Part 7

And on this foggy day When Widow Fortelka reads in the _Times_ That Lowell, the editor, is dead, he sits With feet wrapped in a quilt and gets his breath With open mouth, his face is brightly flushed; A fetid sweetness fills the air of the room That from his open mouth comes. Josef lingers A few weeks yet--he has tuberculosis. And so his mother looks at him, resolves To call this day on William Rummler, see If Lowell's death has changed the state of things; And if the legal mind will not relent Now that the mind that fed it lies in death. It's true enough, she thinks, I was dismissed, And sent away for good, but never mind. It can't be true this pugilist went farther Than the authority of his hiring, that's The talk this lawyer gave her, used a word She could not keep in mind--the lawyer said _Respondeat superior_ in this case Was not in point--and if it could be proved This pugilist was hired by the _Times_, No one could prove the _Times_ had hired him To beat a boy, commit a crime. Well, then "What was he hired for?" the widow asked. And then she talked with newsboys, and they said The papers had their sluggers, all of them, Even the _Star_, and that was just a move In getting circulation, keeping it. And all these sluggers watched the stands and drove The newsboys selling _Stars_ away.

No matter, She could not argue with this lawyer Rummler, Who said: "You must excuse me, go away, I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do."

Now Widow Fortelka had never heard Of Elenor Murray, had not read a line Of Elenor Murray's death beside the river. She was as ignorant of the interview Between the coroner and this editor Who died next morning fearing Merival Would dig up Mrs. Lowell and expose Her suicide, as conferences of spirits Directing matters in another world. Her thought was moulded no less by the riffles That spread from Elenor Murray and her death. And she resolved to see this lawyer Rummler, And try again to get a settlement To help her dying boy. And so she went.

That morning Rummler coming into town Had met a cynic friend upon the train Who used his tongue as freely as his mood Moved him to use it. So he said to Rummler: "I see your client died--a hell of a life That fellow lived, a critic in our midst Both hated and caressed. And I suppose You drew his will and know it, I will bet, If he left anything to charity, Or to the city, it is some narcotic To keep things as they are, the ailing body To dull and bring forgetfulness of pain. He was a fine albino of the soul, No pigment in his genesis to give Color to hair or eyes, he had no gonads." And William Rummler laughed and said, "You'll see What Lowell did when I probate the will."

Then William Rummler thought that very moment Of plans whereby his legal mind could thrive Upon the building of the big hotel To Lowell's memory, for perpetual use Of the Y. M. C. A., the seminary, too, In Moody's memory for an orthodox Instruction in the bible.

With such things In mind, this William Rummler opened the door, And stepped into his office, got a shock From seeing Widow Fortelka on the bench, Where clients waited, waiting there for him. She rose and greeted him, and William Rummler Who in a stronger moment might have said: "You must excuse me, I have told you, madam, I can do nothing for you," let her follow Into his private office and sit down And there renew her suit.

She said to him: "My boy is dying now, I think his ribs Were driven in his lungs and punctured them. He coughs the worst stuff up you ever saw. And has an awful fever, sweats his clothes Right through, is breathless, cannot live a month. And I know you can help me. Mr. Lowell, So you told me, refused a settlement, Because this pugilist was never hired To beat my boy, or any boy; for fear It would be an admission, and be talked of, And lead another to demand some money. But now he's dead, and surely you are free To help me some, so that this month or two, While my boy Joe is dying he can have What milk he wants and food, and when he dies, A decent coffin, burial. Then perhaps There will be something left to help me with-- I wash to feed the children, as you know."

And William Rummler looked at her and thought For one brief moment with his lawyer mind About this horror, while the widow wept, And as she wept a culprit mood was his For thinking of the truth, for well he knew This slugger had been hired for such deeds, And here was one result. And in his pain The cynic words his friend had said to him Upon the train began to stir, and then He felt a rush of feeling, blood, and thought Of clause thirteen in Lowell's will, which gave The trustees power, and he was chief trustee, To give some worthy charity once a year, Not to exceed a thousand dollars. So He thought to self, "This is a charity. I will advance the money, get it back As soon as I probate the will."

At last He broke this moment's musing and spoke up: "Your case appeals to me. You may step out, And wait till I prepare the papers, then I'll have a check made for a thousand dollars."

Widow Fortelka rose up and took The crucifix she wore and kissed it, wept And left the room.

* * * * *

Now here's the case of Percy Ferguson You'd think his life was safe from Elenor Murray. No preacher ever ran a prettier boat Than Percy Ferguson, all painted white With polished railings, flying at the fore The red and white and blue. Such little waves Set dancing by the death of Elenor Murray To sink so fine a boat, and leave the Reverend To swim to shore! he couldn't walk the waves!

