The Fate of the Jury/Part 2
II
Now many years had passed since Merival
Had seen his aunt, that Cynthia who lived
In Madison, and who had written him
To cease his thought about the war, and cease
To think of Elenor Murray. She had advised
His soul's control by worship; she had said
Above all things be free, by searching truth
Find God within, and do it by such forms
As books and temples, dogmas, rituals,
Whatever brings the means. And Merival
Mused on these words, and looked upon the greens,
The waking fields, and budding hills along
The way to Madison. In truth these words
Of the old aunt meant less to him than when
He read them first. So much of Elenor Murray's
Defeat, soul grief, and longing, poverty
Had entered in his being like an acid,
With power to eat away such mystic lymph
As Cynthia wrote him, that he analyzed,
Now as he rode, with equal vigilance
What Cynthia had written of Arielle,
And that she wrote of Arielle at all.
His thought was that whatever a woman says,
However she hides it under Hindu fudge,
Her thought, which burns from unexhausted oil,
Is love, is mating, is about the child;
And when she ages, as his Cynthia had,
She substitutes by using an Arielle
To live what life no longer lets her live.
So acting had she written of Arielle,
And moved the hand of Arielle to write him.
Twas plain enough these two had weighed his life,
These two together; he could fancy it:
At night together talking when they read
The evening paper with the latest news
Of Elenor Murray's inquest. As this aunt
Had written him of Arielle's widowhood,
And all her history from a little girl,
True was it she had told to Arielle
What he had lived. For Arielle wrote him:
"Most everything about you, of your youth,
Your schooling, shall I say your sorrow too,
I know—and I admire your life." He wondered
How Arielle felt about this. If at first
Her sympathy was stirred because he lost
A woman twenty years before, what now
Stood in her thought as final mind result,
As judgment, feeling that this early love
Had run away to France, and broken faith;
And there had met disaster of some sort
With a heartless maestro in a lawless bond?
For this and for his years of sorrowing
Did she admire him more? How would he feel
If she had been discarded in such wise?
Would he be prone to love her more? Would love
Breed pity, and then fool itself as love?
But when the flesh of love had shrunk away
Around the bones of grief which flesh concealed
What, saving pity, or perchance contempt
Would enter at the eye? So he was sure
Such knowledge in the hand of Arielle
Fortuned him nothing. And if Arielle
Were a wag, a laugher, as his aunt had said,
Would she be serious about his grief?
Rather his secret known to her would give
Her mood a certain mastery over him,
And place him on a level with her eyes,
Not looking up to eyes which never knew
Defeat. But then such subtleties of life
Would wither in the actual, hardy days
Of married interests—surely. For himself
If Arielle became his wife, and rode
About those great three thousand acres near
Starved Rock, amid his cattle; if she sat
With him at night among his treasured shelves
Of books; if they shared duties, joys, and hopes;
If they had guests, or traveled; if the days
Won them together, bound them in a health
Of clear eyes for the real, and steady wills
For stuff of flesh and blood—if all of this
How should he care about her husband dying
Suddenly in a brothel, and who left
This spirit beautiful, this Arielle,
As Cynthia described her, this young wife
For ways like these? Yet Merival reflected
The caring might depend on why he left,
And whether Arielle was such a woman
Who in some manner hurled him into shame,
And shameful death; or whether she was song
Out of a rhythm, sense of beauty, soul
All beautiful, who knew the errant ways
Of her young husband, and forgave them, gave
Her constancy no less. Then did his body
Lie in her wondrous library, beneath
The dancing muses (all this Cynthia wrote him),
A purple robe thrown over it, where she laid
Her sunny head? Did Cynthia fancy this?
What picture was the truth for Merival
To care or not to care about the past
Of Arielle? But surely it was true
That Cynthia had run to sentiment;
And was she even judgment clear to say
That Arielle was beautiful as a spirit
And Elenor was not, whom Merival
Saw beautiful in part with all her faults?
This Arielle had faults, for him to find;
That must be so, thought Merival. And thus
He canvassed all the matter on the train,
And with such knowledge sped to Arielle,
Who waited him, half knowing Merival.
Had seen his aunt, that Cynthia who lived
In Madison, and who had written him
To cease his thought about the war, and cease
To think of Elenor Murray. She had advised
His soul's control by worship; she had said
Above all things be free, by searching truth
Find God within, and do it by such forms
As books and temples, dogmas, rituals,
Whatever brings the means. And Merival
Mused on these words, and looked upon the greens,
The waking fields, and budding hills along
The way to Madison. In truth these words
Of the old aunt meant less to him than when
He read them first. So much of Elenor Murray's
Defeat, soul grief, and longing, poverty
Had entered in his being like an acid,
With power to eat away such mystic lymph
As Cynthia wrote him, that he analyzed,
Now as he rode, with equal vigilance
What Cynthia had written of Arielle,
And that she wrote of Arielle at all.
His thought was that whatever a woman says,
However she hides it under Hindu fudge,
Her thought, which burns from unexhausted oil,
Is love, is mating, is about the child;
And when she ages, as his Cynthia had,
She substitutes by using an Arielle
To live what life no longer lets her live.
So acting had she written of Arielle,
And moved the hand of Arielle to write him.
Twas plain enough these two had weighed his life,
These two together; he could fancy it:
At night together talking when they read
The evening paper with the latest news
Of Elenor Murray's inquest. As this aunt
Had written him of Arielle's widowhood,
And all her history from a little girl,
True was it she had told to Arielle
What he had lived. For Arielle wrote him:
"Most everything about you, of your youth,
Your schooling, shall I say your sorrow too,
I know—and I admire your life." He wondered
How Arielle felt about this. If at first
Her sympathy was stirred because he lost
A woman twenty years before, what now
Stood in her thought as final mind result,
As judgment, feeling that this early love
Had run away to France, and broken faith;
And there had met disaster of some sort
With a heartless maestro in a lawless bond?
For this and for his years of sorrowing
Did she admire him more? How would he feel
If she had been discarded in such wise?
Would he be prone to love her more? Would love
Breed pity, and then fool itself as love?
But when the flesh of love had shrunk away
Around the bones of grief which flesh concealed
What, saving pity, or perchance contempt
Would enter at the eye? So he was sure
Such knowledge in the hand of Arielle
Fortuned him nothing. And if Arielle
Were a wag, a laugher, as his aunt had said,
Would she be serious about his grief?
Rather his secret known to her would give
Her mood a certain mastery over him,
And place him on a level with her eyes,
Not looking up to eyes which never knew
Defeat. But then such subtleties of life
Would wither in the actual, hardy days
Of married interests—surely. For himself
If Arielle became his wife, and rode
About those great three thousand acres near
Starved Rock, amid his cattle; if she sat
With him at night among his treasured shelves
Of books; if they shared duties, joys, and hopes;
If they had guests, or traveled; if the days
Won them together, bound them in a health
Of clear eyes for the real, and steady wills
For stuff of flesh and blood—if all of this
How should he care about her husband dying
Suddenly in a brothel, and who left
This spirit beautiful, this Arielle,
As Cynthia described her, this young wife
For ways like these? Yet Merival reflected
The caring might depend on why he left,
And whether Arielle was such a woman
Who in some manner hurled him into shame,
And shameful death; or whether she was song
Out of a rhythm, sense of beauty, soul
All beautiful, who knew the errant ways
Of her young husband, and forgave them, gave
Her constancy no less. Then did his body
Lie in her wondrous library, beneath
The dancing muses (all this Cynthia wrote him),
A purple robe thrown over it, where she laid
Her sunny head? Did Cynthia fancy this?
What picture was the truth for Merival
To care or not to care about the past
Of Arielle? But surely it was true
That Cynthia had run to sentiment;
And was she even judgment clear to say
That Arielle was beautiful as a spirit
And Elenor was not, whom Merival
Saw beautiful in part with all her faults?
This Arielle had faults, for him to find;
That must be so, thought Merival. And thus
He canvassed all the matter on the train,
And with such knowledge sped to Arielle,
Who waited him, half knowing Merival.
She looked in closets at the snowy piles
Of linen, napery, at her shoes in stocks,
Her furs in bags, her dresses hung with care,
Her hats in boxes, all the ordered thrift
In which she kept her cherished ownerships;
She walked her rooms half smiling to herself
For thinking of this Merival; through her hall
She loitered where the April wind was tilting
The picture frames upon the wall; she took
The vine in hand with delicate delight,
Which last year like a hope had almost come
Over the window sill and entered in
Her room of books; she strayed upon the lawn
To scatter crumbs among the lively fowl,
And where the robins and the thrushes came;
She frolicked with her dogs, and hugged Arno
The great police dog, whispering in his ear
That company was coming; and she clipped
The dead tips of the box along the walks,
Or wandered to the kitchen where her maids
Were busy baking cakes, and dressing fowls;
And from the kitchen to the cellar going
She took her flash light better to see the age
And brands of precious wine; she draped with cloth
Of gold the grand piano, the cloth she bought
In China, and she laid her music out
Selected from Liszt, Schubert, and Chopin
To be in readiness for her friend Helena
Whom she had asked to come and play for her—
For Merival rather; and all this sunny day
Of long lived hours she sat and stood and walked,
And rounded her inspections, straightened spreads,
Changed pictures, emptied vases of dead stems,
Put books upon the stands, then changed her mind,
Replacing them with others; then returned
To the kitchen once again to overlook
The dinner being cooked, and glanced the clock
Whose hands were moving to the hour of six
Which brought the train and Merival, for whom
This day was spent in waiting. When she heard
The whistle sound she hurried up the stairs
Better to look across the vacant space
Where Cynthia lived, and see this Merival
Walking to Cynthia's door; or pass across
The lawn and leave the taxi at the gate.
So standing at her window where the vine
Was stretching green to grow across the sill
She stood and waited; and after hours it seemed
A taxi sped the gravel to the porch
Of Cynthia's house. She saw a man alight,
Help Cynthia from the taxi, pay the man,
And carrying his satchel walk with her,
Enter and disappear. But she had seen
Something, a pause, a tangle of missing hands,
It seemed he dropped his satchel, or it seemed
That Cynthia tripped, or lacked the helping hand
Of Merival, and swayed until he caught
Her arm—'twas something brief and swift and gone.
Then Arielle turned and dressed for dinner, while
Aunt Cynthia and her nephew across the way
Talked of a thousand things in eager haste;
Until at last Aunt Cynthia took his lapels
And gazing in his eyes importunate
Said, "You are weary and your face betrays
Anxiety and labor. You must stay
These many days with me and rest yourself,
Walk in this lovely country with Arielle,
Throw off old care and be a boy again—
Oh, what a chance for happiness is here!
Now dress for dinner, served at seven o'clock;
And do you wake your mood of humorous words,
And brighten Arielle's dinner which she gives
To honor you and bring you happiness."
So Merival promised; and soon upon the porch
Of Arielle's mansion Cynthia rang the bell.
Of linen, napery, at her shoes in stocks,
Her furs in bags, her dresses hung with care,
Her hats in boxes, all the ordered thrift
In which she kept her cherished ownerships;
She walked her rooms half smiling to herself
For thinking of this Merival; through her hall
She loitered where the April wind was tilting
The picture frames upon the wall; she took
The vine in hand with delicate delight,
Which last year like a hope had almost come
Over the window sill and entered in
Her room of books; she strayed upon the lawn
To scatter crumbs among the lively fowl,
And where the robins and the thrushes came;
She frolicked with her dogs, and hugged Arno
The great police dog, whispering in his ear
That company was coming; and she clipped
The dead tips of the box along the walks,
Or wandered to the kitchen where her maids
Were busy baking cakes, and dressing fowls;
And from the kitchen to the cellar going
She took her flash light better to see the age
And brands of precious wine; she draped with cloth
Of gold the grand piano, the cloth she bought
In China, and she laid her music out
Selected from Liszt, Schubert, and Chopin
To be in readiness for her friend Helena
Whom she had asked to come and play for her—
For Merival rather; and all this sunny day
Of long lived hours she sat and stood and walked,
And rounded her inspections, straightened spreads,
Changed pictures, emptied vases of dead stems,
Put books upon the stands, then changed her mind,
Replacing them with others; then returned
To the kitchen once again to overlook
The dinner being cooked, and glanced the clock
Whose hands were moving to the hour of six
Which brought the train and Merival, for whom
This day was spent in waiting. When she heard
The whistle sound she hurried up the stairs
Better to look across the vacant space
Where Cynthia lived, and see this Merival
Walking to Cynthia's door; or pass across
The lawn and leave the taxi at the gate.
