Chapter 10

"Says he: 'The Christmas's good for her.' Says he: ... 'Not very good for me.' He hid his face then in his muffler And sobbed and sobbed, 'O Emily.'"

WIDOW LA RUE

I

What will happen, Widow La Rue? For last night at three o'clock You woke and saw by your window again Amid the shadowy locust grove The phantom of the old soldier: A shadow of blue, like mercury light-- What will happen, Widow La Rue?

* * * * *

What may not happen In this place of summer loneliness? For neither the sunlight of July, Nor the blue of the lake, Nor the green boundaries of cool woodlands, Nor the song of larks and thrushes, Nor the bravuras of bobolinks, Nor scents of hay new mown, Nor the ox-blood sumach cones, Nor the snow of nodding yarrow, Nor clover blossoms on the dizzy crest Of the bluff by the lake Can take away the loneliness Of this July by the lake!

* * * * *

Last night you saw the old soldier By your window, Widow La Rue! Or was it your husband you saw, As he lay by the gate so long ago? With the iris of his eyes so black, And the white of his eyes so china-blue, And specks of blood on his face, Like a wall specked by a shake a brush; And something like blubber or pinkish wax, Hiding the gash in his throat---- The serum and blood blown up by the breath From emptied lungs.

II

So Widow La Rue has gone to a friend For the afternoon and the night, Where the phantom will not come, Where the phantom may be forgotten. And scarcely has she turned the road, Round the water-mill by the creek, When the telephone rings and daughter Flora Springs up from a drowsy chair And the ennui of a book, And runs to answer the call. And her heart gives a bound, And her heart stops still, As she hears the voice, and a faintness courses Quick as poison through all her frame. And something like bees swarming in her breast Comes to her throat in a surge of fear, Rapture, passion, for what is the voice But the voice of her lover? And just because she is here alone In this desolate summer-house by the lake; And just because this man is forbidden To cross her way, for a taint in his blood Of drink, from a father who died of drink; And just because he is in her thought By night and day, The voice of him heats her through like fire. She sways from dizziness, The telephone falls from her shaking hand. ... He is in the village, is walking out, He will be at the door in an hour.

III

The sun is half a hand above the lake In a sky of lemon-dust down to the purple vastness. On the dizzy crest of the bluff the balls of clover Bow in the warm wind blowing across a meadow Where hay-cocks stand new-piled by the harvesters Clear to the forest of pine and beech at the meadow's end. A robin on the tip of a poplar's spire Sings to the sinking sun and the evening planet. Over the olive green of the darkening forest A thin moon slits the sky and down the road Two lovers walk.

It is night when they reappear From the forest, walking the hay-field over. And the sky is so full of stars it seems Like a field of buckwheat. And the lovers look up, Then stand entranced under the silence of stars, And in the silence of the scented hay-field Blurred only by a lisp of the listless water A hundred feet below. And at last they sit by a cock of hay, As warm as the nest of a bird, Hand clasped in hand and silent, Large-eyed and silent.

* * * * *

O, daughter Flora! Delicious weakness is on you now, With your lover's face above you. You can scarcely lift your hand, Or turn your head Pillowed upon the fragrant hay. You dare not open your moistened eyes For fear of this sky of stars, For fear of your lover's eyes. The trance of nature has taken you Rocked on creation's tide. And the kinship you feel for this man, Confessed this night--so often confessed And wondered at-- Has coiled its final sorcery about you. You do not know what it is, Nor care what it is, Nor care what fate is to come,-- The night has you. You only move white, fainting hands Against his strength, then let them fall. Your lips are parted over set teeth; A dewy moisture with the aroma of a woman's body Maddens your lover, And in a swift and terrible moment The mystery of love is unveiled to you. ...

Then your lover sits up with a sigh. But you lie there so still with closed eyes. So content, scarcely breathing under that ocean of stars. A night bird calls, and a vagrant zephyr Stirs your uncoiled hair on your bare bosom, But you do not move. And the sun comes up at last Finding you asleep in his arms, There by the hay cock. And he kisses your tears away, And redeems his word of last night, For down to the village you go And take your vows before the Pastor there, And then return to the summer house. ... All is well.

IV

Widow La Rue has returned And is rocking on the porch-- What is about to happen? For last night the phantom of the old soldier Appeared to her again-- It followed her to the house of her friend, And appeared again. But more than ever was it her husband, With the iris of his eyes so black, And the white of his eyes so china-blue. And while she thinks of it, And wonders what is about to happen, She hears laughter, And looking up, beholds her daughter And the forbidden lover.

