they befuddle one at twenty years.
And sometimes I would grieve for what I did;
Then harden and laugh down my softness. But
At last I wrote a note to Elenor Murray
And sent it with a bouquet--but no word
Came back from Elenor Murray. Then I thought:
Here is a girl who rides with that Roy Green
And what would he be with her for, I ask?
And if she wants to make a cause of war
Out of an attitude she half provoked,
Why let her--and moreover let her go.
And so I dropped the matter, since she dropped
My friendship from that night."

"But later on,
Two years ago, when she came back to town
From somewhere, I don't know, gone many months,
Grown prettier, more desirable, I sent
Some roses to her in a tender mood
As if to say: We're grown up since that night,
Have you forgotten it, as I remember
How womanly you were, have grown to be?
She wrote me just a little note of thanks,
And what is strange that very day I learned
About your interest in her, learned besides
It prospered for some months before. I turned
My heart away for good, as a man might
Who plunges and beholds the woman smile
And take another's arm and walk away."
"So, that's your story, is it?" said Carl Eaton.
"Well, I had married her except for you!
That bunch of roses spoiled the girl for me.
You had Roy Green, dog-fennel, I had roses,
And I am glad you sent them, otherwise
I might have married her, to find at last
A wife just like her mother is, myself
Living her father's life, for something missed
Or hated in me--not the want of money.
She liked me as the banker's son, be sure,
And let me go unwillingly."

"But listen:
I called on her the night you sent the roses,
And there she had them on the center table,
And twinkled with her eyes, and spoke of them,
And said, I can remember it, you sent
Such lovely roses to her, you and she
Had been good friends for years--and now it seems
You were not friends--I didn't know it then.
But think about it, John! What was this woman?
It's clear her fate, found dead there by the river,
Is just the outward mirror of herself,
And had to be. There's not a thing in life
That is not first enacted in the heart.
Our fate is the reflection of the life
Which goes on in the heart. That girl was doomed,
Lived in her heart a life that found a birth,
Grew up, committed matricide at last,
Not that my love had saved her. But explain
Why would she over-stress the roses, give
Me understandings foreign to the truth?
For truth to tell, we were affianced then,
There were your roses! But above it all
Something she said pricked like a rose's thorn,
Something that grew to thought she cherished you,
Kept memories sweet of you. If that were true,
What was the past? What was I after all?
A second choice, as if I bought a car,
But thought about a car I wanted more.
So I retired that night in serious thought."

"Yet if you'll credit me, I had not heard
About this Alma Bell affair, or heard
About her riding through the public streets
With this Roy Green. I think I was away,
I never heard it anyway, I know
Until my mother told me, and she told me
Next morning after I had found your roses.
I hadn't told my mother, nor a soul
Before, that time that we two were engaged--
I didn't tell her then--I merely asked
Would Elenor Murray please you as a daughter?
You should have seen my mother--how she gasped,
And gestured losing breath, to say at last:
'Why, Carl, my boy, what are you thinking of?
You have not promised marriage to that girl?
Now tell me, have you?' Then I lied to her;
And laughed a little, answered no, and asked,
'What do you know about her?'"

"Here's a joke,
With terror in it, John, if you have told
The truth to me--my mother tells me there
That on a time John Campbell--that is you,
And Elenor Murray rode into the country,
And that at two o'clock, or so, the girl
Is seen beside the gate post holding on,
And reeling up the side-walk to her door.
The girl was tired, if you have told the truth.
My mother warms up to this scoundrel Green,
And tops the matter off with Alma Bell.
And all the love I had for Elenor Murray
Sours in my heart. And then I tell my mother
The truth--of our engagement--promise her
To break it off. I did so on that day.
Got back the solitaire--but Elenor
Hung to me, asked my reasons, kept the ring
Until I wrote so sternly she gave up
Her hope and me."

"But worst of all, John Campbell--
If this be worst--this early episode
So nipped my leaves and browned and curled them up
To whisper sharply with their bitter edges,
No one has seen a bridal wreath in me;
Nor have I ever known a woman since
That some analysis did not blow cool
A rising admiration."

"Now to think
This girl lies dead, and while we drink a beer
You tell me that the story is a lie,
The girl was good, walked ten miles through the dark
To save her honor from a ruffian--
That's what you were, as you confess it now.
And if she did that, what is all this talk
Of such a rat as Green, of Alma Bell?--
It isn't true."

"The only truth is this:
I took a lasting poison from a lie,
Which built the very cells of me to resist
The thought of marriage--poison which remains.
I wonder should I tell the coroner?
No good in that--you might as well describe
A cancer to prevent the malady
In people yet to be. Let's have a beer.
John Campbell said: I learned from Elenor Murray
The kind of woman I should take to wife,
I married just the woman made for me."

"If you can say so on your death bed, John,
Then Elenor Murray did one man a good,
Whatever ill she did to other men.
See, I keep rapping for that waiter--I
Would like another beer, and so would you."

* * * * *

So now it's clear the story is not true
Which Mrs. Eaton told the coroner.
And when the coroner told the jurymen
What Mrs. Eaton told him, Winthrop Marion
Skilled in the work of running down a tale
Said: "I can look up Eaton, Campbell too,
And verify or contradict this thing.
We have departed far afield in this,
It has no bearing on the cause of death.
But none of us have liked to see, the girl's
Good name, integrity of spirit lie
In shadow by this story." Merival
Was glad to have these two men interviewed
By Winthrop Marion; so he found them, talked,
And brought their stories back, as told above
Which made the soul of Elenor Murray clear....