So standing at her window where the vine
Was stretching green to grow across the sill
She stood and waited; and after hours it seemed
A taxi sped the gravel to the porch
Of Cynthia's house. She saw a man alight,
Help Cynthia from the taxi, pay the man,
And carrying his satchel walk with her,
Enter and disappear. But she had seen
Something, a pause, a tangle of missing hands,
It seemed he dropped his satchel, or it seemed
That Cynthia tripped, or lacked the helping hand
Of Merival, and swayed until he caught
Her arm—'twas something brief and swift and gone.
Then Arielle turned and dressed for dinner, while
Aunt Cynthia and her nephew across the way
Talked of a thousand things in eager haste;
Until at last Aunt Cynthia took his lapels
And gazing in his eyes importunate
Said, "You are weary and your face betrays
Anxiety and labor. You must stay
These many days with me and rest yourself,
Walk in this lovely country with Arielle,
Throw off old care and be a boy again—
Oh, what a chance for happiness is here!
Now dress for dinner, served at seven o'clock;
And do you wake your mood of humorous words,
And brighten Arielle's dinner which she gives
To honor you and bring you happiness."
So Merival promised; and soon upon the porch
Of Arielle's mansion Cynthia rang the bell.
Now Arielle watching from an upper window
Saw them approaching. Well she marked the breadth
Of Merival's shoulders, all his height and brawn;
And how he strode, how with a rhythmic swing
He lifted feet; and she was wondering
What frost or snow along his temples lay,
She knew his age from Cynthia. Then she thought
How often at the first a face had seemed
Almost perfection, like a Byron face,
But in the true analysis of eyes
Which tried to keep the Byron face, became
By just the dreamed similitudes so less
The face imagined, as they stood against
What was not Byron's, and even made them less
The resemblances. How would his face emerge
After the first impression? Then the bell
Rang and she stood until the maid should come
Announcing them; while Merival and his aunt
Entered the drawing-room and awaited her.
Now Merival was sitting full in view
Of the spacious stair, and watched for Arielle.
Soon he beheld her stepping gracefully,
And caught a glimpse of sunny hair; and then
Reaching the last step Arielle hurried in,
And amid the words of introduction gave
Her friend a hand, and Merival a hand,
And laughed her welcome with a voice which shook
The heart of Merival, and with her eyes
All laughing-light and gentleness she said,
"So you are here at last—we are so glad."
Saw them approaching. Well she marked the breadth
Of Merival's shoulders, all his height and brawn;
And how he strode, how with a rhythmic swing
He lifted feet; and she was wondering
What frost or snow along his temples lay,
She knew his age from Cynthia. Then she thought
How often at the first a face had seemed
Almost perfection, like a Byron face,
But in the true analysis of eyes
Which tried to keep the Byron face, became
By just the dreamed similitudes so less
The face imagined, as they stood against
What was not Byron's, and even made them less
The resemblances. How would his face emerge
After the first impression? Then the bell
Rang and she stood until the maid should come
Announcing them; while Merival and his aunt
Entered the drawing-room and awaited her.
Now Merival was sitting full in view
Of the spacious stair, and watched for Arielle.
Soon he beheld her stepping gracefully,
And caught a glimpse of sunny hair; and then
Reaching the last step Arielle hurried in,
And amid the words of introduction gave
Her friend a hand, and Merival a hand,
And laughed her welcome with a voice which shook
The heart of Merival, and with her eyes
All laughing-light and gentleness she said,
"So you are here at last—we are so glad."
Now at the dinner Merival by the wine
Keyed to discussion said to Arielle:
"What made you write me that I needed lifting,
A spiritual uplifting, when those days
Were given while I canvassed Elenor Murray's
Life, and so doing probed America,
To find what ailed it and what could be done?
Is that not spiritual? Or did you mean
It had no flavor of the spirit in it?
For I confess that any little Atlas
Who holds the world upon his shoulders may
Groan, curse the task, and lose his spirit so;
And you can say that inquest for the time
Was holding up the world. One thing I loved
In your letter: it was that frank and sweet confession
That you leap over social rules to write
And speak your mind, and that by doing so
You have made many friends upon the way.
I quote your words, '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,' and so on—
My verbal memory is very good
For what I prize, or choose to memorize.
Oh yes, you wrote that I could teach you—what
Do you now say that I can teach you?" Then
Laughing she said, "We cannot map a course
Of study while you're jesting, drinking wine;
To-morrow or the next day or the next
We'll give it thought, when Cynthia can spare
Your presence for a walk, a drive, or tea."
And saying this she studied out his face,
How large and luminous his eyes were, how
Shapely and strong his nose, how full his brow,
How generous his mouth. And what was here
To weaken or submerge with lesser grace
The whole, magnanimous and beautiful?
Would not this first impression gather proof
That it must be the last impression too,
Tested in many lights, and by what turns
Of head, of profiles, by what change of mood?
So thinking Arielle said, "I understand
That in this inquest witnesses deposed,
For I have read their testimony. But
What do the jurymen to each other say?
You must confer. Or better what do you
The coroner say? What did you say, in fact?
You had a chance when answering my letter,
Which now you quote, to write of Elenor Murray,
And tell me what you thought of her. It's true
That woman and her strange career have taken
My wonder, speculation. And you must
Have intimate opinions based upon
Intimate proofs. You'll tell me will you not?"
And Merival replied, "Perhaps I can."
So they arose from dinner. And Helena
Played for them, and at last when 'Arielle
Renewed her importunity Merival
Began as follows:
Keyed to discussion said to Arielle:
"What made you write me that I needed lifting,
A spiritual uplifting, when those days
Were given while I canvassed Elenor Murray's
Life, and so doing probed America,
To find what ailed it and what could be done?
Is that not spiritual? Or did you mean
It had no flavor of the spirit in it?
For I confess that any little Atlas
Who holds the world upon his shoulders may
Groan, curse the task, and lose his spirit so;
And you can say that inquest for the time
Was holding up the world. One thing I loved
In your letter: it was that frank and sweet confession
That you leap over social rules to write
And speak your mind, and that by doing so
You have made many friends upon the way.
I quote your words, '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,' and so on—
My verbal memory is very good
For what I prize, or choose to memorize.
Oh yes, you wrote that I could teach you—what
Do you now say that I can teach you?" Then
Laughing she said, "We cannot map a course
Of study while you're jesting, drinking wine;
To-morrow or the next day or the next
We'll give it thought, when Cynthia can spare
Your presence for a walk, a drive, or tea."
And saying this she studied out his face,
How large and luminous his eyes were, how
Shapely and strong his nose, how full his brow,
How generous his mouth. And what was here
To weaken or submerge with lesser grace
The whole, magnanimous and beautiful?
Would not this first impression gather proof
That it must be the last impression too,
Tested in many lights, and by what turns
Of head, of profiles, by what change of mood?
So thinking Arielle said, "I understand
That in this inquest witnesses deposed,
For I have read their testimony. But
What do the jurymen to each other say?
You must confer. Or better what do you
The coroner say? What did you say, in fact?
You had a chance when answering my letter,
Which now you quote, to write of Elenor Murray,
And tell me what you thought of her. It's true
That woman and her strange career have taken
My wonder, speculation. And you must
Have intimate opinions based upon
Intimate proofs. You'll tell me will you not?"
And Merival replied, "Perhaps I can."
So they arose from dinner. And Helena
Played for them, and at last when 'Arielle
Renewed her importunity Merival
Began as follows:
Began as follows:"What I learned and saw
From tracing out the life of Elenor Murray
Was how each life affects so many lives.
It made me gasp, it seemed the wonder thing
About the woman as her life was probed,
Strange, mystical and pointing to some truth
Too deep for men. Why how would I be here
Except for Elenor Murray? After years
Of silence from Aunt Cynthia she writes
Me, spurred on to do so by this inquest,
Seeing your interest in this wonder thing
Of the hour, this tumbled backwash of the war.
So I am here as one of the effects
Of Elenor Murray, the little nurse who died,
The poor, starved, passionate ruin of LeRoy;
And being here, there are other things to be,
And what, who knows? But save for Elenor Murray
I might not be in life. For when the word
Came that her body had been found, I stood
In the very act of starting for the lake,
With chums who went, and one did not return:
The boat capsized and one of them was drowned;
That might have been myself, or all of us,
Who knows? It's clear that my escape was made
By staying in LeRoy to hold this inquest.
But of one sequence there's no doubt at all:
This inquest roused such animosity
That I shall be the coroner no more.
I have been served with notice that I'm out;
And also that my hope to go to Congress
Is blasted by some bosses, newspapers
Who say this inquest proved that I am not
The stuff whereof good Congressmen are made.
So barred from Congress which will lead to what?
God only knows, and being here instead,
Which will lead where God only knows as well,
All flows from Elenor Murray. As to what
We men who held the inquest said apart
From witnesses and the public, it would take
A room of books to hold it. Much was trash,
Just as some jurymen were given at times
To utter rant or empty platitudes."
Then Arielle said, "That was ingenious
For you to try to take a spiritual census
Through Elenor's inquest, of America.
Did you succeed, and if you did, what is
The final word, what is America,
And what is needful for America
To do in order to perform her part,
Achieve her rightful destiny and go on?"
And Merival replied, "Perhaps I'll give
A lecture sometime, try to predicate
What is the matter with America,
And what remains for us to do for her.
Just now it seems enough to say that waste,
Waste of life force, of men and women, halts
A faster progress, just as Elenor
Was so much waste, no matter how she strove.
As I said to my fellows of the inquest
We need to work a science out with which
To use, not waste all human energies;
A science which will handle wonder, love,
And curb or well direct hate, fear and strength.
For I could see, and all of us could see
That Elenor if fortuned at the first
In love, had grown to happiness, success;
And being luckless in her first attempt
Went straying, struggling, trying all her life.
So do we all, perhaps. And few of us
Have any one, or any book to guide
Our way when we are headed toward results,
This good, that bad. But then I must confess
I felt at times that Elenor lived a life
As good as many, or as any maybe.
Her case so much increased my skepticism,
And made me resurrect old speculations
On proofs of immortality, to illustrate,
Where, as you know, the proofs are paralleled
By just as many proofs that death's the end;
Or God of whose existence there's as much
Evidence and no more that He is not;
Or to come down to nearer things, to man:
Looked at one way he is a flat defeat,
And at another quite a fine success;
Or life which can be argued as an evil,
Or argued just as well as something good;
Or there's America, so materialistic,
So heedless, vulgar, cruel, selfish, savage;
But seen another way with her inventions,
Philanthropies, and comforts, beauty too,
Seems half divine and climbing to the light.
It looks as though a devil soul has caught
Our minds between these rich antitheses,
Which neutralize each other and prevent
Belief from taking us who canvass both.
We can shut eyes to those we wish to doubt,
And thereby have conviction based upon
The column with the figures that we choose.
We can be optimists, to make the point,
By blotting out the column written red.
But if we scan both columns we confess
We can't arrive at any truth with minds
So impotent and baffled by the proofs.