* * * * *

And then the daughter and her husband Come to the porch and the daughter says "We have just been married in the village, mother; Will you forgive us? This is your son; you must kiss your son." And Widow La Rue from her chair arises And calmly takes her child in her arms, And clasps his hand. And after gazing upon him Imperturbably as Clytemnestra looked Upon returning Agamemnon, With a light in her eyes which neither fathomed, She kissed him, And in a calm voice blessed them. Then sent her daughter, singing, On an errand back to the village To market for dinner, saying: "We'll talk over plans, my dear."

V

And the young husband Rocks on the porch without a thought Of the lightning about to strike. And like Clytemnestra, Widow La Rue Enters the house. And while he is rocking, with all his spirit in a rythmic rapture, The Widow La Rue takes a seat in the room By a window back of the chair where he rocks, And drawing the shade She speaks:

"These two nights past I have seen the phantom of the old soldier Who haunts the midnights Of this summer loneliness. And I knew that a doom was at hand. ... You have married my daughter, and this is the doom. ... O, God in heaven!" Then a horror as of a writhing whiteness Winds out of the July glare And stops the flow of his blood, As he hears from the re-echoing room The voice of Widow La Rue Moving darkly between banks Of delirious fear and woe!

"Be calm till you hear me through. ... Do not move, or enter here, I am hiding my face from you. ... Hear me through, and then fly. I warned her against you, but how could I tell her Why you were not for her? But tell me now, have you come together? No? Thank God for that. ... For you must not come together. ... Now listen while I whisper to you: My daughter was born of a lawless love For a man I loved before I married, And when, for five years, no child came I went to this man And begged him to give me a child. ... Well then ... the child was born, your wife as it seems. ... And when my husband saw her, And saw the likeness of this man in her face He went out of the house, where they found him later By the entrance gate With the iris of his eyes so black, And the white of his eyes so china-blue, And specks of blood on his face, Like a wall specked by a shake of a brush. And something like blubber or pinkish wax Hiding the gash in his throat-- The serum and blood blown up by the breath From emptied lungs. Yes, there by the gate, O God! Quit rocking your chair! Don't you understand? Quit rocking your chair! Go! Go! Leap from the bluff to the rocks on the shore! Take down the sickle and end yourself! You don't care, you say, for all I've told you? Well, then, you see, you're older than Flora. ... And her father died when she was a baby. ... And you were four when your father died. ... And her father died on the very day That your father died, At the verv same moment. ... On the very same bed. ... Don't you understand?"

VI

He ceases to rock. He reels from the porch, He runs and stumbles to reach the road. He yells and curses and tears his hair. He staggers and falls and rises and runs. And Widow La Rue With the eyes of Clytemnestra Stands at the window and watches him Running and tearing his hair.

VII

She seems so calm when the daughter returns. She only says: "He has gone to the meadow, He will soon be back. ..." But he never came back.

And the years went on till the daughter's hair Was white as her mother's there in the grave. She was known as the bride whom the bridegroom left And didn't say good-bye.

DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE

I lectured last upon the morbus sacer, Or falling sickness, epilepsy, of old In Palestine and Greece so much ascribed To deities or devils. To resume We find it caused by morphological Changes of the cortex cells. Sometimes, More times, indeed, the anatomical Basis, if one be, escapes detection. For many functions of the cortex are Unknown, as I have said.

And now remember Mercier's analysis of heredity: Besides direct transmission of unstable Nervous systems, there remains the law Hereditary of sanguinity. Then here's another matter: Parents may Have normal nervous systems, yet produce Children of abnormal nerves and minds, Caused by unsuitable sexual germs. Let me repeat before I leave the matter The factors in a perfect organization: First quality in the germ producing matter; Then quality in the sperm producing force, And lastly relative fitness of the two. We are but plants, however high we rise, Whatever thoughts we have, or dreams we dream We are but plants, and all we are and do Depends upon the seed and on the soil. What Mendel found in raising peas may lead To perfect knowledge of the human mind. There is one law for men and peas, the law Makes peas of certain matter, and makes men And mind of certain matter, all depends Not on a varying law, but on a law Varied in its course by matter, as The arm, which is a lever and which works By lever principle cannot make use And form cement with trowel to the forms It makes of paint or marble.

