Part 13

Kingston had a daughter Married to Colonel Burton in Kentucky. And Kingston's son was in the Civil War. But just before the war, the Burtons deeded These acres here, which she inherited From old man Kingston, to this Captain Kingston, The son aforesaid of Old Kingston. Well, The deed upon its face was absolute, But really was a deed in trust.

The Captain Held title for a year or two, and then An hour before he fought at Shiloh, made A will, and willed acres to his wife, Fee simple and forever. Now you'd think That contemplating death, he'd make a deed Giving these acres back to Mrs. Burton, The sister who had trusted him. I don't know What comes in people's heads, but I believe The want of money is the root of evil, As well as love of money; for this Captain Perhaps would make provision for his wife And infant son, thought that the chiefest thing No matter how he did it, being poor, Willed this land as he did. But anyway He willed it so, went into Shiloh's battle, And fell dead on the field.

What happened then? They took this will to probate. As I said I was a lawyer then, you may believe it, Was hired by the Burtons to reclaim These acres from the Widow Kingston's clutch, Under this wicked will. And so I argued The will had not been witnessed according to law. Got beat upon that point in the lower court, But won upon it in the upper courts. Then next I filed a bill to set aside This deed the Burtons made to Captain Kingston-- Oh, I was full of schemes, expedients, In those days, I can tell you. Widow Kingston Came back and filed a cross bill, asked the court To confirm the title in her son and her As heirs of Captain Kingston, let the will Go out of thought and reckoning. Here's the issue; You understand the case, no doubt. We fought Through all the courts. I lost in the lower court, As I lost on the will. There was the deed: For love and affection and one dollar we Convey and warrant lots from one to ten In the city of LeRoy, to Captain Kingston To be his own forever.

How to go Behind such words and show the actual trust Inhering in the deed, that was the job. But here I was resourceful as before, Found witnesses to testify they heard This Captain Kingston say he held the acres In trust for Mrs. Burton--but I lost Before the chancellor, had to appeal, But won on the appeal, and thus restored These acres to the Burtons. And for this What did I get? Three hundred lousy dollars. That's why I smoke a pipe; that's also why I quit the business when I saw the business Was making ready to quit me. By God, My life is waste so far as it was used By this law business, and no coroner Need hold an inquest on me to find out What waste was in my life--God damn the law!

Well, then I go my way, and take my fee, And pay my bills. The Burtons have the land, And turn a cow upon it. See how nice A playground it would be. I've seen ten sets Of children try to play there--hey! you hear, The caretaker come out, get off of there! And then the children scamper, climb the fence.

Well, after while the Burtons die. The will Leaves these five acres to their sons for life, Remainder to the children of the sons. The sons are living yet at middle life, These acres have been tied up twenty years, They may be tied up thirty years beside: The sons can't sell it, and their children can't, Only the cow can use it, as it stands. It grows more valuable as the people come here, And bring in being Elenor Murrays, children, And make the land around it populous. That's what makes poverty, this holding land, It makes the taxes harder on the poor, It makes work scarcer, and it takes your girls And boys and throws them into life half made, Half ready for the battle. Is a country Free where the laws permit such things? Your priests, Your addle-headed preachers mouthing Christ And morals, prohibition, laws to force People to be good, to save the girls, When every half-wit knows environment Takes natures, made unstable in these homes Of poverty and does the trick.

That baronet Who mocked our freedom, sailing back for England And said: Your Liberty Statue in the harbor Is just a joke, that baronet is right, While such conditions thrive.

Well, look at me Who for three hundred dollars take a part In making a cow pasture for a cow For fifty years or so. I hate myself. And were the Burtons better than this Kingston? Kingston would will away what was not his. The Burtons took what is the gift of God, As much as air, and fenced it out of use-- Save for the cow aforesaid--for the lives Of sons in being.

Oh, I know you think I have a grudge. I have.

