Part 20

"Well, now Why did I turn to Gregory from you? I did not love you or I had not done it. You did not love me or I had not done it. I loved him once, he had been good to me. He was an old familiar friend and touch.... Farewell, if it must be, but save me grief, The greatest agony: Be brave and strong, Be all that God requires your soul to be, O, give me not this cup of poison--this: That I have been your cause of bitterness; Have stopped your growth and introverted you, Given you eyes that see but lies and lust In human nature, evil in the world-- Eyes that God meant to see the good and strive For goodness. If I drove you from the war, Made you distrust its purpose and its faith, Triumphant over selfishness and wrong, Oh, leave me with the hope that peace will come, And vision once again to bless your life. Behold me as America, taught but half, Wayward and thoughtless, fighting for a chance; Denied its ordered youth, thrown into life But half prepared, so seeking to emerge Out of a tangled blood, and out of the earth A creature of the earth that strives to win A soul, a voice. Behold me thus--forgive! Take from my life the beauty that you found, Nothing can kill that beauty if you press Its blossom to your heart, and with it rise To nobleness, to duty, give your life To our America."

"The Lord bless you, And make his face to shine upon you, and Be gracious to you. The Lord lift up his countenance Upon you, give you peace, both now and ever More. Amen!"

* * * * *

So Elenor's letters ended The evidence. The afternoon was spent. The inquest was adjourned till ten o'clock Next morning. They arose and left the room.... And Merival half-ill went home. Next day He lounged with books and had the doctor in, And read his mail, more letters, articles About the inquest, Elenor. And from France A little package came. And here at last Is Elenor Murray's diary! Merival turns And finds the entries true to Barrett Bays; Some word, a letter too from France which says: The sender learned the name by tracing out A number in the diary, heard the news Of Elenor Murray from the paper at home In Illinois. And of the diary this: He got it from a poilu who was struck By this same diary on the cheek. A slap That stung him, since the diary had been thrown By Elenor Murray from the second story. This poilu, being tipsy, raved and thought Some challenger had struck him. Roaring so He's taken in. Some weeks elapse, he meets Our soldiers from the States, and shows the diary, And tells the story, has the diary read By this American, gives up the diary For certain drinks. And this American Has sent it to the coroner.

A letter To Merival from an old maiden aunt, Who's given her life to teaching, pensioned now And visiting at Madison, Wisconsin. Aunt Cynthia writes to Merival and says: "I know you are fatigued, a little tired With troubles of the lower plane of life. Quit thinking of the war and Elenor Murray. Each soul should use its own divinity By mastering nature outward and within. Do this by work or worship, Soul's control, Philosophy, by one or more or all. Above them all be free. This is religion, And all of it. Books, temples, dogmas, rituals Or forms are details only. By these means Find God within you, prove that you and God Are one, not several, justify the ways Of God to man, to speak the western way. I wish you could be here while I am here With Arielle, she is a soul, a woman. You need a woman in your life, my dear-- I met her in Calcutta five years since, She and her husband toured the world--and now She is a widow these two years. I started Arielle in the wisdom of the East. That avid mind of hers devours all things. She is an adept, but she thinks her sense Of fun and human nature as the source Of laughter and of tears keep her from being A mystic, though she uses Hindu thought And practice for her soul."

"I'd like to send Some pictures of her, if she'd let me do it: Arielle with her dogs upon the lawn, Her arms about their necks. Or Arielle About her flowers. I've another one, Arielle on her favorite horse: another, Arielle by her window, hand extended, The very soul of rhythm; and another, Arielle laughing like a rising sun, No one can laugh as she does. For you see Her outward soul is love, her inward soul Is wisdom and that makes her what she is: A Robin Goodfellow, a Puck, a girl, A prankish wit, a spirit of bright tears, A queenly woman, clothed in majesty, A rapture and a solace, comrade, friend, A lover of old women such as I; A mother to young children, for she keeps A brood of orphans in her little town. She is a will as disciplined as steel, Has suffered and grown wise. Her tenderness Is hidden under words so brief and pure You cannot sense the tenderness in all Until you read them over many times. She is a lady bountiful, who gives As prodigally as nature, and she asks No gifts from you, but gets them anyway, Because all spirits pour themselves to her. If I were taking for America A symbol, it would be my Arielle And not your Elenor Murray."

"Here's her life! Her father died when she was just a child, Leaving a modest fortune to a widow, Arielle's mother, also other children. After a time the mother went to England And settled down in Sussex. There the mother Was married to a scoundrel, mad-man, genius, Who tyrannized the household, whipped the children. So Arielle at fourteen ran away. She pined for her Wisconsin and America. She went to Madison, or near the place, And taught school in the country, much the same As Elenor Murray did.

