Domesday Book

by Edgar Lee Masters

  ELENOR MURRAY

  Coroner Merival took the hundred letters Which Elenor Murray wrote to Barrett Bays, Found some of them unopened, as he said, And read them to the jury. Day by day She made a record of her life, and wrote Her life out hour by hour, that he might know. The hundredth letter was the last she wrote. And this the Coroner found unopened, cut The envelope and read it in these words:

  "You see I am at Nice. If you have read The other letters that I wrote you since Our parting there in Paris, you will know About my illness; but I write you now Some other details."

  "I went back to work So troubled and depressed about you, dear, About myself as well. I thought of you, Your suffering and doubt, perhaps your hate. And since you do not write me, not a line Have written since we parted, it may be Hatred has entered you to make distrust Less hard to bear. But in no waking hour, And in no hour of sleep when I have dreamed, Have you been from my mind. I love you, dear, Shall always love you, all eternity Cannot exhaust my love, no change shall come To change my love. And yet to love you so, And have no recompense but silence, thoughts Of your contempt for me, make exquisite The suffering of my spirit. Could I sing My sorrow would enchant the world, or write, I might regain your love with beauty born Out of this agony."

  "When I returned I had three typhoid cases given me. And with that passion which you see in me I gave myself to save them, took this love Which fills my heart for you and nursed them with it; Said to myself to keep me on my feet When I was staggering from fatigue, 'Give now Out of this love, it may be God's own gift With which you may restore these boys to health. What matter if he love you not.' And so For twelve hours day by day I waged with death A slowly winning battle."

  "As they rallied, But when my strength was almost spent--what comes? This Miriam Fay writes odiously to me. She has heard something of our love, or sensed Some dereliction, since she learned that I Had not been to confessional. Anyway She writes me, writes our head-nurse. All at once A cloud of vile suspicion, like a dust Blown from an alley takes my breath away, And blinds my eyes. With all these things piled up, My labors and my sorrow, your neglect, My fears of a dishonorable discharge From service, which I love, I faint, collapse, Have streptococcus of the throat, and lie Two weeks in fever, sleepless, and with thoughts Of you, and what may happen, my disgrace. But suffering brought me friends, the officers Perhaps had heard the scandal, but they knew My heart was in the work. The major who Was the attending doctor of these boys I broke myself with nursing, cared for me, And cheered me with his praise. And so it was Your little soldier, still I call myself, Your little soldier, though you own me not, Turned failure into victory, won by pain Befriending hands. The major kept me here And intercepted my discharge, procured My furlough here in Nice."

  "I rose from bed, Went back to work, in nine days failed again, This time with influenza; for three weeks Was ill enough to die, for all the while My fever raged, my heart was hurting too, Because of you. When I got up again I looked a ghost, was weaker than a child, At last came here to Nice."

  "This is the hundredth Letter that I've written since we parted. My heart is tired, dear, I shall write no more. You shall have silence for your silence, yet When I am silent, trust me none the less, Believe I love you. If you say that I Have hidden secrets, have not told you all, The diary flung away to keep my life Beyond your eye's inspection, still I say Where is your right to know what lips I've kissed, What hopes or dreams I cherished in the past Before I knew you. If you still accuse My spirit of deceit, hypocrisy In lifting up my flower of love to you Fresh, as it seemed, with morning dew, not tears, I have my own defense for that, you'll see. Or lastly, if your love is turned to gall Because, as you discovered, body of love Was given to Gregory Wenner, after you Had come to me in love and chosen me As servant of you in the war, I write To clear myself to you respecting that, And re-insist 'twas body of love alone, Not love I gave, and what I gave was given Because you won me, left me, did not claim As wholly yours what you had won. But now, As I have hope of life beyond the grave, As I love God, though serving Him but ill, I say to you, I have been wholly yours In spirit and in body since the day I gave to you the locket, sat with you And heard the waltz of Chopin, six days after I went with Gregory Wenner. I explain Why I did this, shall mention it no more; You must be satisfied or go your way In bitterness and hatred."