To resume: A child may take the qualities of one parent In some respects, and of the other parent In some respects. A child may have the traits Of father at one period of his life, The mother at one period of his life. And if the parents' traits are similar Their traits may be prepotent in a child, Thus giving rise to qualities convergent. So if you take a circle and draw off A line which would become another circle If drawn enough, completed, but is left Half drawn or less, that illustrates a mind Of cumulative heredity. Take John, My gardener, John, within his sphere is perfect, John has a mind which is a perfect circle. A perfect circle can be small, you know. And so John has good sense within his sphere. But if some force began to work like yeast In brain cells, and his mind shot forth a line To make a larger thinking circle, say About a great invention, heaven or God, Then John would be abnormal, till this line Shot round and joined, became a larger circle. This is the secret of eccentric genius, The man is half a sphere, sticks out in space Does not enclose co-ordinated thought. He's like a plant mutating, half himself Half something new and greater. If we looked To John's heredity we'd find this change Was manifest in mother or in father About the self-same period of life, Most likely in his father. Attributes Of fathers are inherited by sons, Of mothers by the daughters.

Now this morning I take up paranoia. Paranoics Are often noted for great gifts of mind. Mahomet, Swedenborg were paranoics, Joan of Arc, and Ossawatomie Brown, Cellini, many others. All who think Themselves inspired of God, and all who see Themselves appointed to a work, the subjects Of prophecies are paranoics. All Who visions have of God or archangels, Hear voices or celestial music, these Are paranoics. And whether it be they rise Enough above the earth to look along A longer arc and see realities, Or see strange things through atmospheric strata Which build up or distort the things they see Remains the question. Let us wait the proof.

Last week I told you I would have to-day The skull and brain of Jacob Groesbell here, And lecture on his case. Here is the brain: Weight sixteen hundred grammes. Students may look After the lecture at the brain and skull. There's nothing anatomical at fault With this fine brain, so far as I can find. You'll note how deep the convolutions are, Arrangement quite symmetrical. The skull Is well formed too. The jaws are long you'll note, The palate roof somewhat asymmetrical. But this is scarce significant. Let me tell How Jacob Groesbell looked:

The man was tall, Had shapely hands and feet, but awkward limbs. His hair was brown and fine, his forehead high, And ran back at an angle, temples full. His nose was long and fleshy at the point, Was tilted to one side. His eyes were gray, The iris flecked. They looked as if a light As of a sun-set shone behind them. Ears Were very large, projected at right angles. His neck was slender, womanish. His skin Of finest texture, white and very smooth. His voice was quiet, musical. His manner Patient and gentle, modest, reasonable. His parents, as I learned through inquiry, Were Methodists, devout and greatly loved. The mother healthy both in mind and body. The father was eccentric, perhaps insane. They were first cousins.

I knew Jacob Groesbell Ten years before he died. I knew him first When he was sent to mend my porch. A workman With saw and hammer never excelled him. Then As time went on I saw him when he came At my request to do my carpentry. I grew to know him, and by slow degrees He told me of his readings in the Bible, And gave me his interpretations. At last Aged forty-six, had ulcers of the stomach, Which took him off. He sent for me, and said He wished me to attend him, which I did. He told me I could have his body and brain To lecture on, dissect, since some had said He was insane, he told me, and if so I should find something wrong with brain or body. And if I found a wrong then all his visions Of God and archangels were just the fancies That come to madmen. So he made provision To give his brain and body for this cause, And here's his brain and skull, and I am lecturing On Jacob Groesbell as a paranoic.

As I have said before, in making tests And observations of the patient, have His conversation taken stenographically, In order to preserve his speech exactly, And catch the flow if he becomes excited. So we determine if he makes new words, If he be incoherent, or repeats. I took my secretary once to make A stenographic record. Strange enough He would not talk while she was writing down. And when I asked him why, he would not tell. So I devised a scheme: I took a satchel, And put in it a dictaphone, and when A cylinder was full I'd stoop and put My hand among my bottles in the satchel, As if I was compounding medicine, Instead I'd put another cylinder on. And thus I got his story in his voice, Just as he talked, with nothing lost at all, Which you shall hear. For with this megaphone The students in the farthest gallery Can hear what Jacob Groesbell said to me, And weigh the thought that stirred within the brain Here in this jar beside me. Listen now To Jacob Groesbell's voice:

"Will you repeat From the beginning connectedly the story Of your religious life, illumination, Vhat you have called your soul's escape?"

"I will, Since I shall never tell it again."

