Part 9

I'm home at last. How long were you asleep? I startled you. The time? It's midnight past. Put on your slippers and your robe, my dear, And make some coffee for me--what a night! Yes, tell you? I shall tell you everything. I must tell someone, and a wife should know The workings of a governor's mind--no one Could guess what turned the scale to save this man Who would have died to-morrow, but for me. That's fine. This coffee helps me. As I said This night has been a trial. Well, you know I told these lawyers they could come at eight, And so they came. A seasoned lawyer one, The other young and radical, both full Of sentiment of some sort. And there you sit, And do not say a word of disapproval. You smile, which means you sun yourself within The power I have, and yet do you approve? This man committed brutal murder, did A nameless horror; now he's saved from death. The father and the mother of the girl, The neighborhood, perhaps, in which she lived Will roar against me, think that I was bought, Or used by someone I'm indebted to In politics. Oh no! It's really funny, Since it is simpler than such things as these. And no one, saving you, shall know the secret. For there I sat and didn't say a word To indicate, betray my thought; not when The thing came out that moved me. Let them read The doctor's affidavits, that this man Was crazy when he killed the girl, and read The transcript of the evidence on the trial. They read and talked. At last the younger lawyer, For sometime still, kept silent by the other, Pops out with something, reads an affidavit, As foreign to the matter as a story Of melodrama color on the screen, Which still contained a sentence that went home; I felt my mind turn like a turn-table, And click as when the switchman kicks the tongue Of steel into the slot that holds the table. And from my mind the engine, that's the problem, Puffed, puffed and moved away, out on the track, And disappeared upon its business. How Is that for metaphor? Your coffee, dear, Stirs up my fancy. But to tell the rest, If my face changed expression, or my eye Betrayed my thought, then I have no control Of outward seeming. For they argued on An hour or so thereafter. And I asked Re-reading of the transcript where this man Told of his maniac passion, of the night He killed the girl, the doctors' testimony I had re-read, and let these lawyers think My interest centered there, and my decision Was based upon such matters, and at last The penalty commuted. When in truth I tell you I had let the fellow hang For all of this, except that I took fire Because of something in this affidavit Irrelevant to the issue, reaching me In something only relevant to me. O, well, all life is such. Our great decisions Flame out of sparks, where roaring fires before, Not touching our combustibles wholly failed To flame or light us.

Now the secret hear. Do you remember all the books I read Two years ago upon heredity, Foot-notes to evolution, the dynamics Of living matter? Well, it wasn't that That made me save this fellow. There you smile For knowing how and when I got these books, Who woke my interest in them. Never mind, You don't know yet my reasons.

But I'll tell you: And let you see a governor's mind at work. When this young lawyer in this affidavit Read to a certain place my mind strayed off And lived a time past, you were present too. It was that morning when I passed my crisis, Had just dodged death, could scarcely speak, too weak To lift a hand to feed myself, but needed Vital replenishment of strength, and then I got it in a bowl of oyster soup, Rich cream at that. And as I live, my dear, As this young lawyer read, I felt myself In bed as I lay then, re-lived the weakness, Could see the spoon that carried to my mouth The appetizing soup, imagined there The feelings I had then of getting fingers Upon the rail of life again, how faint, But with such clear degrees. Could see the hand That held the spoon, the eyes that looked at me In triumph for the victory of my strength, Which battled, almost lost the prize of life. It all came over me when this lawyer read: Elenor Murray lately come from France Found dead beside the river, was the cousin Of this Fred Taylor, and had planned to come To see the governor, death prevented her-- Suppose it had?

That affidavit, doubtless Was read to me to move me for the fact This man was kindred to a woman who Served in the war, this lawyer was that cheap! And isn't it as cheap to think that I Could be persuaded by the circumstance That Elenor Murray, she who nursed me once, Was cousin to this fellow, if this lawyer Knew this, and did he know it? I don't know. Had Elenor Murray lived she would have come To ask her cousin's life--I know her heart. And at the last, I think this was the thing: I thought I'd do exactly what I'd do If she had lived and asked me, disregard Her death, and act as if she lived, repay Her dead hands, which in life had saved my life.

Now, dear, your eyes have tears--I know--believe me, I had no romance with this Elenor Murray. Good Lord, it's one o'clock, I must to bed....

You get my story Merival? Do you think, A softness in the heart went to the brain And softened that? Well now I stress two things: I can't endure defeat, nor bear to see An ardent spirit thwarted. What I've achieved Has been through will that would not bend, and so To see that in another wins my love, And my support. Now take this Elenor Murray She had a will like mine, she worked her way As I have done. And just to hear that she Had planned to see me, ask for clemency For this condemned degenerate, made me say Shall I let death defeat her? Take the breach And make her death no matter in my course? For as I live if she had come to me I had done that I did. And why was that? No romance! Never that! Yet human love As friend can keep for friend in this our life I felt for Elenor Murray--and for this: It was her will that would not take defeat, Devotion to her work, and in my case This depth of friendship welling in her heart For human beings, that I shared in--there Gave tireless healing to her nursing hands And saved my life. And for a life a life. This criminal will live some years, we'll say, Were better dead. All right. He'll cost the state Say twenty thousand dollars. What is that Contrasted with the cost to me, if I Had let him hang? There is a bank account, Economies in the realm of thought to watch. And don't you think the souls--let's call them souls-- Of these avenging, law abiding folk, These souls of the community all in all Will be improved for hearing that I did A human thing, and profit more therefrom Than though that sense of balance in their souls Struck for the thought of crime avenged, the law Fulfilled and vindicated? Yes, it's true. And Merival spoke up and said: "It's true, I understand your story, and I'm glad. It's like you and I'll tell my jury first, And they will scatter it, what moved in you And how this Elenor Murray saved a life."