This Elenor Murray Was ten years old I think, this law suit ended Twelve years or so, and I was running down, Was tippling just a little every day; And I came by this lot one afternoon When school was out, a sunny afternoon. The children had no place except the street To play in; they were standing by the fence, The cow was way across the lot, and Elenor Was looking through the fence, some boys and girls Standing around her, and I said to them: "Why don't you climb the fence and play in there?" And Elenor--she always was a leader, And not afraid of anything, said: "Come on," And in a jiffy climbed the fence, the children, Some quicker and some slower, followed her. Some said "They don't allow it." Elenor Stood on the fence, flung up her arms and crowed, And said "What can they do? He says to do it," Pointing at me. And in a moment all of them Were playing and were shouting in the lot. And I stood there and watched them half malicious, And half in pleasure watching them at play. Then I heard "hey!" the care-taker ran out. And said "Get out of there, I will arrest you." He drove them out and as they jumped the fence Some said, "He told us to," pointing at me. And Elenor Murray said "Why, what a lie!" And then the care-taker grabbed Elenor Murray And said, "You are the wildest of them all." I spoke up, saying, "Leave that child alone. I won this God damn land for those you serve, They use it for a cow and nothing else, And let these children run about the streets, When there are grass and dandelions there In plenty for these children, and the cow, And space enough to play in without bothering That solitary cow." I took his hands Away from Elenor Murray; he and I Came face to face with clenched fists--but at last He walked away; the children scampered off.

Next day, however, they arrested me For aiding in a _trespass clausam fregit_, And fined me twenty dollars and the costs. Since then the cow has all her way in there. And Elenor Murray left this rotten place, Went to the war, came home and died, and proved She had the sense to leave so vile a world.

* * * * *

George Joslin ending up his days with dreams Of youth in Europe, travels, and with talk, Stirred to a recollection of a face He saw in Paris fifty years before, Because the face resembled Elenor Murray's, Explored his drawers and boxes, where he kept Mementos, treasures of the olden days. And found a pamphlet, came to Merival, With certain recollections, and with theories Of Elenor Murray:--

GEORGE JOSLIN ON LA MENKEN

Here, Coroner Merival, look at this picture! Whom does it look like? Eyes too crystalline, A head like Byron's, tender mouth, and neck, Slender and white, a pathos as of smiles And tears kept back by courage. Yes, you know It looks like Elenor Murray.

Well, you see I read each day about the inquest--good! Dig out the truth, begin a system here Of making family records, let us see If we can do for people when we know How best to do it, what is done for stock. So build up Illinois, the nation too. I read about you daily. And last night When Elenor Murray's picture in the _Times_ Looked at me, I began to think, Good Lord, Where have I seen that face before? I thought Through more than fifty years departed, sent My mind through Europe and America In all my travels, meetings, episodes. I could not think. At last I opened up A box of pamphlets, photographs, mementos, Picked up since 1860, and behold I find this pamphlet of La Belle Menken. Here is your Elenor Murray born again, As here might be your blackbird of this year With spots of red upon his wings, the same As last year's blackbird, like a pansy springing Out of the April of this year, repeating The color, form of one you saw last year. Repeating and the same, but not the same; No two alike, you know. I'll come to that.

Well, then, La Menken--as a boy in Paris I saw La Menken, I'll return to this. But just as Elenor Murray has her life Shadowed and symbolized by our Starved Rock-- And everyone has something in his life Which takes him, makes him, is the image too Of fate prefigured--La Menken has Mazeppa, Her notable first part as actress, emblem Of spirit, character, and of omen too Of years to come, the thrill of life, the end.