  "But first, my love, As spirits equal and with equal rights, Or privilege of equal wrongs, have I Demanded former purity of you? I have repelled revealments of your past; Have never questioned of your marriage, asked, Which might be juster, rights withdrawn from her; May rightly think, since you and she have life In one abode together, that you live As marriage warrants. And above it all Have I not written you to go your way, Find pleasures where you could, have only begged That you keep out of love, continue to give Your love to me? And why? Be cynical, And think I gave you freedom as a gallant That I might with a quiet conscience take Such freedom for myself. It is not true: I've learned the human body, know the male, And know his life is motile, does not rest, And wait, as woman's does, cannot do so. So understanding have put down distaste, That you should fare in freedom, in my heart Have wished that love or ideals might sustain Your spirit; but if not, my heart is filled With happiness, if you love me. Take these thoughts And with them solve your sorrow for my past, Your loathing of it, if you feel that way However bad it be, whatever sins Imagination in you stirred depicts As being in my past."

  "Men have been known Whom women made fifth husbands, more than that. Not my case, I'll say that, and if you face Reality, and put all passion love Where nature puts it by the side of love Which custom favors, you have only left The matter of the truth to grasp, believe, See clearly and accept: Do I swear true I love you, and since loving you am faithful, Cannot be otherwise, nor wish to be?"

  "Dear, listen and be fair. You did not love me When first I came to you. You did not ask, Because of love, a faithfulness; in truth You did not ask a faithfulness at all. But then and theretofore you treated me As woman to be won, a happiness To be achieved and put aside. Be fair, This was your mood. But if you loved me then, Or soon thereafter loved me, as I know, What should I do? I loved you, am a woman. At last behold your love, am lifted, thrilled. See what I thought was love before was nothing; Know I was never loved before you loved me; And know as well I never loved before; Know all the former raptures of my heart As buds in March closed hard and scentless, never The June before for my heart! O, my love, What should I do when this most priceless gift Was held up like a crown within your hands To place upon my brows--what should I do? Take you aside and say, here is the truth, Here's Gregory Wenner--what's the good of that? How had it benefited you or me, Increased your love, or founded it upon A surer rock than beauty? Hideous truth! Useless too often, childish in such case. You would have suffered, turned from me, and lost The rapture which I gave you, and if rapture Be not a prize, where in this world so much Of ugliness and agony prevails, I do not know our life."

  "But just suppose I gave you rapture, beauty--you concede I gave you these, that's why you suffer so: You choose to think them spurious since you found I knew this Gregory Wenner, are they so? They are as real in spite of Gregory Wenner As if my lips had been a cradled child's. But just suppose, as I began to say, You never had discovered Gregory Wenner, And had the rapture, beauty which you had, How stands the case? Was I not justified In hiding Gregory Wenner to preserve The beauty and the rapture which you craved? Dear, it was love of beauty which impelled What you have called deceit, it was my woman's Passionate hope to give the man she loved The beauty which he saw in her that inspired My acting
, as you phrase it, an elaborate Hypocrisy, an ugly word from you!... But listen, dear, how spirit works in love: When you beheld me pure, I would be pure; As virginal, I would be virginal; As innocent, I would be innocent; As truthful, constant, so I would be these Though to be truthful, constant when I loved you Came to me like my breath, as natural. So I would be all things to you for love, Fill full your dreams, your vision of my soul For now and future days, but make myself In days before I knew you what you thought, Believed and cherished. Hence if you combine The thought that what I was did not concern you, With fear that if you knew, your heart would change; And with these join that passionate zeal of love To be your lover, wholly beautiful, You have the exposition of my soul In its elaborate deceit,--your words."

  "Some fifty years ago a man and woman Are talking in a room, say certain things, We were not there! We two are with each other Somewhere, and fifty years from now, we two Will look to after souls who were not there Like figures in a crystal globe; I mean To lift to light the wounds of brooding love, And show you that the world contains events Of which we live in ignorance, if we know They hurt us with their mystery, coming near In our soul's cycle, somehow. But the dead, And what they lived, what are they?--what the things Of our dead selves to selves who are alive, And live the hour that's given us?"

  "What's your past To me, beloved, if your soul and body Are mine to-day, not only mine, but made By living more my own, more rich for me, More truly harmonized with me? Believe me You are my highest hope made real at last, The climax of my love life, I accept Whatever passed in rooms in years gone by; Whatever contacts, raptures, pains or hopes As schooling of your soul to make it precious, And for my worship, my advancement, kneel And thank the God of mysteries and wisdom Who made you for me, let me find you, love you!"