Faced by this double entry bigot souls
Deny the double entry, see their truth,
And by denying thus and seeing thus
Grow fiercer in conviction, and become
Great haters, great fanatics for the good,
For progress of the world. Meanwhile the eyes
Which see both columns, cannot be so sure,
And being doubtful cannot map a course
With wills and hopes unnerved by seeing both
The thesis and antithesis. Why should the world
Be ordered thus, which gives the lesser minds
Advantage for the time, and being piled,
Perhaps for all time, lauds the triumph too?
Well, in a word I don't know Elenor Murray
After these weeks of canvassing her life.
I don't know whether 'twas good or bad, in truth
I don't know whether her life was waste or not,
Though thinking it was waste. But here to-night
She seems an actress in a play, who trod
The boards with zest, and made her part a thing
For long remembrance. Maybe there are gods
Who write such plays, and then assign the parts,
And watch the playing. What is back of gods
As need, or reason, use who run the world
In such a fashion, while the players win
A moment's ecstasy and years' regret,
And gods win what, and to what ultimate end?"
From tracing out the life of Elenor Murray
Was how each life affects so many lives.
It made me gasp, it seemed the wonder thing
About the woman as her life was probed,
Strange, mystical and pointing to some truth
Too deep for men. Why how would I be here
Except for Elenor Murray? After years
Of silence from Aunt Cynthia she writes
Me, spurred on to do so by this inquest,
Seeing your interest in this wonder thing
Of the hour, this tumbled backwash of the war.
So I am here as one of the effects
Of Elenor Murray, the little nurse who died,
The poor, starved, passionate ruin of LeRoy;
And being here, there are other things to be,
And what, who knows? But save for Elenor Murray
I might not be in life. For when the word
Came that her body had been found, I stood
In the very act of starting for the lake,
With chums who went, and one did not return:
The boat capsized and one of them was drowned;
That might have been myself, or all of us,
Who knows? It's clear that my escape was made
By staying in LeRoy to hold this inquest.
But of one sequence there's no doubt at all:
This inquest roused such animosity
That I shall be the coroner no more.
I have been served with notice that I'm out;
And also that my hope to go to Congress
Is blasted by some bosses, newspapers
Who say this inquest proved that I am not
The stuff whereof good Congressmen are made.
So barred from Congress which will lead to what?
God only knows, and being here instead,
Which will lead where God only knows as well,
All flows from Elenor Murray. As to what
We men who held the inquest said apart
From witnesses and the public, it would take
A room of books to hold it. Much was trash,
Just as some jurymen were given at times
To utter rant or empty platitudes."
Then Arielle said, "That was ingenious
For you to try to take a spiritual census
Through Elenor's inquest, of America.
Did you succeed, and if you did, what is
The final word, what is America,
And what is needful for America
To do in order to perform her part,
Achieve her rightful destiny and go on?"
And Merival replied, "Perhaps I'll give
A lecture sometime, try to predicate
What is the matter with America,
And what remains for us to do for her.
Just now it seems enough to say that waste,
Waste of life force, of men and women, halts
A faster progress, just as Elenor
Was so much waste, no matter how she strove.
As I said to my fellows of the inquest
We need to work a science out with which
To use, not waste all human energies;
A science which will handle wonder, love,
And curb or well direct hate, fear and strength.
For I could see, and all of us could see
That Elenor if fortuned at the first
In love, had grown to happiness, success;
And being luckless in her first attempt
Went straying, struggling, trying all her life.
So do we all, perhaps. And few of us
Have any one, or any book to guide
Our way when we are headed toward results,
This good, that bad. But then I must confess
I felt at times that Elenor lived a life
As good as many, or as any maybe.
Her case so much increased my skepticism,
And made me resurrect old speculations
On proofs of immortality, to illustrate,
Where, as you know, the proofs are paralleled
By just as many proofs that death's the end;
Or God of whose existence there's as much
Evidence and no more that He is not;
Or to come down to nearer things, to man:
Looked at one way he is a flat defeat,
And at another quite a fine success;
Or life which can be argued as an evil,
Or argued just as well as something good;
Or there's America, so materialistic,
So heedless, vulgar, cruel, selfish, savage;
But seen another way with her inventions,
Philanthropies, and comforts, beauty too,
Seems half divine and climbing to the light.
It looks as though a devil soul has caught
Our minds between these rich antitheses,
Which neutralize each other and prevent
Belief from taking us who canvass both.
We can shut eyes to those we wish to doubt,
And thereby have conviction based upon
The column with the figures that we choose.
We can be optimists, to make the point,
By blotting out the column written red.
But if we scan both columns we confess
We can't arrive at any truth with minds
So impotent and baffled by the proofs.
Faced by this double entry bigot souls
Deny the double entry, see their truth,
And by denying thus and seeing thus
Grow fiercer in conviction, and become
Great haters, great fanatics for the good,
For progress of the world. Meanwhile the eyes
Which see both columns, cannot be so sure,
And being doubtful cannot map a course
With wills and hopes unnerved by seeing both
The thesis and antithesis. Why should the world
Be ordered thus, which gives the lesser minds
Advantage for the time, and being piled,
Perhaps for all time, lauds the triumph too?
Well, in a word I don't know Elenor Murray
After these weeks of canvassing her life.
I don't know whether 'twas good or bad, in truth
I don't know whether her life was waste or not,
Though thinking it was waste. But here to-night
She seems an actress in a play, who trod
The boards with zest, and made her part a thing
For long remembrance. Maybe there are gods
Who write such plays, and then assign the parts,
And watch the playing. What is back of gods
As need, or reason, use who run the world
In such a fashion, while the players win
A moment's ecstasy and years' regret,
And gods win what, and to what ultimate end?"
So ranged the talk of Merival as Arielle
With rapt attention listened, and the while
Studied him, and assayed his face and heart.
Then there was music, and with the evening gone
Aunt Cynthia with her nephew wandered home.
With rapt attention listened, and the while
Studied him, and assayed his face and heart.
Then there was music, and with the evening gone
Aunt Cynthia with her nephew wandered home.
Next day at ten o'clock with Arielle
Merival set forth upon a tramp.
Along a street becoming a country road
They left the town, and wandered down a hill,
And crossed a bridge that spanned a creek, then up
A hill where they could see the meadowlands;
Then coming to a wood of oaks and elms
Where sheep were pasturing they climbed a fence,
And strode athletically for a mile or so;
Till amid hills, and on a hill which looked
Upon a little lake they found a log,
And sat, and rested, listening to the wind
Of April which was shaking blasted stalks,
And racing clouds across a vernal sky.
Merival set forth upon a tramp.
Along a street becoming a country road
They left the town, and wandered down a hill,
And crossed a bridge that spanned a creek, then up
A hill where they could see the meadowlands;
Then coming to a wood of oaks and elms
Where sheep were pasturing they climbed a fence,
And strode athletically for a mile or so;
Till amid hills, and on a hill which looked
Upon a little lake they found a log,
And sat, and rested, listening to the wind
Of April which was shaking blasted stalks,
And racing clouds across a vernal sky.
Here seeing in the eyes of Arielle
The passing clouds, and how the April air
Had flushed her cheeks, and how despite the test
Of heaven's discerning light her beauty stood
Unanalyzed to any fault, he sat
And felt the kindling flame within his heart
Warm like a peace, and thrill with hope which said,
"This Arielle, this woman is all true,
Not like that woman of the long ago
Who died in France, after she ran away
From you." And with closed eyes against the wind
To shut the grosser seeing of the day,
And win the finer seeing of the dark,
So better to get the image of this woman,
And enter to its essence, Merival
Mused, murmuring that the walk and air,
'This scene of peace, this change from recent days
Of the troubled inquest, had induced a mood
Filled full with happiness. Quietly he spoke
Thus and put forth his hand to find her hand,
And finding it enclosed it, folding up
Her fingers softly in his palm. She looked
Steadily at his face now, free to gaze
By his closed eyes with greater scrutiny,
And saw a weariness along his cheeks,
And something of a sorrow in the lids
Which seemed like memory lost in quietude.
Now she remembered what Aunt Cynthia
Had told her of the woman dying in France,
And how he grieved about it. How to bring
Some further word from Merival touching this
She planned, and to ensure it asked him now
To tell her how he spent his days, and what
He read, with whom he fellowed, how he played
To pass the time, and what the years had been.
To which he answered, "Well, you wrote me thus:
'Most everything about you, of your youth,
Your schooling, shall I say your sorrow too,
I know, and I admire your life.'" "Quite true,"
Said Arielle, "and yet can one be sure
That a loving aunt, a little mystical,
And prone as women are to sentiment,
Stuck to the truth as closely as you would?"
Now Merival not opening his eyes,
And with his hand still holding Arielle's hand
Concocted answers, as his wit divined
How curious she was, divining too
Beneath her quest of knowledge of his days
Just her one interest, centered in this woman
Who died in France. And thus he said to her:
"You want the facts—about this woman, too.
Well, first the world must have its pleasing myths,
Its spectacles of grief to feed upon;
And what the Romans with their circus did
The world does right along with its desire
For tales of men who suffered, and who failed.
There is a happiness in hearing such;
And human cruelty is like a claw
Which catches what the human heart must have
As nutriment. But it's imagination
Which gives the taste desired to what is caught.
The taste is in the mind of those who feed.
By which I mean specifically, no man
Grieves for a lifetime for a woman's loss;
It never happened. Petrarch, all the rest
Are pleasant myths. I say this though confessing
That thwarted love may be like some disease
Which builds up antibodies and prevents
Recurrence soon, and yet recurrence comes.
But you can say the man will suffer change
And suffer in a thousand ways, without
Saying that for his lifetime he will grieve
About a woman lost. As well to say
That he will brood about his suffering
When ill, and suffer brooding all his life.
These things are all analogous. As for me
I don't deny that I was changed and made
To think in altered ways. What smallest thing
Lacks its effect through all the course of life?
But that I sorrowed, that I sorrow still
Is quite absurd, and being with me here
You know it is." And then he looked at her,
And saw her laughing eyes, which blinded him
From seeing what her thought was. Then he said:
"Aunt Cynthia wrote me all about yourself;
And you have suffered, but the wound will heal.
You may be changed, but still an altered self
Can laugh, be happy—you are laughing now,
And you have happiness, and have had it since
This thing which changed you."
The passing clouds, and how the April air
Had flushed her cheeks, and how despite the test
Of heaven's discerning light her beauty stood
Unanalyzed to any fault, he sat
And felt the kindling flame within his heart
Warm like a peace, and thrill with hope which said,
"This Arielle, this woman is all true,
Not like that woman of the long ago
Who died in France, after she ran away
From you." And with closed eyes against the wind
To shut the grosser seeing of the day,
And win the finer seeing of the dark,
So better to get the image of this woman,
And enter to its essence, Merival
Mused, murmuring that the walk and air,
'This scene of peace, this change from recent days
Of the troubled inquest, had induced a mood
Filled full with happiness. Quietly he spoke
Thus and put forth his hand to find her hand,
And finding it enclosed it, folding up
Her fingers softly in his palm. She looked
Steadily at his face now, free to gaze
By his closed eyes with greater scrutiny,
And saw a weariness along his cheeks,
And something of a sorrow in the lids
Which seemed like memory lost in quietude.
Now she remembered what Aunt Cynthia
Had told her of the woman dying in France,
And how he grieved about it. How to bring
Some further word from Merival touching this
She planned, and to ensure it asked him now
To tell her how he spent his days, and what
He read, with whom he fellowed, how he played
To pass the time, and what the years had been.
To which he answered, "Well, you wrote me thus:
'Most everything about you, of your youth,
Your schooling, shall I say your sorrow too,
I know, and I admire your life.'" "Quite true,"
Said Arielle, "and yet can one be sure
That a loving aunt, a little mystical,
And prone as women are to sentiment,
Stuck to the truth as closely as you would?"