"I grew up Timid and sensitive, not very strong, Not understood of father or of mother. They did not love me, and I never felt A tenderness for them. I used to quote: 'Who is my mother and who are my brothers?' At school I was not liked. I had a chum From time to time, that's all. And I remember My mother on a day put with my luncheon A bottle of milk, and when the noon hour came I missed it, found some boys had taken it, And when I asked for it, they made the cry: 'Bottle of milk, bottle of milk,' and I Flushed through with shame, and cried, and to this hour It hurts me to remember it. Such days, All misery! For all my clothes were patched. They hooted at me. So I lived alone. At twelve years old I had great fears of death, And hell, heard devils in my room. One night During a thunderstorm heard clanking chains, And hid beneath the pillows. One spring day As I was walking on the village street Close to the church I heard a voice which said 'Behold, my son'--and falling on my knees I prayed in ecstacy--but as I prayed Some passing school boys laughed, threw stones at me. A heat ran through me, I arose and fled. Well, then I joined the church and was baptized. But something left me in the ceremony, I lost my ecstacy, seemed slipping back Into the trap. I took to wandering In solitary places, could not bear To see a human face. I slept for nights In still ravines, or meadows. But one time Returning to my home, I found the room Filled up with visitors--my heart stopped short, And glancing at the faces of my parents I hurried, bolted through, and did not speak, Entered a bed-room door and closed it. So I tell this just to illustrate my shyness, Which cursed my youth and made me miserable, Something I fought but could not overcome. And pondering on the Scriptures I could see How I resembled the saints, our Saviour even, How even as my brothers called me mad They called our Saviour so.

"At fourteen years My father taught me carpentry, his trade, And made me work with him. I seemed to be The butt for jokes and laughter with the men-- I know not why. For now and then they'd drop A word that showed they knew my secrets, knew I had heard voices, knew I loathed the lusts Of women, drink. Oh these were sorry years, God was not with me though I sought Him ever And I was persecuted for His sake. My brain Seemed like to burst at times, saw sparkling lights, Heard music, voices, made strange shapes of leaves, Clouds, trunks of trees,--illusions of the devil. I was turned twenty years when on an evening Calm, beautiful in June, after a day Of healthful toil, while sitting on the porch, The sun just sinking, at my left I heard A voice of hollow clearness: "You are Christ." My eyes grew blind with tears for the evil Of such a thought, soul stained with such a thought, So devil stained, soul damned with blasphemy. I ran into my room and seized a pistol To end my life. God willed it otherwise. I fainted and awoke upon the floor After some hours. To heap my suffering full A few days after this while in the village I went into a store. The friendly clerk-- I knew him always--said 'What will you have? I wait first always on the little boys.' I laughed and went my way. But in an hour His saying rankled, I began to brood On ways of vengeance, till it seemed at last His life must pay. O, soul so full of sin, So devil tangled, tortured--which not prayer Nor watching could deliver. So I thought To save my soul from murder I must fly-- I felt an urging as one does in sleep Pursued by giant things to fly, to fly From terror, death, from blankness on the scene, From emptiness, from beauty gone. The world Seemed something seen in fever, where the steps Of men are muffled, and a futile scheme Impels all steps. So packing up my kit, My Bible in my pocket, secretly I disappeared. Next day took up my life In Barrington, a village thirty miles From all I knew, besides a lovely lake, Reached by a road that crossed a bridge Over a little bay, the bridge's ends Clustered with boats for fishermen. And here Night after night I fished, or stood and watched The star-light on the water.

I grew calmer Almost found peace, got work to do, and lived Under a widow's roof, who was devout And knew my love for God. Now listen, doctor, To every word: I was now twenty-five, In perfect health, no longer persecuted, At peace with all the world, if not my soul Had wholly found its peace, for truth to tell It had an ache which sometimes I could feel, And yet I had this soul awakening. I know I have been counted mad, so watch Each detail here and judge.

At four o'clock The thirtieth day of June, my work being done, My kit upon my back I walked this road Toward the village. 'Twas an afternoon Of clouds, no rain, a little breeze, the tinkle Of cow bells in the air, a heavenly silence Pervading nature. Reaching the hill's foot I sat down by a tree to rest, enjoy The greenness of the forests, meadows, flats Along the bay, the blueness of the lake, The ripple of the water at my feet, The rythmic babble of the little boats Tied to the bridge. And as I sat there musing, Myself lost in the self, in time the clouds Lifted, blew off, to let the sun go down Over the waters gloriously to rest. So as I stared upon the sun on the water, Some minutes, though I know not for how long, Out of the splendor of the shining sun Upon the water, Jesus of Nazareth Clothed all in white, the nimbus round his brow, His face all wisdom, love, rose to my view, And then he spake: 'Jacob, my son, arise And come with me.'