Who is La Menken? Symbol of America, One phase of spirit! She was venturesome, Resourceful, daring, hopeful, confident, And as she wrote of self, a vagabond, A dweller in tents, a reveler, and a flame Aspiring but disreputable, coming up With leaves that shamed her stalk, could not be shed, But stuck out heavy veined and muddy hued In time of blossom. There are souls, you know, Who have shed shapeless immaturities, Betrayals of the seed before the blossom Comes to proclaim a beauty, a perfection; Or risen with their stalk, until such leaves Were hidden in the grass or soil--not she, Nor even your Elenor Murray, as I read her. But being America and American, Brings good and bad together, blossom and leaves With prodigal recklessness, in vital health And unselective taste and vision mixed Of beauty and of truth.

Who was La Menken? She's born in Louisiana in thirty-five, Left fatherless at seven--mother takes her And puts her in the ballet at New Orleans. She dances then from Texas clear to Cuba; Then gives up dancing, studies tragedy, And plays Bianca! Fourteen years of age Weds Menken, who's a Jew, divorced from him; Then falls in love with Heenan, pugilist. They quarrel and separate--it's in this pamphlet Just as I tell you; you can take it, Coroner. Now something happens, nothing in her birth Or place of birth to prophesy her life Like Starved Rock to this Elenor--being grown, A hand instead is darted from the curtain That hangs between to-day, to-morrow, sticks A symbol on her heart and whispers to her: You're this, my woman. Well, the thing was this: She played Mazeppa: take your dummy off, And lash me to the horse. They were afraid, But she prevailed, was nearly killed the first night, And after that succeeded, was the rage And for her years remaining found herself Lashed to the wild horse of ungoverned will, Which ran and wandered, till she knew herself With stronger will than vision, passion stronger Than spirit to judge; the richness of the world, Love, beauty, living, greater than her power. And all the time she had the appetite To eat, devour it all. Grown sick at last, She diagnosed her case, wrote to a friend: The soul and body do not fit each other-- A human spirit in a horse's flesh. This is your Elenor Murray, in a way. But to return to pansies, run your hand Over a bed of pansies; here's a pansy With petals stunted, here's another one All perfect but one petal, here's another Too streaked or mottled--all are pansies though. And here is one full petaled, strikes the eye With perfect color, markings. Elenor Murray Has something of the color and the form Of this La Menken, but is less a pansy, And Sappho, Rachel, Bernhardt are the flowers La Menken strove to be, and could not be, Ended with being only of their kind. And now there's pity for this Elenor Murray, And people wept when poor La Menken died. Both lived and had their way. I hate this pity, It makes you overlook there are two hours: The hour of joy, the hour of finding out Your joy was all mistake, or led to pain. We who inspect these lives behold the pain, And see the error, do not keep in mind The hour of rapture, and the pride, indeed With which your Elenor Murrays and La Menkens Have lived that hour, elation, pride and scorn For any other way--"this is the life" I hear them say.

Well, now I go along. La Menken fills her purse with gold--she sends Her pugilist away, tries once again And weds a humorist, an Orpheus Kerr-- And plays before the miners out in 'Frisco, And Sacramento, gathers in the eagles. She goes to Europe then--with husband? No! James Barkley is her fellow on the voyage. She lands in London, takes a gorgeous suite In London's grandest hostlery, entertains Charles Dickens, Prince Baerto and Charles Read, The Duke of Wellington and Swinburne, Sand And Jenny Lind; and has a liveried coachman; And for a crest a horse's head surmounting Four aces, if you please. And plays Mazeppa, And piles the money up.

Then next is Paris. And there I saw her, 1866, When Louis Napoleon and the King of Greece, The Prince Imperial were in a box.

She wandered to Vienna, there was ill, Came back to Paris, died, a stranger's grave In Pere la Chaise was given, afterwards Exhumed in Mont Parnasse was buried, got A little stone with these words carved upon it: "Thou Knowest" meaning God knew, while herself Knew nothing of herself.