Now Merival not opening his eyes,
And with his hand still holding Arielle's hand
Concocted answers, as his wit divined
How curious she was, divining too
Beneath her quest of knowledge of his days
Just her one interest, centered in this woman
Who died in France. And thus he said to her:
"You want the facts—about this woman, too.
Well, first the world must have its pleasing myths,
Its spectacles of grief to feed upon;
And what the Romans with their circus did
The world does right along with its desire
For tales of men who suffered, and who failed.
There is a happiness in hearing such;
And human cruelty is like a claw
Which catches what the human heart must have
As nutriment. But it's imagination
Which gives the taste desired to what is caught.
The taste is in the mind of those who feed.
By which I mean specifically, no man
Grieves for a lifetime for a woman's loss;
It never happened. Petrarch, all the rest
Are pleasant myths. I say this though confessing
That thwarted love may be like some disease
Which builds up antibodies and prevents
Recurrence soon, and yet recurrence comes.
But you can say the man will suffer change
And suffer in a thousand ways, without
Saying that for his lifetime he will grieve
About a woman lost. As well to say
That he will brood about his suffering
When ill, and suffer brooding all his life.
These things are all analogous. As for me
I don't deny that I was changed and made
To think in altered ways. What smallest thing
Lacks its effect through all the course of life?
But that I sorrowed, that I sorrow still
Is quite absurd, and being with me here
You know it is." And then he looked at her,
And saw her laughing eyes, which blinded him
From seeing what her thought was. Then he said:
"Aunt Cynthia wrote me all about yourself;
And you have suffered, but the wound will heal.
You may be changed, but still an altered self
Can laugh, be happy—you are laughing now,
And you have happiness, and have had it since
This thing which changed you."
This thing which changed you.""Yes," said Arielle,
"My life is happy, and despite this thing
Which shadowed it, I have had happiness.
I would not have it otherwise, for thus
I should have blamed him, and I dared not blame.
I kept my thought upon the beauty which
Was his, his heart so really generous;
And he showered gifts upon me, goodness, too.
I made myself believe some sudden mood
Possessed him, overmastered him before
His realest self could guide, command his hour.
I think of him as racing Arno-like,
And in the impetus of the chase as falling
Among a nest of wolves, or in a pit.
He did not mean disloyalty to me."
"My life is happy, and despite this thing
Which shadowed it, I have had happiness.
I would not have it otherwise, for thus
I should have blamed him, and I dared not blame.
I kept my thought upon the beauty which
Was his, his heart so really generous;
And he showered gifts upon me, goodness, too.
I made myself believe some sudden mood
Possessed him, overmastered him before
His realest self could guide, command his hour.
I think of him as racing Arno-like,
And in the impetus of the chase as falling
Among a nest of wolves, or in a pit.
He did not mean disloyalty to me."
Then Merival looked up at Arielle,
And said, "I do not understand at all
How he could be so."
And said, "I do not understand at all
How he could be so."
Suddenly he saw
A coiling light, a stare in Arielle's eyes,
As if another mind illumined them,
Or other eyes had put away the old
To speak the mind that was another's mind.
And a light smile half twinkled where her lips
Turned at the corners, till the dimples sank
Midway the cheeks, and merriment like a flame
Which glimmers in a sunglass, took her eyes.
Something went through the heart of Merival
Beholding this. But when he tried to search
Her eyes' recesses filaments opaque
Descended like successive curtains, and hid
What figure let them down. Such retinal
And striate hues, or cirrus haze confused
With sparks of light her steady look at him
That Arno's eyes or Boy's no more could hide
With just a strange bright surface of a stare
What was beheld beside the actual thing;
And seeing this he wondered what she saw,
As often looking in the eyes of Boy
He sought the image on such retinas,
To learn if it was that of human eyes.
A coiling light, a stare in Arielle's eyes,
As if another mind illumined them,
Or other eyes had put away the old
To speak the mind that was another's mind.
And a light smile half twinkled where her lips
Turned at the corners, till the dimples sank
Midway the cheeks, and merriment like a flame
Which glimmers in a sunglass, took her eyes.
Something went through the heart of Merival
Beholding this. But when he tried to search
Her eyes' recesses filaments opaque
Descended like successive curtains, and hid
What figure let them down. Such retinal
And striate hues, or cirrus haze confused
With sparks of light her steady look at him
That Arno's eyes or Boy's no more could hide
With just a strange bright surface of a stare
What was beheld beside the actual thing;
And seeing this he wondered what she saw,
As often looking in the eyes of Boy
He sought the image on such retinas,
To learn if it was that of human eyes.
Then Merival without the obvious probe
Of questions, said eliciting by a tack
Of indirection, "More and more I see
That what we are for life is made before
We come to twelve, or maybe ten years old;
It's so with me." And Arielle rejoined,
"Oh, that is true; but thinking of one's self
One wonders just what habit, trait of thought,
Or feeling is related to what event
Or circumstance, or kind of daily breath.
I know this much: that out of my mother come
All undertones in me. When I was born
She lost her health and never again was well.
And I don't say my father was unkind;
I feel he might have shown more tenderness.
But more I shall not say, it touches me
Too sacredly to talk about. I know
That from my childhood on my mother filled
My heart with sorrow, meditative mood.
I can relate some happier things. You know
My birthplace was Virginia among the hills;
And when I was a little girl I knew
A girl named Mary, first at school and then
In play around her father's yard, who lived
In an old house high on a wooded hill.
They called her father judge, for on a time
He had been judge, or as a lawyer held
Court for the judge as deputy. I think
That can be done. But anyway the father
Of Mary was an old man, white and bent
When we were little girls. He used to climb
The hill so slowly going into town,
It hurts my heart to think of him even now,
Day after day climbing the weary hill
To reach his office where he practiced law.
Now Mary had no mother. Perhaps as mine
Was much away for treatment, we were drawn
By the like fate more closely to each other.
But as the years went on it still was true
Our fond attachment grew. We're here together
Looking upon these green Wisconsin hills
Because of Mary, though your Cynthia
Aroused my interest in your work and life.
Yet I am sure I never should have written
That note to you, except for Alma Bell
Who loved, somehow too strangely, Elenor Murray.
So in this way does Elenor Murray send
Your boat to mine to drift a day or so
Beside my boat."
Of questions, said eliciting by a tack
Of indirection, "More and more I see
That what we are for life is made before
We come to twelve, or maybe ten years old;
It's so with me." And Arielle rejoined,
"Oh, that is true; but thinking of one's self
One wonders just what habit, trait of thought,
Or feeling is related to what event
Or circumstance, or kind of daily breath.
I know this much: that out of my mother come
All undertones in me. When I was born
She lost her health and never again was well.
And I don't say my father was unkind;
I feel he might have shown more tenderness.
But more I shall not say, it touches me
Too sacredly to talk about. I know
That from my childhood on my mother filled
My heart with sorrow, meditative mood.
I can relate some happier things. You know
My birthplace was Virginia among the hills;
And when I was a little girl I knew
A girl named Mary, first at school and then
In play around her father's yard, who lived
In an old house high on a wooded hill.
They called her father judge, for on a time
He had been judge, or as a lawyer held
Court for the judge as deputy. I think
That can be done. But anyway the father
Of Mary was an old man, white and bent
When we were little girls. He used to climb
The hill so slowly going into town,
It hurts my heart to think of him even now,
Day after day climbing the weary hill
To reach his office where he practiced law.
Now Mary had no mother. Perhaps as mine
Was much away for treatment, we were drawn
By the like fate more closely to each other.
But as the years went on it still was true
Our fond attachment grew. We're here together
Looking upon these green Wisconsin hills
Because of Mary, though your Cynthia
Aroused my interest in your work and life.
Yet I am sure I never should have written
That note to you, except for Alma Bell
Who loved, somehow too strangely, Elenor Murray.
So in this way does Elenor Murray send
Your boat to mine to drift a day or so
Beside my boat."
Then Merival spoke between
Her words to ask, "Did Alma Bell remind you
Of Mary; do you think they were alike?"
And Arielle said: "Of course I couldn't say.
But this was it: This inquest seemed to smudge
The fame of Alma Bell, for nothing more
Than loving Elenor, just as Mary loved
Me as a girl to early womanhood.
And knowing what such love is, that it's free
Of the taint which baser minds would put upon it,
I hated all the men, who uttered hints
Which crept like tiny serpents in the press
And hissed their doubts, and sprayed with poison too
The name of Alma Bell. Coincident
With all of this, news comes to me of Mary,
After these fifteen years of ignorance
Of where she was, or even if she lived.
Her older sister died in Idaho,
And that was published in the little sheet
Of my home town; and at the last it said
"That Mary was an invalid, and had lived
With this good sister who had died, whose skill
As a physician, too, these many years
Prolonged the life of Mary. So I sent
Money to Mary, and now we write again.
Wasn't it strange that I should find her thus
While Alma Bell from long obscurity
Emerged to clear the name of Elenor Murray,
And wrote that letter to you as coroner?
Well, to return, those days were happy days
With Mary, and the rest, her father too,
A man so kind, so helpful, generous.
He had a house that rambled up the hill,
With great oak trees around it at the front;
And we had hammocks. But the best of all
Were the unending books in an old room,
Shelved to the ceiling; for the judge would read
His Pope and Dryden and his Addison,
While we were racing, playing blind man's buff.
And when he saw that I was fond of books—
I had no books at home—he took me up,
And led me in the ways of books. At last
I read Pope's Homer, Goldsmith's plays, besides
Locke's essays."
Her words to ask, "Did Alma Bell remind you
Of Mary; do you think they were alike?"
And Arielle said: "Of course I couldn't say.
But this was it: This inquest seemed to smudge
The fame of Alma Bell, for nothing more
Than loving Elenor, just as Mary loved
Me as a girl to early womanhood.
And knowing what such love is, that it's free
Of the taint which baser minds would put upon it,
I hated all the men, who uttered hints
Which crept like tiny serpents in the press
And hissed their doubts, and sprayed with poison too
The name of Alma Bell. Coincident
With all of this, news comes to me of Mary,
After these fifteen years of ignorance
Of where she was, or even if she lived.
Her older sister died in Idaho,
And that was published in the little sheet
Of my home town; and at the last it said
"That Mary was an invalid, and had lived
With this good sister who had died, whose skill
As a physician, too, these many years
Prolonged the life of Mary. So I sent
Money to Mary, and now we write again.
Wasn't it strange that I should find her thus
While Alma Bell from long obscurity
Emerged to clear the name of Elenor Murray,
And wrote that letter to you as coroner?
Well, to return, those days were happy days
With Mary, and the rest, her father too,
A man so kind, so helpful, generous.
He had a house that rambled up the hill,
With great oak trees around it at the front;
And we had hammocks. But the best of all
Were the unending books in an old room,
Shelved to the ceiling; for the judge would read
His Pope and Dryden and his Addison,
While we were racing, playing blind man's buff.
And when he saw that I was fond of books—
I had no books at home—he took me up,
And led me in the ways of books. At last
I read Pope's Homer, Goldsmith's plays, besides
Locke's essays."
Locke's essays.""And so that is what you meant,"
Said Merival, "when you wrote me that being ripe
For a certain book, the book miraculously
Turned up through some one. Something else you wrote,
That I could teach you something, being versed
So much in life. I doubt it."
Said Merival, "when you wrote me that being ripe
For a certain book, the book miraculously
Turned up through some one. Something else you wrote,
That I could teach you something, being versed
So much in life. I doubt it."
So much in life. I doubt it.""Oh you can.