"Now here is something: Behold our world, humanity, the groups Of people into states, communities, Full up of powers and virtues, aid and light-- Friends, helpers, understanders of the soul. It may be just the status of enlightment, But I think there are brothers of the light, And powers around us; for if Elenor Murray Half-fails, is broken, here is Arielle Who with the surer instinct finds the springs Of health and life. And so, I say, if I Had daughters, and were dying, leaving them, I should not fear; for I should know the world Would care for them and give them everything They had the strength to take."

"Here's Arielle. She teaches school and studies--O that wag-- She posts herself in Shakespeare, forms a class Of women thrice her age and teaches them, Adds that way to her earnings. Just in time-- Such things are always opportune, a man Comes by and sees her spirit, says to her You may read Plato, and she reads and passes To Kant and Schopenhauer. So it goes Until by twenty all her brain is seething With knowledge and with dreams. She is beloved By all the people of the country-side, Besought and honored--yet she keeps to self, Has hardly means enough, since now she sends Some help to mother who has been despoiled, Abandoned by the mad-man."

"Then one spring A paper in Milwaukee gives a prize, A trip to Europe, to the one who gets The most subscriptions in a given time-- And Arielle who has so many friends-- Achievement brings achievement, friends bring friends-- Finds rallying support and wins the prize. Is off to Europe where she meets the man She married when returned."

"He is a youth Of beauty and of promise, yet a soul Who riots in the sunlight, honey of life. And gets his wings gummed in the poisonous sweet. And Arielle one morning wakes to find A horror on her hands: her husband's found Dead in a house of ill-fame. She is calm Out of that rhythm, sense of beauty which Makes her a power, all her deeds a song. She lays the body under the dancing muses There in the wondrous library and flings A purple robe across it, kneels and lays Her sunny head against it, says a prayer. She had been constant, loyal even to dreams, To this wild youth, whose errant ways she knew. Now don't you see the contrast? I refrain From judging Elenor Murray, but I say One thing is beautiful and one is not. And Arielle is beautiful as a spirit, And Elenor is somewhat beautiful, But streaked and mottled, too. Say what you will Of freedom, nature, body's rights, no less Honor and constancy are beautiful, And truth most beautiful. And Arielle Could kneel beside the body of her dead, Who had neglected her so constantly, And say a prayer of thankfulness that she Had honored him throughout those seven years Of married life--she prayed so--why, she says That prayer was worth a thousand stolen raptures Offered her in the years of life between."

"Now here she was at thirty Left to a mansion there in Madison. Her husband lived there; it was life, you know, For her to meet one of her neighborhood In Europe, though a stranger until then. And here is Arielle in her mansion, priestess Amid her treasures, beauties, for this man Has left her many thousands, and she lives Among her books and flowers, rides and walks, And frolics with her dogs, and entertains."...

And as the Coroner folded the letter out A letter from this Arielle fell, which read: "We have an aunt in common, Cynthia. I know her better than you do, I think, And love her better too. You men go off With wandering and business, leave these aunts, And precious kindred to be found by souls Who are more kindred, maybe. I have heard Most everything about you, of your youth Your schooling, shall I say your sorrow too? Admire your life, have studied Elenor, As I have had the chance or got the word. And what your aunt writes in advice I like, Approve of and commend to you. You see I leap right over social rules to write, And speak my mind. So many friends I've made By searching out and asking. Why delay? Time slips away like moving clouds, but Life Says to the wise make haste. Is there a soul You'd like to know? Then signal it. I light From every peak a beacon fire, my peaks Are new found heights of vision, reaching them I either see a beacon light, or flash A beacon light. And thus it was I found Your Cynthia and mine, and now I write. I have a book to send you, show that way How much I value your good citizenship, Your work as coroner. I had the thought Of coroners as something like horse doctors-- Your aunt says you're as polished as a surgeon. When I was ripe for Shakespeare some one brought His books to me; when I was ripe for Kant, I found him through a friend. I know about you, I sense you too, and I believe you need The spiritual uplifting of the Gita. You haven't read it, have you? No! you haven't. I wish that Elenor Murray might have read it. I grieve about that girl, you can't imagine How much I grieve. Nov write me, coroner, What is your final judgment of the girl."