REV. PERCY FERGUSON

The Rev. Percy Ferguson, patrician Vicar of Christ, companion of the strong, And member of the inner shrine, where men Observe the rituals of the golden calf; A dilettante, and writer for the press Upon such themes as optimism, order, Obedience, beauty, law, while Elenor Murray's Life was being weighed by Merival Preached in disparagement of Merival Upon a fatal Sunday, as it chanced, Too near to doom's day for the clergyman. For, as the word had gone about that waste In lives preoccupied this Merival, And many talked of waste, and spoke a life Where waste had been in whole or part--the pulpit Should take a hand, thought Ferguson. And so The Reverend Percy Ferguson preached thus To a great audience and fashionable: "The hour's need is a firmer faith in Christ, A closer hold on God, belief again In sin's reality; the age's vice Is laughter over sin, the attitude That sin is not!" And then to prove that sin Is something real, he spoke of money sins That bring the money panics, of the beauty That lust corrupts, wound up with Athen's story, Which sin decayed. And touching on this waste, Which was the current talk, what is this waste Except a sin in life, the moral law Transgressed, God mocked, the order of man's life, And God's will disobeyed? Show me a life That lives through Christ and none shall find a waste. This clergyman some fifteen years before Went on a hunt for Alma Bell, who taught The art department of the school, and found Enough to scare the school directors that She burned with lawless love for Elenor Murray.

And made it seem the teacher's reprimand In school of Elenor Murray for her ways Of strolling, riding with young men at night, Was moved by jealousy of Elenor Murray, Being herself in love with Elenor Murray. This clergyman laid what he found before The school directors, Alma Bell was sent Out of the school her way, and disappeared.... But now, though fifteen years had passed, the story Of Alma Bell and Elenor Murray crept Like poisonous mist, scarce seen, around LeRoy. It had been so always. And all these years No one would touch or talk in open words The loathsome matter, since girls grown to women, And married in the town might have their names Relinked to Alma Bell's. And was it true That Elenor Murray strayed as a young girl In those far days of strolls and buggy rides?

But after Percy Ferguson had thundered Against the inquest, Warren Henderson, A banker of the city, who had dealt In paper of the clergyman, and knew The clergyman had interests near Victoria, Was playing at the money game, and knew He tottered on the brink, and held to hands That feared to hold him longer--Henderson, A wise man, cynical, contemptuous Of frocks so sure of ways to avoid the waste, So unforgiving of the tangled moods And baffled eyes of men; contemptuous Of frocks so avid for the downy beds, Place, honors, money, admiration, praise, Much wished to see the clergyman come down And lay his life beside the other sinners. But more he knew, admired this Alma Bell, Did not believe she burned with guilty love For Elenor Murray, thought the moral hunt Or Alma Bell had made a waste of life, As ignorance might pluck a flower for thinking It was a weed; on Elenor Murray too Had brought a waste, by scenting up her life With something faint but ineradicable. And Warren Henderson would have revenge, And waited till old Jacob Bangs should fix His name to paper once again of Ferguson's To tell old Jacob Bangs he should be wary, Since banks and agencies were tremulous With hints of failure at Victoria.

So meeting Jacob Bangs the banker told him What things were bruited, and warned the man To fix his name no more to Ferguson's paper. It was the very day the clergyman Sought Jacob Bangs to get his signature Upon a note for money at the bank. And Jacob Bangs was silent and evasive, Demurred a little and refused at last. Which sent the anxious clergyman adrift To look for other help. He looked and looked, And found no other help. Associates Depending more on men than God, fell down, And in a day the bubble burst. The _Times_ Had columns of the story.

In a week, At Sunday service Percy Ferguson Stood in the pulpit to confess his sin, The Murray jury sat and fed their joy For hearing Ferguson confess his sin. This is the way he did it:

"First, my friends, I do not say I have betrayed the trust My friends have given me. Some years ago I thought to make provision for my wife, I wished to start some certain young men right. I had another plan I can't disclose, Not selfish, you'll believe me. So I took My savings made as lecturer and writer And put them in this venture. I'm ashamed To say how great those savings were, in view Of what the poor earn, those who work with hands! Ashamed too, when I think these savings grew Because I spoke the things the rich desired. And squared my words with what the strong would have-- Therein Christ was betrayed. The end has come. I too have been betrayed, my confidence Wronged by my fellows in the enterprise. I hope to pay my debts. Hard poverty Has come to me to bring me back to Christ."