You are so strong, so seasoned, and I see
That you are what I fancied you before
I saw you here. A woman wise, or one
Striving for wisdom and for mastery
Would feel her strength augmented by the thought
That she could call you friend with certainty
Of admiration given her for what she strove
To do and be, with which her interwoven
Approval of your faith in life and work
And human love, and your democracy
Would compact strands, and make them firm and fast."
Now saying this Arielle leaned her head
Nearer his shoulder, till his cheek was touched
By the trembling tendrils of her hair. And he
Brought with an arm her brow against his chin,
His lips against her brow, and pressed her shoulder,
With tenderness against his own. And while
Shaking and pressing her with mischievous growls
He said, "Well, how is Mary, tell me more
About her, of yourself, and how you came
To leave Virginia, and to settle here?"
"When I was fourteen," Arielle resumed,
"My good aunt in Chicago sent for me.
By this time father was a rattled wreck;
He didn't drink, he had anxiety,
My mother, everything; he couldn't solve
The money matter. My brother had flown off
To work his way through school. And there I was
In rooms that fronted on a business street
Over a candy shop, there in that old,
Lonely and desolate Virginia town,
Keeping those rooms, and cooking for my father;
Helped sometimes by Old Rachel black as tar,
Whose eyes were rimmed with nacreous encroach,
Whose teeth were out, who gasped for breath, who spoke
About my mother, and told me strangest things
About the days of slavery. It was now
That father went to Richmond for a time.
Old Rachel came to stay with me. And soon
My father wrote that he would not return,
That he had found a business chance—to come
And live in Richmond, where the schools were good.
Just now as well Mary was teaching school.
Her father with all that climbing of the hill
Daily to potter with what law there was
Could not make out, and Mary started forth
At sixteen years to earn her living. Now
You see how Mary, I and Elenor Murray
Had wings to fly as early as the nest
Was shaken down by storms. All in a trice
The happy days were ended; all our games
There in the yard around the hilltop house;
Our evenings when her father read; our walks
About the country—all gone, forever done,
Swept off like clouds. So on a winter night
After I wrote to my father about Chicago
I wandered to the country, and stood for long
By an old bridge that spanned a little stream;
I stood there listening to St. Andrew's clock
Strike hour by hour, until the stroke was ten.
Then I came back, and clambered up the stairs
Along the outside of the building where
We had those rooms, and entering in the dark
Heard Rachel croak, who made a light for me.
Next day I left just as St. Andrew's bell
Was tolling ten, thus tore myself away
From Mary whom I did not bid adieu—
I wrote a note."
You are so strong, so seasoned, and I see
That you are what I fancied you before
I saw you here. A woman wise, or one
Striving for wisdom and for mastery
Would feel her strength augmented by the thought
That she could call you friend with certainty
Of admiration given her for what she strove
To do and be, with which her interwoven
Approval of your faith in life and work
And human love, and your democracy
Would compact strands, and make them firm and fast."
Now saying this Arielle leaned her head
Nearer his shoulder, till his cheek was touched
By the trembling tendrils of her hair. And he
Brought with an arm her brow against his chin,
His lips against her brow, and pressed her shoulder,
With tenderness against his own. And while
Shaking and pressing her with mischievous growls
He said, "Well, how is Mary, tell me more
About her, of yourself, and how you came
To leave Virginia, and to settle here?"
"When I was fourteen," Arielle resumed,
"My good aunt in Chicago sent for me.
By this time father was a rattled wreck;
He didn't drink, he had anxiety,
My mother, everything; he couldn't solve
The money matter. My brother had flown off
To work his way through school. And there I was
In rooms that fronted on a business street
Over a candy shop, there in that old,
Lonely and desolate Virginia town,
Keeping those rooms, and cooking for my father;
Helped sometimes by Old Rachel black as tar,
Whose eyes were rimmed with nacreous encroach,
Whose teeth were out, who gasped for breath, who spoke
About my mother, and told me strangest things
About the days of slavery. It was now
That father went to Richmond for a time.
Old Rachel came to stay with me. And soon
My father wrote that he would not return,
That he had found a business chance—to come
And live in Richmond, where the schools were good.
Just now as well Mary was teaching school.
Her father with all that climbing of the hill
Daily to potter with what law there was
Could not make out, and Mary started forth
At sixteen years to earn her living. Now
You see how Mary, I and Elenor Murray
Had wings to fly as early as the nest
Was shaken down by storms. All in a trice
The happy days were ended; all our games
There in the yard around the hilltop house;
Our evenings when her father read; our walks
About the country—all gone, forever done,
Swept off like clouds. So on a winter night
After I wrote to my father about Chicago
I wandered to the country, and stood for long
By an old bridge that spanned a little stream;
I stood there listening to St. Andrew's clock
Strike hour by hour, until the stroke was ten.
Then I came back, and clambered up the stairs
Along the outside of the building where
We had those rooms, and entering in the dark
Heard Rachel croak, who made a light for me.
Next day I left just as St. Andrew's bell
Was tolling ten, thus tore myself away
From Mary whom I did not bid adieu—
I wrote a note."
I wrote a note."Now Merival stared her eyes
Remembering what Cynthia had written, how
When Arielle was a child her father died,
Leaving a modest fortune to a widow,
Arielle's mother, also other children;
And how the mother went to England where
She took a second husband, who was mad,
Who tyrannized the household, whipped the children;
And how at fourteen Arielle ran away,
Came to America and Madison,
And taught school in the country, much the same
As Elenor Murray did.
Remembering what Cynthia had written, how
When Arielle was a child her father died,
Leaving a modest fortune to a widow,
Arielle's mother, also other children;
And how the mother went to England where
She took a second husband, who was mad,
Who tyrannized the household, whipped the children;
And how at fourteen Arielle ran away,
Came to America and Madison,
And taught school in the country, much the same
As Elenor Murray did.
As Elenor Murray did.So Merival said:
"Aunt Cynthia did not write me what was true?"
"She wrote you what I told her. It was true
I ran away, though not from England; and true
That I taught school near Madison; and true
I took a trip to England, earned myself;
There met the rich young man who married me;
And true he died as you have been informed;
And true that now and always I have helped
My mother, even my father, more of late.
All true; but girls romance, and I was prone
To fictionize at first with Cynthia,
Especially as I have things at heart
Not to be told to any one—save you
Sometime, not now. So let it rest for now.
I didn't write to Mary after I left;
I closed the book. For it was just a month
Of living with this aunt there in Chicago
That I could see I could not stand her ways;
So once again I disappeared. Some one
Told me of Madison. And on a day
I stole off to the station, took the train.
Amid such changing scenes and mutable moods
I had no heart to write to any one.
I did not write my father. Long ago
The judge who climbed the hill was in his grave;
And as I said I never heard of Mary
Until this inquest. So with all the rest,
My mother, father, and these orphaned children
In Madison, whom I help, my monthly checks
Include a check to Mary. Now you know
Everything as it is. And if there's aught
That has been twisted in your life's report,
Which you would straighten, do it as you will."
"Aunt Cynthia did not write me what was true?"
"She wrote you what I told her. It was true
I ran away, though not from England; and true
That I taught school near Madison; and true
I took a trip to England, earned myself;
There met the rich young man who married me;
And true he died as you have been informed;
And true that now and always I have helped
My mother, even my father, more of late.
All true; but girls romance, and I was prone
To fictionize at first with Cynthia,
Especially as I have things at heart
Not to be told to any one—save you
Sometime, not now. So let it rest for now.
I didn't write to Mary after I left;
I closed the book. For it was just a month
Of living with this aunt there in Chicago
That I could see I could not stand her ways;
So once again I disappeared. Some one
Told me of Madison. And on a day
I stole off to the station, took the train.
Amid such changing scenes and mutable moods
I had no heart to write to any one.
I did not write my father. Long ago
The judge who climbed the hill was in his grave;
And as I said I never heard of Mary
Until this inquest. So with all the rest,
My mother, father, and these orphaned children
In Madison, whom I help, my monthly checks
Include a check to Mary. Now you know
Everything as it is. And if there's aught
That has been twisted in your life's report,
Which you would straighten, do it as you will."
Now Arielle stood up, and laughed the flame
Of merriment in her eyes, which seemed again
The glimmer of a sunglass. Straying a little,
He rose to join her. Stepping down the hill
They entered a hollow where the brooding spring,
The nesting bird of procreate life, made still
With the passion of creation all the land.
Even the crows flew to the wood beyond
Without a call, and all the budding trees
Were tranced in light. They coming to a log
Which bridged a brook, he guided her ahead
With arms about her neck. And once again
They walked the road, and entered at her house
For luncheon, with Aunt Cynthia debarred,
But telephoned to save her waiting him.
Of merriment in her eyes, which seemed again
The glimmer of a sunglass. Straying a little,
He rose to join her. Stepping down the hill
They entered a hollow where the brooding spring,
The nesting bird of procreate life, made still
With the passion of creation all the land.
Even the crows flew to the wood beyond
Without a call, and all the budding trees
Were tranced in light. They coming to a log
Which bridged a brook, he guided her ahead
With arms about her neck. And once again
They walked the road, and entered at her house
For luncheon, with Aunt Cynthia debarred,
But telephoned to save her waiting him.
Thus happy days went by, two weeks elapsed
With Merival paying court to Arielle.
Passing from first impression when she seemed
Some one long known, familiar; then with change
Of face or mood, and with the change her loss,
Transformed into another. Yet at last
He had conviction that he fathomed her,
And knew her inmost nature, which seemed good,
Gentle, adorable, all that Cynthia
Had praised her for when writing him. At times
Life's long deferred Elysium seemed his
With Arielle as his wife, and that great house
Of his made luminous by her smile, with life
Stretched on to peaceful sunsets, on to days
Of children toddling, wandering his fields,
Or racing cunning ponies to be bought.
Joy past belief, and yet such days could be!
But when his very lips were framed to speak
The word of marriage something held him back;
This caution was it, out of philosophy
Which lives the future by analysis
Before it comes? Or was it he would know
What Arielle's mother was? Of what import
Was Arielle's mother either way? Again
Would Arielle come with him, or would she will
That he should live with her at Madison?
For he had noticed something like a spring
Wind tight and harden in her from the slack
Of sweet complaisance, and was it will,
That woman's will less wise as it is tense
And unsubduable?
With Merival paying court to Arielle.
Passing from first impression when she seemed
Some one long known, familiar; then with change
Of face or mood, and with the change her loss,
Transformed into another. Yet at last
He had conviction that he fathomed her,
And knew her inmost nature, which seemed good,
Gentle, adorable, all that Cynthia
Had praised her for when writing him. At times
Life's long deferred Elysium seemed his
With Arielle as his wife, and that great house
Of his made luminous by her smile, with life
Stretched on to peaceful sunsets, on to days
Of children toddling, wandering his fields,
Or racing cunning ponies to be bought.
Joy past belief, and yet such days could be!
But when his very lips were framed to speak
The word of marriage something held him back;
This caution was it, out of philosophy
Which lives the future by analysis
Before it comes? Or was it he would know
What Arielle's mother was? Of what import
Was Arielle's mother either way? Again
Would Arielle come with him, or would she will
That he should live with her at Madison?
For he had noticed something like a spring
Wind tight and harden in her from the slack
Of sweet complaisance, and was it will,
That woman's will less wise as it is tense
And unsubduable?
Yet upon a night
When he had come for dinner, Cynthia
Having declined with purpose to advance
The wooing, while they stood and talked and touched
Glasses of Scotch before the meal, he saw
That look inscrutable come in her eyes.