"I have so many friends who love me, always New friends come by to give me wisdom--you Can teach me, I believe, a man like you So versed in life. You must have learned new things Exploring in the life of Elenor Murray. I was about to write you several times. I loved that girl from all I heard of her. She must have had some faculty or fault That thwarted her, and left her, so to speak, Just looking into promised lands, but never Possessing or enjoying them--poor girl! And here she flung her spirit in the war And wrecked herself--it makes me sorrowful. I went to Europe through a prize I won, And saw the notable places--but this girl Who hungered just as much as I, saw nothing Or little, gave her time to labor, nursing-- It is most pitiful, if you'll believe me I've wept about your Eleanor. Write me now What is your final judgment of the girl?"...

So Merival read these letters, fell asleep. Next day was weaker, had a fever too, And took to bed at last. He had to fight Six weeks or more for life. When he was up And strong enough he called the jury in And at his house they talked the case and supped.

THE JURY DELIBERATES

The jurymen are seated here and there In Merival's great library. They smoke, And drink a little beer or Scotch. Arise At times to read the evidence taken down, And typed for reference. Before them lie Elenor Murray's letters, all the letters Written to Merival--there's Alma Bell's, And Miriam Fay's, letters anonymous. The article of Roberts in the _Dawn_, That one of Demos, Hogos; a daily file Of Lowell's _Times_--Lowell has festered now Some weeks, a felon-finger in a stall. And where is Barrett Bays? In Kankakee Where Elenor Murray's ancestor was kept. The strain and shame had broken him; a fear Fell on him of a consequence when the coroner Still kept him with a deputy. He grew wild, Attacked the deputy, began to wander And show some several selves. A multiple Spirit of devils had him. Dr. Burke Went over him and found him mad.

And now The jury meet amid a rapid shift Of changes, mist and cloud. The man is sick Who administers the country. Has come back To laud the pact of peace; his auditors Turn silently away, whole states assemble To hear and turn away, sometimes to heckle. And if a mattoid emperor caused the war, And Elenor Murrays put the emperor down, The emperor, could he laugh at all, can laugh To see a country, bent to spend its last Dollar, its blood to the last drop, having spent Enough of these, go mad as Barrett Bays. And like a headless man, seen in a dream, Go capering in an ecstasy of doubt, Regret and disillusion. He can laugh To see the pact, which took the great estate, Once his and God's, and wrapt it as with snakes That stung and sucked, rejected in the land That sent these Elenor Murrays to make free The world from despotism. See that very land Crop despotisms--so the jury sees Convened to end the case of Elenor Murray....

And Rev. Maiworm, juryman, gives his thought To conquest of the world for Christ, and says The churches must unite to free the world From war and sin. Result? Why less and less Homes like the Murray home, where husband, wife, Live in dissension. More and more of schools For Elenor Murrays. Happy marriages Will be the rule, our Elenors will find Good husbands, quiet hearths, a competence. And Isaac Newfeldt said: "You talk pish-posh. You go about at snipping withered leaves, And picking blasted petals--take the root, Get at the soil--you cannot end these wars Until you solve the feeding problem. Quit Relying on your magic to make bread With five loaves broken, raise a bigger crop Of wheat, and get it to the mouths of men. And as for sin--what is it?--All of sin Lies in the customs, comes from how you view The bread and butter matter; all your gods And sons of God are guardians of the status Of business and of money; sin a thing Which contradicts, or threatens banks and wharves. And as for that your churches now control As much as human nature can digest A dominance like that. And what's the state Of things in Christendom? Why, wars, and want And many Elenor Murrays. Tyrannies Are like as pea and pea; you shall not drink, Or read, or talk, or trade, are from one pod. What would I do? Why, socialize the world, Then leave men free to live or die, let nature Go decimating as she will, and weed The worthless with disease or alcohol-- You won't see much of that, however, if You socialize the world."