But when in Paris They sold her picture taken with her arms Around Dumas, and photographs made up Of postures ludicrous, obscene as well, Of her and great Dumas, I have them home. Can show you sometime. Well she loved Dumas, Inscribed a book of poems to Charles Dickens, By his permission, mark you--don't you see Your Elenor Murray here? This Elenor Murray A miniature imperfect of La Menken? She loved sensation, all her senses thrilled her; A delicate soul too weighted by the flesh; A coquette, quick of wit, intuitive, Kind, generous, unaffected, mystical, Teased by the divine in life, and melancholy, Of deep emotion sometimes. One has said She had a nature spiritual, religious Which warred upon the flesh and fell in battle; Just as your Elenor Murray joined the church, And did not keep the faith, if truth be told.

Now look, here is a letter in this pamphlet La Menken writes a poet--for she hunts For seers and for poets, lofty souls. And who does that? A woman wholly bad? Why no, a woman to be given life Fit for her spirit in another realm By God who will take notice, I believe. Now listen if you will! "I know your soul. It has met mine somewhere in starry space. And you must often meet me, vagabond Of fancy without aim, a dweller in tents Disreputable before the just. Just think I am a linguist, write some poems too, Can paint a little, model clay as well. And yet for all these gropings of my soul I am a vagabond, of little use. My body and my soul are in a scramble And do not fit each other--let them carve Those words upon my stone, but also these Thou Knowest, for God knows me, knows I love Whatever is good and beautiful in life; And that my soul has sought them without rest. Farewell, my friend, my spirit is with you, Vienna is too horrible, but know Paris Then die content."

Now, Coroner Merival, You're not the only man who wants to see, Will work to make America a republic Of splendors, freedoms, happiness, success. Though I am seventy-six, cannot do much, Save talk, as I am talking now, bring forth Proofs, revelations from the years I've lived. I care not how you view the lives of people, As pansy beds or what not, lift your faith So high above the pansy bed it sees The streaked and stunted pansies filling in The pattern that the perfect pansies outline, Therefore are smiling, even indifferent To this poor conscious pansy, dying at last Because it could not be the flower it wished. My heart to Elenor Murray and La Menken Goes out in sorrow, even while I know They shook their leaves in April, laughed and thrilled, And either did not know, or did not care The growing time was precious, and if wasted Could never be regained. Look at La Menken At seven years put in the ballet corps; And look at Elenor Murray getting smut Out of experience that made her wise. What shall we do about it?--let it go? And say there is no help, or say a republic, Set up a hundred years ago, raised to the helm Of rulership as president a list Of men more able than the emperors, Kings, rulers of the world, and statesmen too The equal of the greatest, money makers, And domineers of finance and economies Phenomenal in time--say, I repeat A country like this one must let its children Waste as they wasted in the darker years Of Europe. Shall we let these trivial minds Who see salvation, progress in restraint, Pre-empt the field of moulding human life? Or shall we take a hand, and put our minds Upon the task, as recently we built An army for the war, equipped and fed it, An army better than all other armies, More powerful, more apt of hand and brain, Of thin tall youths, who did stop but said Like poor La Menken, strap me to the horse I'll do it if I die--so giving to peace The skill and genius which we use in war, Though it cost twenty billion, and why not? Why every dollar, every drop of blood For war like this to guard democracy, And not so much or more to build the land, Improve our blood, make individual America and her race? And first to rout Poverty and disease, give youth its chance, And therapeutic guidance. Soldier boys Have huts for recreation, clergymen, And is it more, less worth to furnish hands Intimate, hearts intimate for the use Of your La Menkens, Elenor Murrays, youths Who feel such vigor in their restless wings They tumble out of crowded nests and fly To fall in thickets, dash themselves against Walls, trees?

I have a vision, Coroner, Of a new Republic, brighter than the sun, A new race, loftier faith, this land of ours Made over as to people, boys and girls, Conserved like forests, water power or mines; Watched, tested, put to best use, keen economies Practiced in spirits, waste of human life, Hope, aspiration, talent, virtues, powers, Avoided by a science, science of life, Of spirit, what you will. Enough of war, And billions for the flag--all well enough! Some billions now to make democracy Democracy in truth with us, and life Not helter-skelter, hitting as it may, And missing much, as this La Menken did. I'm not convinced we must have stunted pansies, That have no use but just to piece the pattern. Let's try, and if we try and fail, why then Our human duty ends, the God in us Will have it just this way, no other way. And then we may accept so poor a world, A republic so unfinished.