First he had asked her to become his guest
There near Starved Rock, with Cynthia, his aunt,
And Arielle consented. Then the words
Of marriage paused along his tongue, and rapped
For exit at his lips. But as they rapped
Her eyes' recesses blurred with filaments
Let down like curtains, and a cirrus haze
Confused with sparks her steady gaze, until
The strange bright surface of a steady stare,
Which seemed to see what Arno or what Boy
Would see, becalmed him like a sorcery;
And he was speechless. Suddenly Arielle
Flung passionate arms around him, took his lips
With long drawn kisses, and as suddenly
She danced away and laughed. His resolution
Came up to be appraised anew. For seeing
That Arielle was his, if so he willed,
He reinspected what he had resolved
In those first days after Cynthia's letter,
When he as idealist dreamed of Arielle;
And on the way when hastening to her.
For what he had resolved was knightly care,
No yielding to the passion of a moment,
No repetition of the course which led
To doubt, dissension, all the weary fate
Which with that woman who had died in France
Had tortured him, and even perhaps had joined
With other things, her nature, to destroy
Their happiness and faith. Now he could see
Better since probing Elenor Murray's life
How the reality of marriage where
No marriage is, no living side by side,
Sets loose repelling currents, binds with flesh
Affined, but by relationship achieved,
And made familiar opens eyes to see
A nakedness, which cannot be confessed,
But must be hidden, both for what it is
In honor of its serious sanctity,
And what it should be by a mutual life
Which does not tear but builds. So he had thought
This resolution through, and visioned her
His bride, for whom he opened a courtly door
Of life to be, and welcomed her to him.
When he had come for dinner, Cynthia
Having declined with purpose to advance
The wooing, while they stood and talked and touched
Glasses of Scotch before the meal, he saw
That look inscrutable come in her eyes.
First he had asked her to become his guest
There near Starved Rock, with Cynthia, his aunt,
And Arielle consented. Then the words
Of marriage paused along his tongue, and rapped
For exit at his lips. But as they rapped
Her eyes' recesses blurred with filaments
Let down like curtains, and a cirrus haze
Confused with sparks her steady gaze, until
The strange bright surface of a steady stare,
Which seemed to see what Arno or what Boy
Would see, becalmed him like a sorcery;
And he was speechless. Suddenly Arielle
Flung passionate arms around him, took his lips
With long drawn kisses, and as suddenly
She danced away and laughed. His resolution
Came up to be appraised anew. For seeing
That Arielle was his, if so he willed,
He reinspected what he had resolved
In those first days after Cynthia's letter,
When he as idealist dreamed of Arielle;
And on the way when hastening to her.
For what he had resolved was knightly care,
No yielding to the passion of a moment,
No repetition of the course which led
To doubt, dissension, all the weary fate
Which with that woman who had died in France
Had tortured him, and even perhaps had joined
With other things, her nature, to destroy
Their happiness and faith. Now he could see
Better since probing Elenor Murray's life
How the reality of marriage where
No marriage is, no living side by side,
Sets loose repelling currents, binds with flesh
Affined, but by relationship achieved,
And made familiar opens eyes to see
A nakedness, which cannot be confessed,
But must be hidden, both for what it is
In honor of its serious sanctity,
And what it should be by a mutual life
Which does not tear but builds. So he had thought
This resolution through, and visioned her
His bride, for whom he opened a courtly door
Of life to be, and welcomed her to him.
But with his visit ended Merival
Came for the last to dinner, and Cynthia
Sat with them till the hour of ten, then left
The two remaining hours to these alone,
Until his train which came at twelve o'clock.
With Cynthia gone they turned to wine again
To stay the dying of the dinner wine,
And flame again their spirits. And thus it was
With all the signposts darkened on the way
Which steadied prudent steps for Merival,
He wandered round and round, with just the sight
Of Arielle and her beauty, like a flame
Which lighted him and allured, and blinded him,
To all the pitfalls he had seen by day.
Then as he loved her, all his chivalry
Rose with the wine intensified. He asked
What wedded bliss can be without its fault,
Its fleck of insufficiency? This woman
Was all that he was told, was all his dream,
As nearly as life brings to any man.
Came for the last to dinner, and Cynthia
Sat with them till the hour of ten, then left
The two remaining hours to these alone,
Until his train which came at twelve o'clock.
With Cynthia gone they turned to wine again
To stay the dying of the dinner wine,
And flame again their spirits. And thus it was
With all the signposts darkened on the way
Which steadied prudent steps for Merival,
He wandered round and round, with just the sight
Of Arielle and her beauty, like a flame
Which lighted him and allured, and blinded him,
To all the pitfalls he had seen by day.
Then as he loved her, all his chivalry
Rose with the wine intensified. He asked
What wedded bliss can be without its fault,
Its fleck of insufficiency? This woman
Was all that he was told, was all his dream,
As nearly as life brings to any man.
He stood before her, and she drew him down
Beside her, but not speaking; drew him close
With arms about his neck. And as his lips
Touched hers at first, and then against her ear
Renewed in whispers what he spoke before,
He felt her wilt within his arms, he saw
Her closed eyes with their lashes, and her cheeks
Flushed, where a sudden dew, a fragrant mist
Moistened them. And in blindness he became
The meditation of the eyeless mind
Which withers human will, and self-regard.
Beside her, but not speaking; drew him close
With arms about his neck. And as his lips
Touched hers at first, and then against her ear
Renewed in whispers what he spoke before,
He felt her wilt within his arms, he saw
Her closed eyes with their lashes, and her cheeks
Flushed, where a sudden dew, a fragrant mist
Moistened them. And in blindness he became
The meditation of the eyeless mind
Which withers human will, and self-regard.
Then after a silence while his spirit stared,
A silence in which his nature was at rest,
With golden beams in a subtle equipoise
He whispered his adoring, asked her word
To plight their faith. But Arielle with closed eyes
Lay as if thinking, and no word returned.
Soon did the striking of the quarter hour
Rouse him to recognition of the time,
His train; and in a blur he rose, and caught
His hat up and his coat, his satchel. Then
With a long kiss of tenderness he fled
Forth to the darkness, and in the lighted car
Scarce in possession of reality
He sat, and saw the lights of Madison
Sailing away. Then crawling to his berth
He slept a.troubled sleep of tangled dreams.
A silence in which his nature was at rest,
With golden beams in a subtle equipoise
He whispered his adoring, asked her word
To plight their faith. But Arielle with closed eyes
Lay as if thinking, and no word returned.
Soon did the striking of the quarter hour
Rouse him to recognition of the time,
His train; and in a blur he rose, and caught
His hat up and his coat, his satchel. Then
With a long kiss of tenderness he fled
Forth to the darkness, and in the lighted car
Scarce in possession of reality
He sat, and saw the lights of Madison
Sailing away. Then crawling to his berth
He slept a.troubled sleep of tangled dreams.
That afternoon he rode for many hours
Inspecting fences as a subterfuge
For being out of way where visitors,
Or even managers, or help could spy
Upon his self-absorption. For with day
To bring him thought which tested memory
Of every minute of the night before,
He frowned perplexity of the path ahead.
He muttered to himself, "Why, at my age
A wife, with all my life already made,
And with a woman whose life is made as well.
Tsch! Tsch!" And on he galloped. Then he weighed
His duty. Duty! Delusion it might be.
What could he do for her or fail to do
To mar her life? Nothing! Her love betrayed;
But how? Her love made unreciprocal—
Yes, if she loved him. Was he sure of that?
No, he was surer that he loved her. For
He knew that she could bear the separate days
With calmer spirit than his own. In truth
She would go on with life, with much to do,
With much to interest. If he never crossed
Her path again she would forget the days
That they had lived. Such truth was written fair
In all experience. Therefore at the last
In this bright lighted searching for himself
He found himself to be the soul at stake,
Unless she had been won by realest hopes
Of human flesh to spiritual desire
For a friend, he being chosen; for a mate
He being taken as the long delayed
Ideal of her life. So Merival
A little fogged, and with a head that ached
At the base or forehead vaguely, rode along
Till sunset. And at last when going home
This Alma Bell flashed in his mind, and how
That woman's life had laid its fascinate spell
On Arielle. So wondered he too of Mary;
Then Arielle's mother. So his restless mind
Mongering for secrets pricked him on. And now
If only he knew the maiden name of Arielle
He could go on to Richmond, see a friend
Who would find Arielle's father, by some way
Approaching him the village ascertain
Where Arielle was raised. Find also there
Where the mother was. How did he miss the chance
Of learning there at Madison that name,
The name of the village? Now he could not write,
Or how and get them? Not to Cynthia
Who, if she knew would run to Arielle
And tell that he had made such inquiry.
Well, should he let the days to be disclose
From Arielle, or Cynthia, all the truth?
To have those days with Arielle would mean
Proliferate tendrils of that window vine
Which Arielle had shown him, entering
Soon to her room. And thus when he had learned
What he would know its use would be a mock
To Merival, bound fast and overgrown
With Arielle's hope—or even his own desire
Helping constriction with a reckless growth.
Next morning his rested streams of life swept up
Something he overlooked the night before.
Soon as he opened his eyes, his memory spilled
And put into his hand what Arielle said
When she was talking once about her marriage;
She said that they had fled from Madison,
Gone to Chicago where the city clerk
Pronounced the words. If so the license record
Would give her maiden name. So Merival leaped
Out of his bed, excited with the plan
Of rushing to Chicago.
Inspecting fences as a subterfuge
For being out of way where visitors,
Or even managers, or help could spy
Upon his self-absorption. For with day
To bring him thought which tested memory
Of every minute of the night before,
He frowned perplexity of the path ahead.
He muttered to himself, "Why, at my age
A wife, with all my life already made,
And with a woman whose life is made as well.
Tsch! Tsch!" And on he galloped. Then he weighed
His duty. Duty! Delusion it might be.
What could he do for her or fail to do
To mar her life? Nothing! Her love betrayed;
But how? Her love made unreciprocal—
Yes, if she loved him. Was he sure of that?
No, he was surer that he loved her. For
He knew that she could bear the separate days
With calmer spirit than his own. In truth
She would go on with life, with much to do,
With much to interest. If he never crossed
Her path again she would forget the days
That they had lived. Such truth was written fair
In all experience. Therefore at the last
In this bright lighted searching for himself
He found himself to be the soul at stake,
Unless she had been won by realest hopes
Of human flesh to spiritual desire
For a friend, he being chosen; for a mate
He being taken as the long delayed
Ideal of her life. So Merival
A little fogged, and with a head that ached
At the base or forehead vaguely, rode along
Till sunset. And at last when going home
This Alma Bell flashed in his mind, and how
That woman's life had laid its fascinate spell
On Arielle. So wondered he too of Mary;
Then Arielle's mother. So his restless mind
Mongering for secrets pricked him on. And now
If only he knew the maiden name of Arielle
He could go on to Richmond, see a friend
Who would find Arielle's father, by some way
Approaching him the village ascertain
Where Arielle was raised. Find also there
Where the mother was. How did he miss the chance
Of learning there at Madison that name,
The name of the village? Now he could not write,
Or how and get them? Not to Cynthia
Who, if she knew would run to Arielle
And tell that he had made such inquiry.
Well, should he let the days to be disclose
From Arielle, or Cynthia, all the truth?
To have those days with Arielle would mean
Proliferate tendrils of that window vine
Which Arielle had shown him, entering
Soon to her room. And thus when he had learned
What he would know its use would be a mock
To Merival, bound fast and overgrown
With Arielle's hope—or even his own desire
Helping constriction with a reckless growth.
Next morning his rested streams of life swept up
Something he overlooked the night before.
Soon as he opened his eyes, his memory spilled
And put into his hand what Arielle said
When she was talking once about her marriage;
She said that they had fled from Madison,
Gone to Chicago where the city clerk
Pronounced the words. If so the license record
Would give her maiden name. So Merival leaped
Out of his bed, excited with the plan
Of rushing to Chicago.
Of rushing to Chicago.At his plate
Were letters, one from Arielle, who wrote
How April grew more beautiful, about
Arno and seeing Cynthia; through it all
A vagueness wound. And she had said at last
"Cynthia sends her love in which I join,
Your visit gave us greatest happiness."