"But listen now: These years I lived perturbed, Lest this life which I grew into would mould Young men and ministers, lead them astray To public life, sensation, lecture platforms, Prosperity, away from Christ-like service, Obscure and gentle. To those souls I owe My heart's confession: I have loved my books More than the poor, position more than service, Office and honor over love of men; Lived thus when all my strength belonged to thought, To work for schools, the sick, the poor, the friendless, To boys and girls with hungry minds. My friends, Here I abase my soul before God's throne, And ask forgiveness for the pious zeal With which I smote the soul of Alma Bell, And smudged the robe of Elenor Murray. God, Thou, who has taken Elenor Murray home, After great service in the war, O grant Thy servant yet to kneel before the soul Of Elenor Murray. For who am I to judge? What was I then to judge? who coveted honors, When solitude, where I might dwell apart, And listen to the voice of God was mine, By calling and for seeking. I have broken The oath I took to take no purse or scrip. I have loved money, even while I knew No servant of Christ can work for Christ and strive For money. And if anywhere there be A noble boy who would become a minister, Who has heard me, or read my books, and grown Thereby to cherish secular ideas Of Christ's work in the world, to him I say: Repent the thought, reject me; there are men And women missionaries, here, abroad, And nameless workers in poor settlements Whose latchets to stoop down and to unloose I am unworthy."

"Gift of life too short! O, beautiful gift of God, too brief at best, For all a man can do, how have I wasted This precious gift! How wasted it in pride, In seeking out the powerful, the great, The hands with honors, gold to give--when nothing Is profitable to a servant of the Christ Except to shepherd Christ's poor. O, young men, Interpret not your ministry in terms Of intellect alone, forefront the heart, That at the end of life you may look up And say to God: Behind these are the sheep Thou gavest me, and not a one is lost."

"As to my enemies, for enemies A clergyman must have whose fault is mine, Plato would have us harden hearts to sorrow. And Zeno roofs of slate for souls to slide The storm of evil--Christ in sorrow did For evil good. For me, my prayer is this, My faith as well, that I may be perfected Through suffering."

That ended the confession. Then "Love Divine, All Love Excelling" sounded. The congregation rose, and some went up To take the pastor's hand, but others left To think the matter over.

For some said: "He married fortunate." And others said: "We know through Jacob Bangs he has investments In wheat lands, what's the truth? In any case What avarice is this that made him anxious About the comfort of his wife and family? The thing won't work. He's only middle way In solving his soul's problem. This confession Is just a poor beginning." Others said: "He drove out Alma Bell, let's drive him out." And others said: "you note we never heard About this speculation till it failed, And he was brought to grief. If it had prospered The man had never told, what do you think?" But in a year as health failed, Ferguson Took leave of absence, and the silence of life Which closes over men, however noisy With sermons, lectures, covered him. His riffle Died out in distant waters.

There was a Doctor Burke lived at LeRoy, Neurologist and student. On a night When Merival had the jury at his house, Llewellyn George was telling of his travels In China and Japan, had mutual friends With Franklin Hollister, the cousin of Elenor, And son of dead Corinne, who hid her letters Under the eaves. The talk went wide and far. For David Borrow, sunny pessimist, Thrust logic words at Maiworm, the juryman; And said our life was bad, and must be so, While Maiworm trusted God, said life was good. And Winthrop Marion let play his wit, The riches of his reading over all. Thus as they talked this Doctor Burke came in. "You'll pardon this intrusion, I'll go on If this is secret business. Let me say This inquest holds my interest and I've come To tell of Elenor's ancestry." Thus he spoke. "There'll be another time if I must go." And Merival spoke up and said: "why stay And tell us what you know, or think," and so The coroner and jury sat and heard:--

DR. BURKE

You've heard of potters' wheels and potters' hands. I had a dream that told the human tale As well as potters' wheels or potters' hands. I saw a great hand slopping plasmic jelly Around the low sides of a giant bowl. A drop would fly upon the giant table, And quick the drop would twist up into form, Become homonculus and wave its hands, Brandish a little pistol, shoot a creature, Upspringing from another drop of plasm, Slopped on the giant table. Other drops, Flying as water from a grinding stone, Out of the giant bowl, took little crowns And put them on their heads and mounted thrones, And lorded little armies. Some became Half-drooped and sickly things, like poisoned flies. And others stood on lighted faggots, others Fed and commanded, others served and starved, But many joined the throng of animate drops, And hurried on the phantom quest.

You see, Whether you call it potter's hand or hand That stirs, to no end, jelly in the bowl, You have the force outside and not inside. Invest it with a malice, wanton humor, Which likes to see the plasmic jelly slop, And rain in drops upon the giant table, And does not care what happens in the world, That giant table.

All such dreams are wrong, My dream is wrong, my waking thought is right. Man can subdue the giant hand that stirs, Or turns the wheel, and so these visions err. For as this farmer, lately come to town, Picks out the finest corn seeds, and so crops A finer corn, let's look to human seed, And raise a purer stock; let's learn of him, Who does not put defective grains aside For planting in the spring, but puts aside The best for planting. For I'd like to see As much care taken with the human stock As men now take of corn, race-horses, hogs. You, Coroner Merival are right, I think. If we conserve our forests, waterways, Why not the stream of human life, which wastes Because its source is wasted, fouled.