And David Barrow Spoke up and said: "No ism is enough. The question is, Is life worth living, good Or bad? If bad, I think that Elenor Murray had As good a life as any. Here we've sat These weeks and heard these stories--nothing new; And as to waste, our time is wasted here, If there were better things to do; and yet Perhaps there is no better. I've enjoyed This work, association. Well, you're told To judge not, and that means to judge not man; You are not told to judge not God. And so I judge Him. And again your Elenor Murrays, Your human being cannot will his way, But God's omnipotent, and where He fails He should be censured. Why does He allow A world like this, and suffer earthquakes, storms, The sinking of _Titanics_, cancers? Why Suffer these wars, this war?--Talk of the riffles That flowed from Elenor Murray--here's a wave Of tidal power, stirred by a greedy coot Who called himself an emperor! And look Our land, America, is ruined, slopped For good, or for our lives with filth and stench; So that to live here takes what strength you have, None left for living, as a man should live. And this America once free and fair Is now the hatefulest, commonest group of men, Women and children in the Occident. What's life here now? Why, boredom, nothing else.... Why pity Elenor Murray? Gottlieb Gerald Told of her home life; it was good enough, Average American, or better. Schools She had in plenty, what would she have done With courses to the end in music, art? She was not happy. Elenor had a brain, And brains and happiness are at enmity. And if the world goes on some thousand years, The race as much advanced beyond us now In feeling, thought, as we are now beyond Pinthecanthropus, say, why, all will see What I see now;--'twere better if the race Had never risen. All analogies Of nature show that death of man is death. He plants his seed and dies, the resurrection Is not the man, but is the child that grows From sperm he sows. The grain of wheat that sprouts Is not the stalk that bore it. Now suppose We get the secret in a thousand years, Can prove that death's the end, analogies Put by with amber, frogs' legs--tell me then What opiate will still the shrieks of men? But some of us know now, and I am one. There is no heaven for me; and as for those Who make a heaven to get out of this-- You gentlemen who call life good, the world The work of God's perfection; yet invent A heaven to rest in from this world of woe-- You do not wish to go there; and resort To cures and Christian Science to stay here! Which shows you are not sure. And thus we have Your Christian saying at heart that life is bad, And heaven is good, but not so good and sure That you will hurry to it. Why, I'll prove The Christian pessimist, as well as I. He says life is so bad it has no meaning, Unless there be a future; and I say Life's bad, and if no future, then is worse. And as it has no future, is a hell. This girl was soaked in opiates to the last. Religion, love for Barrett Bays, believed That God is love. Love is a word to me That has no meaning but in terms of man. And if a man cause war, or suffer war, When he could stop it, do we say he loves? Why call God love who can prevent a war? To chasten us, to better, purge our sins? Well, if it be then we are bettered, purged When William Hohenzollern goes to war And makes the whole world crazy."

"Understand I do not mock, I pity man and life. No man has sat here who has suffered more, Seeing the life of Elenor Murray, through Her life beholding life, our country's life. I pity man and life. I curse the scheme Which wakes the senseless clay to lips that bleed, And eyes that weep, and hearts that agonize, Then in an instant make them clay again! And for it all no reason, that the reason Can bring to light to stand the light."

"And yet I'd make life better, food and shelter better And wider happiness, and fuller love. We're travelers on a ship that has no bourne But rocks, for us. On such a ship 'twere wise To have the daily comforts, foolish course To neither eat, nor sleep, keep warm, nor sing. But only walk the rainy deck and wait. The little opiates of happiness Would make the sailing better, though we know The trip is nowhere and the rocks will sink The portless steamer."

"Is it portless?" asked Llewellyn George, "you're leaping to a thought, And overlook a world of intimations, And hints of truth. I grant you take this race That lives to-day, and make the world a boat There is no port for us as human lives In this our life. But look, you see the race Has climbed, a mountain trail, and looks below From certain heights to-day at man the beast. We scan a half a million years of man From caves to temples, gestures, beacon fires To wireless. Call that mechanical, And power developed over tools. But here Is mystery beyond these.--What of powers, Devotions, aspirations, sacred flame Which masters nature, worships life, defies Death to obstruct it, hungers for the right, The truth, hates wrong, and by that passion wills All art, all beauty, goodness, and creates Those living waters of increasing life By which man lives, and has to-day the means Of fuller living. Here's a realm of richness, Beyond and separate from material things, Your aeroplanes or conquests. Now I put This question to you, David Barrow, what But God who is and has some end for life, And gives it meaning, though we see it not-- What is it in the heart of man which lifts, Sustains him to the truth, the harmony, The beauty say of loyalty, or truth Or art, or science? lighting lamps for men To walk by, men who hate the lamps, the hand That lights? What is this spirit, but the spirit Of Something which moves through us, to an end, And by its constancy in man made constant Proclaims an end? There's Bruno, Socrates, There's Washington who might have lost his life, Why do these men cling to the vision, hope? When neither poverty, nor jeers, nor flames, Nor cups of poison stay? Who say thereby That death is nothing, but this life of ours, Which can be shaped to truth and harmony, And rising flame of spirit, giving light, Is everything worth while, must be lived so And if not lived so, then there's death indeed, By turning from the voice that says that man Must still aspire. And why aspire if death Ends us, the scheme? And all this realm of spirit, Of love for truth and beauty, is the play Of shadows on the tomb?"