  "Now of myself a word. In years to come These words I write will seem all truth to you, Their prism colors, violet and red, Will fade away and leave them in the light Arranged and reasonable and wholly true. Then you will read the words: I found you, dear, After a life of pain; and you will see My spirit like a blossom that you watch From budding to unfolding, knowing thus How it matured from day to day. I say My life has been all pain, I see at first A father and a mother linked in strife. Am thrown upon my girlhood's strength to teach, Earn money for my schooling, would know French; I studied Greek a little, gave it up, Distractions, duties, came too fast for me. I longed to sing, took lessons, lack of money Ended the lessons. But above it all My heart was like an altar lit with flame, Aspired to heaven, asked for sacrifice, For incense to be bright, more beautiful For beauty's sake. And in my soul's despair, And just to use this vital flame, I turned To God, the church. You must be stone to hear Such words as these and not relent, an image Of basalt which I pray to not to see And not to hear! But listen! look at me, Did I become a drifter, wholly fail? Did I become a common woman, turn To common life and ways? Can you dispute My eyes were fixed upon a lovelier life, Have never gaze withdrawn from loveliness? Did I give up, or break, turn to the flesh, Pleasures, the solace of the senses--No! Where some take drink to ease their hurts and dull Their disappointments, I renewed my will To sacrifice and service, work, who saw These things in essence may be drink as well, And bring the end, oblivion while you live, But bring supremacy instead of failure, Collapse, disgust and fears. Think what you will Of me for Gregory Wenner, and imagine The worst you may, I stand here as I am, With my life proven! And to end the pain I went to nurse the soldiers in the war With thoughts that if I died in service, good! Not that I gladly give up life, I love it. But life must be surrendered; let it be In service, as some end it up in drink, Or opium or lust. Beloved heart, I know my will is stronger than my vision, That passion masters judgment; that my love For love and life and beauty are too much For gifts like mine; I know that I am dumb, Songless, without articulate words--but still My very dumbness is a kind of speech Which some day will flood down your deafened rocks, And sweep my meaning over you."

  "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 anot
her 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 multi
ple 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 no
thing, 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?"

  "Now take this girl: She knew before she sailed to France, this man, This Barrett Bays was mad about her--knew She could stay here and have him, live with him, And thus achieve a happiness. And she knew To leave him was to make a chance to lose him. But then you say she knew he'd tire of her, And left for France. And still that happiness Before he tired would be hers. You see This spirit I'd delineate working here: To sacrifice and by the sacrifice Rise to a bigger spirit, make it truer; Then bring that truer spirit to her love For Barrett Bays, and not just loll and slop In love to-day. Why does she wish to give A finer spirit to this Barrett Bays? And to that end take life in hand? It's this: My Something, God at work. You say it's woman In sublimate of passion--call it that. Why sublimate a passion? All her life This girl aspires--you think to win a man? But win a man with what? With finest self Make this her contribution to these riches, Which Bruno and the others filled so full. You see this Something going on, but races Come up, express themselves and pass away; But yet this Something manifests itself Through souls like Elenor Murray's--fills her life With fuller meanings, maybe at the last This Something will reveal itself so clear That men like David Barrow can perceive. And Love, this spirit, twin of Death, you see Love slays this girl, but Love remains to slay, Lift up, drive on and slay. I call Death twin Of Love, and why? Because two things alone Make what we are and live, first Love the flame, And Death the cap that snuffs it. Is it bread That keeps us dancing, skating like these bugs That play criss-cross on evening waters?--no! It's bread to get more life to give more love, Bring to some heart a fuller life, receive A fuller life for having given life. This force of love may look demonical. It tears, destroys, and crushes, chokes and kills, Is always stretching hands to Death its twin. And yet it is creation and creates, Feeds roses, jonquils, columbines, gardenias, As well as thistles, cockle burrs and thorns. This is the force to which the girl's alert, And sensitive, is shaken by its power, Driven, uplifted, purified; a doll Of paper dancing on magnetic plates; And by that passion lusts for Death himself, For union with another, sacrifice, Beauty, and she aspires and toils, and turns To God, the symptom always of this nature. My fellow-jurymen, you'll never see, Or learn so well about another soul That had this Love force deeper in her flesh, Her spirit, suffered more. Why do we suffer? What is this love force? 'Tis the child of blood Of madness, as this Elenor is the seed Of that old grandma, who was mad, and cousin Of Taylor who did murder. What is this But human spirit flamed and subtleized Until it is a poison and a food; A madness but a clearest sanity; A vision and a blindness, all as if When nature goes so far, refines so much Her balance has been broken, if the Something Makes not a genius or a giant soul. And so we suffer. But why do we suffer? Well, not as Barrow said, that life is bad; A failure and a fraud. Not suffering That points to dust, defeat, is painfulest; But suffering that points to skies and realms Above us, whence we came, or where we go, That suffering is most poignant, as it is Significant as well, and rapturous too. The pain that thrills us for the singing Flame Of Love, the force creative, that's the pain! And those must suffer most to whom the sounds Of music or of words, or scents, or scenes Recall lost realms. No soul can understand Music or words in whom there is not stirred A recollection--that is genius too: A memory, and reliving hours we lived Before we looked upon this world of man."...