Perhaps Our coroner has started something good, And brought to public mind what might result If every man kept record of the traits Known in his family for the future use Of those to come in choosing mates.

Behold, Your moralists and churchmen with your rules Brought down from Palestine, which says that life Though tainted, maddened, must not be controlled, Diverted, headed off, while life in corn, And life in hogs, that feed the life of man Should be made better for the life of man-- Behold, I say, some hundred millions spent On paupers, epileptics, deaf and blind; On feeble minded, invalids, the insane-- Behold, I say, this cost in gold alone, Leave for the time the tragedy of souls, Who suffer or must see such suffering, And then turn back to what? The hand that stirs, The potter's hand? Why, no--the marriage counter Where this same state in Christian charity Spending its millions, lets the fault begin, And says to epileptics and what not:-- "Go breed your kind, for Jesus came to earth, And we will house and feed your progeny, Or hang, incarcerate your murderous spawn, As it may happen."

And all the time we know As small grains fruit in small grains, even man In fifty matters of pathology Transmits what's in him, blindness, imbecility, Hysteria, susceptibilities To cancer and tuberculosis. Also The soil that sprouts the giant weed of madness-- There's soil which will not sprout them, occupied Too full by blossoms, healthy trees.

We know Such things as these--Well, I would sterilize, Or segregate these shriveled seeds and keep The soil of life for seeds select, and take The church and Jesus, if he's in the way, And say: "You stand aside, and let me raise A better and a better breed of men." Quit, shut your sniveling charities; have mercy Not on these paupers, imbeciles, diseased ones, But on the progeny you let them breed. And thereby sponge the greatest waste away, And source of life's immeasurable tragedies. Avaunt you potter hands and potter wheels! God is within us, not without us, we Are given souls to know and see and guide Ourselves and those to come, souls that compute The calculus of beauties, talents, traits, And show us that the good in seed strives on To master stocks; that even poisoned blood, And minds in chemic turmoils, mixed with blood And minds in harmony, work clean at last-- Else how may normal man to-day be such With some eight billion ancestors behind, And something in him of the blood of all Who lived five hundred years ago or so, Who were diseased with alcohol and pork, And poverty? But oh these centuries Of agony and waste! Let's stop it now! And since this God within us gives us choice To let the dirty plasma flow or dam it, To give the channel to the silver stream Of starry power, which shall we do? Now choose Between your race of drunkards, imbeciles, Lunatics and neurotics, or the race Of those who sing and write, or measure space, Build temples, bridges, calculate the stars, Live long and sanely.

Well, I take my son, I could have prophesied his eyes, through knowing The color of my mother's, father's eyes, The color of his mother's parent's eyes. I could have told his hair.

There's subtler things. My father died before this son was born; Why does this son smack lips and turn his hand Just like my father did? Not imitation-- He never saw him, and I do not do so. Refine the matter where you will, how far You choose to go, it is not eyes and hair, Chins, shape of head, of limbs, or shape of hands, Nor even features, look of eyes, nor sound Of voice that we inherit, but the traits Of inner senses, spiritual gifts, and secret Beauties and powers of spirit; which result Not solely by the compound of the souls Through conjugating cells, but in the fusion Something arises like an unknown X And starts another wonder in the soul, That comes from souls compounded.

Coroner You have done well to study Elenor Murray. How do I view the matter? To begin Here is a man who looks upon a woman, Desires her, so they marry, up they step Before the marriage counter, buy a license To live together, propagate their kind. No questions asked. I'll later come to that. This couple has four children, Elenor Is second to be born. I knew this girl, I cared for her at times when she was young-- Well, for the picture general, she matures Goes teaching school, leaves home, goes far away, Has restlessness and longings, ups and downs Of ecstasy and depression, has a will Which drives her onward, dreams that call to her. Goes to the war at last to sacrifice Her life in duty, and the root of this Is masochistic (though I love the flower), Comes back and dies. I call her not a drop Slopped from the giant bowl; she is a growth Proceeding on clear lines, if we could know, From cells that joined, and had within themselves The quality of the stream whose source I see As far as grandparents. And now to this:

We all know what her father, mother are. No doubt the marriage counter could have seen-- Or asked what was not visible. But who knows About the father's parents, or the mother's? I chance to know.

The father drinks, you say? Well, he drank little when this child was born, Had he drunk much, it is the nerves which crave The solace of the cup, and not the cup Which passes from the parent to the child. His father and his mother were good blood, Steady, industrious; and just because His father and his mother had the will To fight privation, and the lonely days Of pioneering, so this son had will To fight, aspire, but at the last to growl, And darken in that drug store prison, take To drink at times in anger for a will That was so balked.