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The talk of waste in human life was constant As Coroner Merival took evidence At Elenor Murray's inquest. Everyone Could think of waste in some one's life as well As in his own. John Scofield knew the girl, Had worked for Arthur Fouche, her grandfather, And knew what course his life took, how his fortune Was wasted, dwindled down.

Remembering A talk he heard between this Elenor Murray And Arthur Fouche, her grandfather, he spoke To Coroner Merival on the street one day:

JOHN SCOFIELD

You see I worked for Arthur Fouche, he said, Until the year before he died; I knew That worthless son of his who lived with him, Born when his mother was past bearing time, So born a weakling. When he came from college He married soon and came to mother's hearth, And brought his bride. I heard the old man say: "A man should have his own place when he marries, Not settle in the family nest"; I heard The old man offer him a place, or offer To buy a place for him. This baby boy Ran quick to mother, cried and asked to stay. What happened then? What always happens. Soon This son began to edge upon the father, And take the reins a little, Arthur Fouche Was growing old. And at the last the son Controlled the bank account and ran the farms; And Mrs. Fouche gave up her place at table To daughter-in-law, no longer served or poured The coffee--so you see how humble beggars Become the masters, it is always so. Now this I know: When this boy came from school And brought his wife back to the family place, Old Arthur Fouche had twenty thousand dollars On saving in the bank, and lots of money Loaned out on mortgages. But when he died He owed two thousand dollars at the bank. Where did the money go? Why, for ten years When Arthur Fouche and son were partners, I Saw what went on, and saw this boy buy cattle When beef was high, sell cattle when it was low, And lose each year a little. And I saw This boy buy buggies, autos and machinery, And lose the money trading. So it was, This worthless boy had nothing in his head To run a business, which used up the fortune Of Arthur Fouche, and strangled Arthur Fouche, As vines destroy an oak tree. Well, you know When Arthur Fouche's will was opened up They found this son was willed most everything-- It's always so. The children who go out, And make their way get nothing, and the son Who stays at home by mother gets the swag. And so this son was willed the family place And sold it to that chiropractor--left For California to remake his life, And died there, after wasting all his life, His father's fortune, too.

So, now to show you How age breaks down a mind and dulls a heart, I'll tell you what I heard:

This Elenor Murray Was eighteen, just from High School, and one day She came to see her grandfather and talked. The old man always said he loved her most Of all the grandchildren, and Mrs. Fouche Told me a dozen times she thought as much Of Elenor Murray as she did of any Child of her own. Too bad they didn't show Their love for her.

I was in and out the room Where Elenor Murray and her grandfather Were talking on that day, was planing doors That swelled and wouldn't close. There was no secret About this talk of theirs that I could see, And so I listened.

Elenor began: "If you can help me, grandpa, just a little I can go through the university. I can teach school in summer and can save A little money by denying self. If you can let me have two hundred dollars, When school begins each year, divide it up, If you prefer, and give me half in the fall, And half in March, perhaps, I can get through. And when I finish I shall go to work And pay you back, I want it as a loan, And do not ask it for a gift." She sat, And fingered at her dress while asking him, And Arthur Fouche looked at her. Come to think He was toward eighty then. At last he said: "I wish I could do what you ask me, Elenor, But there are several things. You see, my child, I have been through this thing of educating A family of children, lived my life In that regard, and so have done my part. I sent your mother to St. Mary's, sent The rest of them wherever they desired. And that's what every father owes his children. And when he does it, he has done his duty. I'm sorry that your father cannot help you, And I would help you, though I've done my duty By those to whom I owed it; but you see Your uncle and myself are partners buying And selling cattle, and the business lags. We do not profit much, and all the money I have in bank is needed for this business. We buy the cattle, and we buy the corn, Then we run short of corn; and now and then I have to ask the bank to lend us money, And give my note. Last month I borrowed money!" And so the old man talked. And as I looked I saw the tears run down her cheeks. She sat And looked as if she didn't believe him.

No, Why should she? For I do not understand Why in a case like this, a man who's worth, Say fifty thousand dollars couldn't spare Two hundred dollars by the year. Let's see: He might have bought less corn or cattle, gambled On lucky sales of cattle--there's a way To do a big thing when you have the eyes To see how big it is; and as for me, If money must be lost, I'd rather lose it On Elenor Murray than on cattle. In fact, That's where the money went, as I have said. And Elenor Murray went away and earned Two terms at college, and this worthless son Ate up and spent the money. All of them, The son and Arthur Fouche and Elenor Murray Are gone to dust, now, like the garden things That sprout up, fall and rot.

At times it seems All waste to me, no matter what you do For self or others, unless you think of turnips Which can't be much to turnips, but are good For us who raise them. Here's my story then, Good wishes to you, Coroner Merival.

* * * * *

Coroner Merival heard that Gottlieb Gerald Knew Elenor Murray and her family life; And knew her love for music, how she tried To play on the piano. On an evening He went with Winthrop Marion to the place,-- Llewellyn George dropped in to hear, as well-- Where Gottlieb Gerald sold pianos--dreamed, Read Kant at times, a scholar, but a failure, His life a waste in business. Gottlieb Gerald Spoke to them in these words:--

GOTTLIEB GERALD

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.