  Then Winthrop Marion said: "I like your talk, Llewellyn George, but still what killed the girl? What was the cause of death of Elenor Murray? She died from syncope, that's clear enough. The doctors tell us that in syncope The victim should be laid down, not held up. And Barrett Bays, the bungler, held her up When she was stricken--like the man, I think! Well, Coroner, suppose we make a verdict, And say we find that had this Barrett Bays Sustained this Elenor Murray in the war, And in her life, with friendship, and with faith She had not died. Suppose we further find That when he took her, held her in his arms When she had syncope, he was dull or crazed, And missed a chance to save her. We could find That had he laid her down when she was stricken She might have lived--I knew that much myself. And we could find that had he never driven This woman from his arms, but kept her there, Before said day of August 7th, no doubt She had not died on August 7th. In short, He held her up, and should have laid her down, And drove her from him when she needed arms To hold her up. And so we find her death Was due to Barrett Bays--we censure him, Would hold him to the courts--that cannot be-- And so we hold him up for memory Contemptuous, and say his bitter words Brought on the syncope, so long prepared By what he did. We write his course unfeeling, Weak, selfish, petty, flowing from the craze Of sexual jealousy, made worse by war, And universal madness, erethism Of hellish war. And, gentlemen, one thing: Paul Robert's article in the _Dawn_ suggests Some things I credit, knowing them. We get Our notions of uncleanness from the Jews, The Pentateuch. There are no women here, And I can talk;--you know the ancient Jews Deemed sex unclean, and only to be touched At sufferance of Jehovah; birth unclean, A mother needing purification after Her hour of giving birth. You know their laws Concerning adultery. Well, they've tainted us In spite of Greece. Now look at Elenor Murray: What if she went with Gregory Wenner. Hell! Did that contaminate her, change her flesh, Or change her spirit? All this evidence Shows that it did not. But it changed this man, Because his mind was slime where snakes could breed. But now what do we see? That woman is Essential genius, man just mechanism Of conscious thought and strength. This Elenor Is wiser, being nature, than this man, And lives a life that puts this Barrett Bays To shame and laughter. Look at her: She's brave, Devoted, loyal, true and dutiful, She's will to life, and through it senses God, And seeks to serve the cosmic soul. I think This jury should start now to raise a fund To erect a statue of her in the park To keep her name and labors fresh in mind To those who shall come after."

  "And I'll sign A verdict in these words, but understand Such things are _Coram non judice_; still We can chip in our money, start the fund To build this monument."

  Ritter interrupted. The banker said: "I'll start it with a hundred," And so the fund was started.

  Marion Resumed to speak of riffles: "In Chicago There's less than half the people speaking English, The rest is Babel: Germans, Russians, Poles And all the tongues, much rippling going on, And if we couldn't trace the riffles out From Elenor Murray, We must give this up. One thing is sure: Look out for England, if America shall grow a separate soul. You may have congresses, and presidents, These states, but if America is a realm. Of tribute as to thought, America Is just a province. And it's past the time When we should be ourselves, we've wasted time, And grafted alien things upon our bole. A Domesday of the minds that think and know In our America would give us hope, We have them in abundance. What I hate Is that crude Demos which shouts down the minds, Outvotes them, takes these silly lies that move The populace and makes them into laws, And makes a village of a great republic."