So Merival wrote a note to Arielle
And hastened to the train.
Were letters, one from Arielle, who wrote
How April grew more beautiful, about
Arno and seeing Cynthia; through it all
A vagueness wound. And she had said at last
"Cynthia sends her love in which I join,
Your visit gave us greatest happiness."
So Merival wrote a note to Arielle
And hastened to the train.
And hastened to the train.Knowing the date
Of Arielle's marriage, and her husband's name—
Showalter—so the index book was S,
Soon was he turning pages, tracing down
The list of names. And soon before his eyes
Stood John Showalter, Arielle Regnier,
Her residence not Madison, but Wytheville,
Virginia—so he need not go to Richmond
To find the village. Well, now should he go?
A shame took hold of him. Was it to be an ingrate
Forgetting Arielle's house of feasts and play,
Her welcome to him, hospitality,
The confidence she gave him, thus to filch
With her back turned the secrets which she kept
Despite the freedom of her talk with him?
And yet to question her might violate
Her guarded privacy as much as this;
But above all to deepen what was done,
Go on, and even to marriage wholly blind
To something, seeming serpentine, would result
In what to her, to him? With all things known
One's life is better guided. It seemed wise
To know while Arielle was ignorant
Of what he knew. And then it well might be
The trip to Wytheville would be but a fool's
Errand. There might be nothing. And why not?
Arielle seemed telling all the truth.
Yet he must go. His mind would be at rest,
And all things cleared the wedding day might be.
But now he thought that Arielle kept silence
When he proposed. His destiny might be
Out of some esoteric whirl of atoms
Of which his spirit was composed to find,
To draw once more a woman like the one
Who fled to France. What did her self-composure,
And this vague note, in which no heart was poured
Mean, if they meant not he was justified
In self-regarding craft, expedients?
Of Arielle's marriage, and her husband's name—
Showalter—so the index book was S,
Soon was he turning pages, tracing down
The list of names. And soon before his eyes
Stood John Showalter, Arielle Regnier,
Her residence not Madison, but Wytheville,
Virginia—so he need not go to Richmond
To find the village. Well, now should he go?
A shame took hold of him. Was it to be an ingrate
Forgetting Arielle's house of feasts and play,
Her welcome to him, hospitality,
The confidence she gave him, thus to filch
With her back turned the secrets which she kept
Despite the freedom of her talk with him?
And yet to question her might violate
Her guarded privacy as much as this;
But above all to deepen what was done,
Go on, and even to marriage wholly blind
To something, seeming serpentine, would result
In what to her, to him? With all things known
One's life is better guided. It seemed wise
To know while Arielle was ignorant
Of what he knew. And then it well might be
The trip to Wytheville would be but a fool's
Errand. There might be nothing. And why not?
Arielle seemed telling all the truth.
Yet he must go. His mind would be at rest,
And all things cleared the wedding day might be.
But now he thought that Arielle kept silence
When he proposed. His destiny might be
Out of some esoteric whirl of atoms
Of which his spirit was composed to find,
To draw once more a woman like the one
Who fled to France. What did her self-composure,
And this vague note, in which no heart was poured
Mean, if they meant not he was justified
In self-regarding craft, expedients?
Now leaving the city hall he chanced to meet
Marion, who was entering; and as they talked
The purple crescents under Marion's eyes,
And the lapsing languor of his weary flesh
Struck Merival to the quick. And Marion said:
"I've almost got my life's confession done,
During these several nights when I have stuck
Around the office to keep from going home.
Dolly is on a rampage, and those rooms
Which I call home are in a mess of dishes
Scattered about the table and the sink;
Also a tumbled bed, which I avoid,
And swear that I shall never grace again.
But yet I shall. A dog, you know, returns.
And I'm not fit to die in a better bed
Made, as it is by me. Give me a week
Longer and I shall have my story written.
Unless some one of you is struck and killed
I shall be first to go—and glad to go.
I've tried, and have done nothing. What's the game?
Who cares how much you try, how much you cling
To truth, an ideal? Are people good to you?
Do they regard your struggle, come and say,
"You have been cheated, we will make it up?'
No, you are loved when you take what you want,
Grab, wrest it in despite of them, or else
Get what you want without their help. Why not?
Isn't it right, the way of God for men
To gather riches, honors, power against
The struggles, envies, strength of all the rest?
And when you fail who mourns, and what's to mourn?
Easy to show your course was wrong. Or else
If it was right, less right than those who won.
Who are the men most noted, most admired,
Most powerful in example in the land
Of this America to-day? Why those
Who as the very sons of Captain Kidd
Took what they wanted, and now possessing it
Rule the adoring crowd, to whom they give
Libraries, galleries and laboratories."
Marion, who was entering; and as they talked
The purple crescents under Marion's eyes,
And the lapsing languor of his weary flesh
Struck Merival to the quick. And Marion said:
"I've almost got my life's confession done,
During these several nights when I have stuck
Around the office to keep from going home.
Dolly is on a rampage, and those rooms
Which I call home are in a mess of dishes
Scattered about the table and the sink;
Also a tumbled bed, which I avoid,
And swear that I shall never grace again.
But yet I shall. A dog, you know, returns.
And I'm not fit to die in a better bed
Made, as it is by me. Give me a week
Longer and I shall have my story written.
Unless some one of you is struck and killed
I shall be first to go—and glad to go.
I've tried, and have done nothing. What's the game?
Who cares how much you try, how much you cling
To truth, an ideal? Are people good to you?
Do they regard your struggle, come and say,
"You have been cheated, we will make it up?'
No, you are loved when you take what you want,
Grab, wrest it in despite of them, or else
Get what you want without their help. Why not?
Isn't it right, the way of God for men
To gather riches, honors, power against
The struggles, envies, strength of all the rest?
And when you fail who mourns, and what's to mourn?
Easy to show your course was wrong. Or else
If it was right, less right than those who won.
Who are the men most noted, most admired,
Most powerful in example in the land
Of this America to-day? Why those
Who as the very sons of Captain Kidd
Took what they wanted, and now possessing it
Rule the adoring crowd, to whom they give
Libraries, galleries and laboratories."
So Marion spoke and turned his way. The train
Bore Merival to Wytheville.
Bore Merival to Wytheville.
Bore Merival to Wytheville.At the inn
Merival signed a pseudonym on the book,
Then started forth to find the building with
The outside stairway, and the candy shop.
Pausing before a grocer's booth he saw
Across the street what seemed the stairway, but
No candy shop, instead red pumps for oil
And gasoline by the door; within machines,
And men who hammered, drilled, and fitted tires.
The rooms above with dusted windows looked
Deserted. And was it here that Arielle
Climbed long ago? Just now the grocer's son
Came out, and Merival asked him, "Who lived last
In those rooms there above the garage?" The boy
Could not remember that the rooms were used
Ever for living. Merival asked again:
"Was there a family here named Regnier?"
The boy replied, "A man named Regnier
Died here about a year ago. He came
From somewhere else to lay up and be sick."
"From Richmond?" "Maybe, I believe it was.
I know his daughter cared for him for months;
She traded here." "Did she live here?" "Oh, no,
She came from somewhere." "Was it Wisconsin?" "Perhaps;
I know she was a trained nurse, so they said,
Had left some city, work in a hospital,
To come here to her father." "Was she pretty?"
"Not very, rather plain, and dressed, of course,
As nurses do. My father knew Regnier;
He'll be here at the noon hour."
Merival signed a pseudonym on the book,
Then started forth to find the building with
The outside stairway, and the candy shop.
Pausing before a grocer's booth he saw
Across the street what seemed the stairway, but
No candy shop, instead red pumps for oil
And gasoline by the door; within machines,
And men who hammered, drilled, and fitted tires.
The rooms above with dusted windows looked
Deserted. And was it here that Arielle
Climbed long ago? Just now the grocer's son
Came out, and Merival asked him, "Who lived last
In those rooms there above the garage?" The boy
Could not remember that the rooms were used
Ever for living. Merival asked again:
"Was there a family here named Regnier?"
The boy replied, "A man named Regnier
Died here about a year ago. He came
From somewhere else to lay up and be sick."
"From Richmond?" "Maybe, I believe it was.
I know his daughter cared for him for months;
She traded here." "Did she live here?" "Oh, no,
She came from somewhere." "Was it Wisconsin?" "Perhaps;
I know she was a trained nurse, so they said,
Had left some city, work in a hospital,
To come here to her father." "Was she pretty?"
"Not very, rather plain, and dressed, of course,
As nurses do. My father knew Regnier;
He'll be here at the noon hour."
Merival
Turned to the climb of a hilly street with trees
Thick in the yards of southern homes. With breath
Fast coming he attained the top at last
Where stood St. Andrew's church—he read the sign;
Around the church the stones of ancient graves.
Here he could see a valley far below,
And mountains in the distance; at his left
A house among oak trees in a great yard,
Where Mary lived, no doubt so long before;
From whence to this high ridge which walled the town
Against the country, where St. Andrew's stood,
Mary's old father climbed, and down this street
Which Merival had panted coming up,
He wandered to his office, it must be.
Now Merival could see a mile beyond
What seemed a bridge over a little stream,
Which he had gone to, save for the hard ascent
Of the return. And while he scanned the scene
St. Andrew's bell struck out the hour of ten.
Now for two hours waiting the groceryman
Merival walked through Wytheville. Passing by
The city hall, the courthouse, he was tempted
To enter, search the records, get birth dates,
Death dates of Arielle's family. What was true
Of anything she told him? The father dead,
Not living. And her mother—living or dead?
Or married, as she said at first, to a scamp
In England, whence this Arielle ran away
To Madison. Perhaps in England still
This mother lived, and Arielle concealed
With tangled tales what she conceived to be
Her mother's dereliction, yes, to hide
Her tendencies inherited.
Turned to the climb of a hilly street with trees
Thick in the yards of southern homes. With breath
Fast coming he attained the top at last
Where stood St. Andrew's church—he read the sign;
Around the church the stones of ancient graves.
Here he could see a valley far below,
And mountains in the distance; at his left
A house among oak trees in a great yard,
Where Mary lived, no doubt so long before;
From whence to this high ridge which walled the town
Against the country, where St. Andrew's stood,
Mary's old father climbed, and down this street
Which Merival had panted coming up,
He wandered to his office, it must be.
Now Merival could see a mile beyond
What seemed a bridge over a little stream,
Which he had gone to, save for the hard ascent
Of the return. And while he scanned the scene
St. Andrew's bell struck out the hour of ten.
Now for two hours waiting the groceryman
Merival walked through Wytheville. Passing by
The city hall, the courthouse, he was tempted
To enter, search the records, get birth dates,
Death dates of Arielle's family. What was true
Of anything she told him? The father dead,
Not living. And her mother—living or dead?
Or married, as she said at first, to a scamp
In England, whence this Arielle ran away
To Madison. Perhaps in England still
This mother lived, and Arielle concealed
With tangled tales what she conceived to be
Her mother's dereliction, yes, to hide
Her tendencies inherited.
Her tendencies inherited.With no reason
Thought out for talking to the groceryman
About this Regnier, still Merival
Approached the store, and seeing him a man,
Too plain of mind, and skill-less to detect
Any excuse half reasonable, Merival
Began to speak: "My name is Marigold,
A lawyer from New York. I represent
Some people named Regnier whose uncle died,
And I am here to ascertain what heirs
Of his are here, if any. Now your son
Told me about a nurse named Regnier,
Who came here, nursed her father, but who died.
Where does this nurse live? Are there other sons,
Or daughters of this man? I'd be obliged
If you'd direct me to some one who knows
If you don't know yourself."