* * * * *

Will Paget is another writer of letters To Coroner Merival. The coroner Spends evenings reading letters, keeps a file Where he preserves them. And the blasphemy Of Paget makes him laugh. He has an evening And reads this letter to the jurymen:

WILL PAGET ON DEMOS AND HOGOS

To Coroner Merival, greetings, but a voice Dissentient from much that goes the rounds, Concerning Elenor Murray. Here's my word: Give men and women freedom, save the land From dull theocracy--the theo, what? A blend of Demos and Jehovah! Say, Bring back your despots, bring your Louis Fourteenths, And give them thrones of gold and ivory From where with leaded sceptres they may whack King Demos driven forth. You know the face? The temples are like sea shells, hollows out, Which narrow close the space for cortex cells. There would be little brow if hair remained; But hair is gone, because the dandruff came. The eyes are close together like a weasel's; The jaws are heavy, that is character; The mouth is thin and wide to gobble chicken; The paunch is heavy for the chickens eaten. Throned high upon a soap box Demos rules, And mumbles decalogues: Thou shalt not read, Save what I tell you, never books that tell Of men and women as they live and are. Thou shalt not see the dramas which portray The evil passions and satiric moods Which mock this Christian nation and its hope. Thou shalt not drink, not even wine or beer. Thou shalt not play at cards, or see the races. Thou shalt not be divorced! Thou shalt not play. Thou shalt not bow to graven images Of beauty cut in marble, fused in bronze. Behold my name is Demos, King of Kings, My name is legion, I am many, come Out of the sea where many hogs were drowned, And now the ruler of hogocracy, Where in the name of freedom hungry snouts Root up the truffles in your great republic, And crunch with heavy jaws the legs and arms Of people who fall over in the pen. Hierarchies in my name are planted under Your states political to sprout and take The new world's soil,--religious freedom this!-- Thought must be free--unless your thought objects To such dominion, and to literal faith In an old book that never had a place Except beside the Koran, Zarathustra. So here is your theocracy and here The land of Boredom. Do you wonder now That people cry for war? You see that God Frowns on all games but war. You shall not play Or kindle spirit with a rapture save A moral end's in view. All joy is sin, Where joy stands for itself alone, nor asks Consent to be, save for itself. But war Waged to put down the wrong, it's always that; To vindicate God's truths, all wars are such, Is game that lets the spirit play, is backed By God and moral reasons, therefore war, A game disguised as business, cosmic work For great millenniums, no less relieves The boredom of theocracies. But if Your men and women had the chance to play, Be free and spend superfluous energies, In what I call the greatest game, that's Life, Have life more freely, deeply, and you say How would you like a war and lose a leg, Or come from battle sick for all your years? You would say no, unless you saw an issue, Stripped clean of Christian twaddle, as we'll say The Greeks beheld the Persians. Well, behold All honest paganism in such things discarded For God who comes in glory, trampling presses Filled up with grapes of wrath.

Now hear me out: I knew we'd have a war, it wasn't only That your hogocracy was grunting war We'd fight Japan, take Mexico--remember How dancing flourished madly in the land; Then think of savages who dance the Ghost Dance, And cattle lowing, rushing in a panic, There's psychic secrets here. But then at last What can you do with life? You're well and strong, Flushed with desire, mad with appetites, You turn this way and find a sign forbidden, You turn that way and find the door is closed. Hogocracy, King Demos say, go back, Find work, develop character, restrain, Draw up your belt a little tighter, hunger And thirst diminish with a tighter belt. And none to say, take off the belt and eat, Here's water for you.