* * * * *

Paul Roberts was a man of sixty years,
Who lived and ran a magazine at LeRoy.
_The Dawn_ he called it; financed by a fund
Left Roberts by a millionaire, who believed
The fund would widen knowledge through the use
Of Roberts, student of the Eastern wisdom.
This Roberts loathed the war, but kept his peace
Because the law compelled it. Took this time
To fight the Christian faith, and show the age
Submerged in Christian ethics, weak and false.
He knew this Elenor Murray from a child,
And knew her rearing, schooling, knew the air
She breathed in at LeRoy. And in _The Dawn_
Printed this essay:--

"We have seen," he writes,
"Astonishing revealments, inventories
Taken of souls, all coming from the death
Of Elenor Murray, and the inquest held
To ascertain her death. Perhaps fantastic
This thing may be, but scarcely more fantastic
Than rubbing amber, watching frogs' legs twitch,
From which the light of cities came, the power
That hauls the coaches over mountain tops.
We would do well to laugh at nothing, watch
With interested eye the capering souls
Too moved to walk straight. If a wire grounds
And interpenetrates the granite blocks
With viewless fire, horses shod with steel,
Walking along the granite blocks will leap
Like mad things in the air. Well, so we leap
Before we know the cause. Let sound minds laugh.

First you agree no man has looked on God;
And I contend the souls who found God, told
Too little of their triumph. But I hold
Man shall find God and know, shall see at last
What man's soul is, and where it tends, the use
It was made for. And after that? Forever
There's progress while there's life, all devolution
Returns to progress.

As to worship, God
They had their amber days, days of frogs' legs.
And yet before I trace the Christian growth
From seed to blossom, let me prophesy:
The light upon the lotus blossom pauses,
Has paused these centuries and waits to move
Westward and mingle with the light that shines
Upon the Occident. What did Christ do
But carry the Hebraic thrift and prudence
Of matter and of spirit, half-corrupted
By wisdom of the market to these races
That crowd in Europe, in the Western World?
Now you have seen such things as chemistry,
And mongering in steel, the use of fire
Made perfect in swift wheels, and swifter wings,
Until the realm of matter seems subdued,
Thought with her foot upon the dragon's head,
And using him to serve. This western world
Massing its powers these centuries to bring
Comfort and happiness and length of days,
And pushing commerce, trade to pile up gold,
Knows not its soul as yet, nor God. But here
I prophesy: Suppose the Hindu lore,
Which has gone farther with the soul of man
Than we have gone with business, has card cased
The soul's addresses, introduced a system
In the soul's business, just suppose this lore
And great perfection in things spiritual
Should by some process wed the great perfection
Of this our western world, and we should have
Mastery of spirit and of matter, too?
Might not that progress start as one result
Of this great war?

Let's see from whence we came.
I take the Hebrew faith, the very frog legs
Of our theology--no use to say
It has no place with us. Your ministers
Preach from the Pentateuch, its decalogue
Is all our ethic nearly; and our life
Is suckled by the Hebrews; don't the Jews
Control our business, while our business rules
Our spirits far too much?

Now let us see
What food our spirits feed on. Palestine
Is just a little country, fights for life
Against a greater prowess, skill in arms.
So as the will does not give up, but hopes
For vengeance and for wiping out of wrongs
The Jews conceive a God who will dry up
His people's tears and let them laugh again!
Hence in Jehovah's mouth they put these words:
My word shall stand forever, you shall eat
The riches of the Gentiles, suck their milk.
Your ploughman shall the alien be, the stranger
Shall feed your flock, and I will make you fat
With milk and honey. I will give you power,
Dominion, leadership, glory forever.
My wrath is on all nations to avenge
Israel's sorrow and humiliation.
My sword is bathed in heaven, filled with blood
To come upon Idumea, to stretch out
Upon it stones of emptiness, confusion.
Her fortresses shall be the habitation
Of dragons and a court for owls. I smite
The proud Assyrian and make them dead.
In fury, and in anger do I tread
On Zion's enemies, their worm shall die not,
Nor shall their fire be quenched. I shall stir up
Jealousy like a man of war, put on
The garments of my vengeance, and repay
To adversaries fury. For my word
Shall stand to preach good tidings to the meek,
And liberty to captives, and to chains
The opening of prisons.

Don't you see
Our western culture in such words as these?
Your proselytes, and business man, reformer
Nourished upon them, using them in life?
But then you say Christ came with final truth,
And put away Jehovah. Let us see.
What shall become of those who turn from Christ,
Not that their souls failed, only that they turned,
Did not believe, accept, found in him little
To live by, grow by? This is what Christ said:
Ye vipers in the last day ye shall see
The sun turned dark, the moon made blood. Behold!
I come in clouds of glory and of power
To judge the quick and judge the dead. Mine own
Shall enter into blessedness. But to those
Evil who scorned me, I shall say, depart
Accursed into everlasting fire.
And quick the gates of heaven shall be shut,
And I shall reign in heaven with mine own
And let my fire of wrath consume the world.