  And Merival listened as the jurymen Philosophied the case of Elenor Murray, And life at large. And having listened spoke: "I like the words Llewellyn George has said. Love is a sea which wrecks and sinks our craft, But re-creates the hands that build again; And like a tidal wave which sponges out An island or a city, lifts and leaves Fresh seeds and forms of beauty on the peaks. The whinchat in the mud upon its claws, Storm driven from its course to sea, brings life Of animal and plant to virgin shores, And islands str
ange and new. These happenings Of Elenor Murray carry beauty forth, Unhurt amid the storm-cloud, darkness, fire, To lives and eras. And our country too, So ruined and so weltering, like a ball Of mud made in a missile by a god May bear, no less, a pearl at core, a truth, A liberty, a genius, beauty,--thrown In mischief by the god, and staining walls Of this our temple; in a day to be Dried up, cracks open, and the pearl appears To be set in a precious time beyond Our time and vision. This is what I mean: Call Elenor egoist, and make her work, And life the means of rich return to her In exaltation, pride;--a missile of mud, It carries still the pearl of her, the seed Of finer spirits. We must open eyes To see inside the mud-ball. If it be We conquered slavery of the negro through, Because of economic forces, yet We conquered it. Trade, cotton, were the mud Upon the whinchat's claws containing seeds Of liberties to be, and carried forth In mid seas of the future to sunny isles, More blest than ours. And as for this, you know The English blotted slavery from their books And left their books unbalanced in point of cash, But balanced richly in a manhood gain. I warn you, David Barrow, pessimist, Against a general slur on life and man. Deride the Christian ethic, if you choose, You must retain its word of benevolence; Or better, you must honor man, whose heart Leaps up to its benevolence, from whose heart The Christian doctrine of benevolence Did issue to this world. If Christian doctrine Be man-made, not a miracle, as it is All man-made, still it's out of generous fire Of human spirit; that's the thing divine.... Now how is Elenor Murray wonderful To me viewed through this mass of evidence? Why, as the soul maternal, out of which All goodness, beauty, and benevolence, All aspiration, sacrifice, all death For truth and liberty blesses life of us. This soul maternal, passion to create New life and guide it into happiness, Is Mother Mary of all tenderness, All charity, all vision, rises up From its obscurity and primal force Of romance, passion and the child, to realms, Democracies, republics; never flags To make them brighter, freer, so to spread Its ecstasy to all, and take in turn Redoubled ecstasy! The tragedy Is that this Elenor for her mother gift Is cursed and tortured, sent a wanderer; And in her death must find much clinging mud Around the pearl of her. If that be mud, Which we have heard, around her, is it mud That weights the soul of America, the pure Dream of our founders? Larger Athens, where All things should be heard gladly and considered, And men should grow, be forced to grow, because Not driven or restrained by usages, Or laws of mad majorities, but left At their own peril to work out their lives.... Well, gentlemen, I'll tell you what I've learned. What is a man or woman but a sperm Accreted into largeness? Still a sperm In likeness, being brain and spinal cord, Fed by the glands, the thyroid and the rest, Whose secrets we are ignorant of. We know That when they fail our minds fail. But the glands Are visible and clear: but in us whirl Emotions; fear, disgust, murder or wrath, Traced back to animals as moods of flight Repulsion, curiosity, all the rest. Now what are these but levers of our machine? Elenor Murray teaches this to me: Build up a science of these levers, learn To handle fear, disgust, anger, wonder. They teach us physiology; who teaches The use of instincts and emotions, powers? All learning may be that, but what is that? Why just a spread of food, where after nibbling You learn what you can eat, and what is good For you to eat. You'll see a different world When this philosophy of levers rules."...

  Then Merival tacked round and said: "I'll show The riffles in my life from Elenor Murray: The politicians give me notice now I cannot be the coroner again. I didn't want to be, but I had planned To go to Congress, and they say to that We do not want you. So my circle turns, And riffles back to breeding better hogs, And finer cattle. Here's the verdict, sign Your names, and I'll return it to the clerk.

  THE VERDICT

  "An inquisition taken for the people Of the State of Illinois here at LeRoy, County aforesaid, on the 7th of August, Anna Domini, nineteen hundred nineteen, Before me, William Merival, coroner For the said County, viewing here the body Of Elenor Murray lying dead, upon The oath of six good lawful men, the same Of the said County, being duly sworn To inquire for the said people into all The circumstances of her death, the said Elenor Murray, and by whom the same Was brought about, and in what manner, when, And where she came to death, do say upon Their oaths, that Elenor Murray lying dead In the office of the coroner at LeRoy Came to her death on August 7th aforesaid Upon the east shore of the Illinois River A mile above Starved Rock, from syncope, While in the company of Barrett Bays, Who held her in his arms when she was seized, And should have laid her down when she was seized To give her heart a chance to resume its beat."

  * * * * *

  The jury signed the verdict and arose And said good-night to Merival, went their way. Next day the coroner went to Madison To look on Arielle, who had written him.