Thought out for talking to the groceryman
About this Regnier, still Merival
Approached the store, and seeing him a man,
Too plain of mind, and skill-less to detect
Any excuse half reasonable, Merival
Began to speak: "My name is Marigold,
A lawyer from New York. I represent
Some people named Regnier whose uncle died,
And I am here to ascertain what heirs
Of his are here, if any. Now your son
Told me about a nurse named Regnier,
Who came here, nursed her father, but who died.
Where does this nurse live? Are there other sons,
Or daughters of this man? I'd be obliged
If you'd direct me to some one who knows
If you don't know yourself."
If you don't know yourself.""All I can say
Is this: His name was Patrick Regnier,
I knew him well, and knew his children too.
They have been gone for years. He came here sick
From Richmond; and his daughter from New York,
Or Baltimore, I don't know which it was,
Came on and nursed him, treated him as kind
As a daughter could, stayed with him till he died,
And buried him. No other children came.
He has a daughter somewhere in the West,
She's rich, they say—but she left him to die,
And never came here; but she sent some money,
That's what they say."
Is this: His name was Patrick Regnier,
I knew him well, and knew his children too.
They have been gone for years. He came here sick
From Richmond; and his daughter from New York,
Or Baltimore, I don't know which it was,
Came on and nursed him, treated him as kind
As a daughter could, stayed with him till he died,
And buried him. No other children came.
He has a daughter somewhere in the West,
She's rich, they say—but she left him to die,
And never came here; but she sent some money,
That's what they say."
That's what they say.""Did you know this daughter?"
"Of course I knew her. I have run this store
For forty years right here. I used to see
Those children climb that stairway over there;
I've seen her run those stairs a thousand times.
They used to trade here, and I've carried him
From month to month, because I knew the children
Would hunger if I didn't. We called her Rell,
That one that disappeared. She had a chum,
The daughter of a poor old lawyer here;
And these two would come here together with
Their pennies and buy candy, maybe because
When they were out of pennies they could play
On my good nature, and get it anyway.
Well something happened. People talk a lot.
I'll only say that Rell just disappeared;
And then this lawyer's daughter disappeared.
We thought she followed Rell. The poor old lawyer
Went climbing up that hill, and climbing down,
And never said a word about his child;
But Regnier came here the very night
That Rell was missing, told me, every day
Came in to say there was no word from Rell.
He was as helpless as a child about it,
Did nothing, sent no searchers out. Some years
After we heard that Rell had married rich,
Lived somewhere in the West, in Michigan,
Or somewhere."
For forty years right here. I used to see
Those children climb that stairway over there;
I've seen her run those stairs a thousand times.
They used to trade here, and I've carried him
From month to month, because I knew the children
Would hunger if I didn't. We called her Rell,
That one that disappeared. She had a chum,
The daughter of a poor old lawyer here;
And these two would come here together with
Their pennies and buy candy, maybe because
When they were out of pennies they could play
On my good nature, and get it anyway.
Well something happened. People talk a lot.
I'll only say that Rell just disappeared;
And then this lawyer's daughter disappeared.
We thought she followed Rell. The poor old lawyer
Went climbing up that hill, and climbing down,
And never said a word about his child;
But Regnier came here the very night
That Rell was missing, told me, every day
Came in to say there was no word from Rell.
He was as helpless as a child about it,
Did nothing, sent no searchers out. Some years
After we heard that Rell had married rich,
Lived somewhere in the West, in Michigan,
Or somewhere."
Or somewhere.""How can I find her, find the nurse?"
"Well, let me think. There is a woman here
Named Walters, Nancy Walters, who is friends
With Bertha, that's the nurse's name. I think
They correspond; I know the two are friends.
She lives right up the street, the fifth house up,
On this side too."
"Well, let me think. There is a woman here
Named Walters, Nancy Walters, who is friends
With Bertha, that's the nurse's name. I think
They correspond; I know the two are friends.
She lives right up the street, the fifth house up,
On this side too."
On this side too."Then Merival inquired:
"Where was the mother when this Rell ran off?"
"Where was she? Where she is to-day—shut up.
She was insane when Regnier married her;
And every time she had a child she went
Plumb raving; so he'd shut her up. And then
She'd get her mind back and they'd let her out.
Queer all the time; but giving birth, you know,
Set her clear off. And when this Rell was born
Her case was worse than ever. A pretty woman,
I never saw a prettier. They called me in
To be a witness to her lunacy;
And there she sat in court, so down and sad;
She took my heart away to look at her,
She was so pretty and so mournful looking.
So when they put her in this time she stayed.
And Rell grew up with niggers, played around;
A woman called Old Rachel kept their rooms,
So far as they were kept. And Regnier
Took jobs along, sold real estate and such.
A funny story—shows how people live,
Go to the dogs, or prosper. I must say
That nurse, that daughter, is as good as gold.
She didn't owe her father much affection;
And yet no man ever had better care."
"Where was the mother when this Rell ran off?"
"Where was she? Where she is to-day—shut up.
She was insane when Regnier married her;
And every time she had a child she went
Plumb raving; so he'd shut her up. And then
She'd get her mind back and they'd let her out.
Queer all the time; but giving birth, you know,
Set her clear off. And when this Rell was born
Her case was worse than ever. A pretty woman,
I never saw a prettier. They called me in
To be a witness to her lunacy;
And there she sat in court, so down and sad;
She took my heart away to look at her,
She was so pretty and so mournful looking.
So when they put her in this time she stayed.
And Rell grew up with niggers, played around;
A woman called Old Rachel kept their rooms,
So far as they were kept. And Regnier
Took jobs along, sold real estate and such.
A funny story—shows how people live,
Go to the dogs, or prosper. I must say
That nurse, that daughter, is as good as gold.
She didn't owe her father much affection;
And yet no man ever had better care."
Then Merival thanked the man and went his way;
Went first to find the record of the trial
Of Arielle's mother, and found it, took the train
Back to LeRoy, where letters waited him
From Arielle. Then he wrote her. Then he sat,
In a vexed perplexity, and let his thought
Go crisscross with the tales of Arielle
This way and that. Why did she fail to say
That her father was dead? Why say she sent him money,
Unless it was to hide her selfishness,
With words that proved how generous she was?
This stuff too of her mother's fortune from
Her father dead long since (and then not dead,
But dead in truth), the residence in England,
(The room above the candy shop); no word
About the sister who had nursed the father,
While Arielle let him die and never came
To comfort him. Such things have been without
A fault too culpable—yes. And he could see
Why Arielle hid her mother. But those words
Of Cynthia, "One thing is beautiful,
And one is not. And Arielle is beautiful,
And Elenor is somewhat beautiful
But streaked and mottled." Oh! No streaks at all
On Arielle! How did he for a moment
Ignore his knowledge of the human touch
Which makes all women kin and much alike?
All that romancing, too, of Cynthia
Of Arielle's spiritual calm, forgiveness
For a dead young husband found in a bagnio!
Does love act so? No doubt this husband learned
Of Arielle's mother, saw what trap had caught
His life, and tore himself against the wires
Rather than wait for ignominious death
After long years of tragedy, if not killed
By Arielle in stealth some sleeping hour.
"Now here you are," said Merival to self,
"A man of fifty years, who should be wise,
Seasoned in will, firm, cruel, who just stare
The trap ahead, and cogitate about it
Whether to enter it or turn away!
Being so much in love, so tortured too.
Yet here's my life! As my progenitors
Lived to the eighties, to the nineties too,
Shall I live so, and go about this place
In endless uselessness of life so long?
Or travel—where? Or find another woman?
Why not the right one now? What does it mean
That Arielle comes to me, and not a woman
Like Cynthia portrayed this Arielle,
Or some one of a fine normality,
Of womanhood all clear and sensible,
If not of beauty? Does it mean that I
Am chosen by the Fate for Arielle's
Care to the end, and for my own advance
Along some soul improvement? What's the play,
What's done with us, what is it will not let
One's human will plan out and live the plan,
But always crosses it, makes a sacrifice
Of human hope and wisdom, as though it fed
A Something somewhere, kept a Something strong
According to its nature, gave it life?"
Went first to find the record of the trial
Of Arielle's mother, and found it, took the train
Back to LeRoy, where letters waited him
From Arielle. Then he wrote her. Then he sat,
In a vexed perplexity, and let his thought
Go crisscross with the tales of Arielle
This way and that. Why did she fail to say
That her father was dead? Why say she sent him money,
Unless it was to hide her selfishness,
With words that proved how generous she was?
This stuff too of her mother's fortune from
Her father dead long since (and then not dead,
But dead in truth), the residence in England,
(The room above the candy shop); no word
About the sister who had nursed the father,
While Arielle let him die and never came
To comfort him. Such things have been without
A fault too culpable—yes. And he could see
Why Arielle hid her mother. But those words
Of Cynthia, "One thing is beautiful,
And one is not. And Arielle is beautiful,
And Elenor is somewhat beautiful
But streaked and mottled." Oh! No streaks at all
On Arielle! How did he for a moment
Ignore his knowledge of the human touch
Which makes all women kin and much alike?
All that romancing, too, of Cynthia
Of Arielle's spiritual calm, forgiveness
For a dead young husband found in a bagnio!
Does love act so? No doubt this husband learned
Of Arielle's mother, saw what trap had caught
His life, and tore himself against the wires
Rather than wait for ignominious death
After long years of tragedy, if not killed
By Arielle in stealth some sleeping hour.
"Now here you are," said Merival to self,
"A man of fifty years, who should be wise,
Seasoned in will, firm, cruel, who just stare
The trap ahead, and cogitate about it
Whether to enter it or turn away!
Being so much in love, so tortured too.
Yet here's my life! As my progenitors
Lived to the eighties, to the nineties too,
Shall I live so, and go about this place
In endless uselessness of life so long?
Or travel—where? Or find another woman?
Why not the right one now? What does it mean
That Arielle comes to me, and not a woman
Like Cynthia portrayed this Arielle,
Or some one of a fine normality,
Of womanhood all clear and sensible,
If not of beauty? Does it mean that I
Am chosen by the Fate for Arielle's
Care to the end, and for my own advance
Along some soul improvement? What's the play,
What's done with us, what is it will not let
One's human will plan out and live the plan,
But always crosses it, makes a sacrifice
Of human hope and wisdom, as though it fed
A Something somewhere, kept a Something strong
According to its nature, gave it life?"
So day by day riding about his acres
He thought these things, until he seemed two selves:
One which could see, reject this Arielle;
And one which loved her, shut his eyes with love,
And clasped the fate, whatever it might be,
With mystical, voluptuous immolation
For Arielle's sake—what was his life without?
Meanwhile her letters came, and his were sent
Daily almost, sometimes with just the thought
That time might solve what baffled all his wit.
Plotting his way he wrote to come again,
And Arielle with a delicate avoidance
Better to fire his longing wrote delay,
Smiling to self, "These men of fifty years
Need stimulation. In this circumstance
A man of thirty would be at my door
To break it down—and he—he asks to come."
But Merival was thinking it would be
Better to send for her and Cynthia,
And give them rides and dinners for a week.
But amid servants and with Cynthia near
He would be bound to ways punctilious,
And that must be until he saw his way—
Unless that parting night at Arielle's
Had closed the book of honor—if it had!
So thinking he wiped a troubled brow. He lived
A future filled with every uncontrol,
With every horror from the one mad cause
Flowing that such predicaments set loose:
Arielle ill or dying! Arielle mad,
Incompetent in such case to contract;
Concealing marriage; mad in a few brief weeks,
Shorn of a mind contractual—and what talk
Would seep about the country, although the press
Out of no death, or beautiful, sad face,
Like Arielle's mother when she faced the judge
Found warrant for a picture. Elenor Murray
Never in all her baffled pilgrimage
Met greater idiocy of fate than now
Confronted Merival, or might confront.
The issue of three weeks of thought's delay
Ended with Merival writing Arielle
And Cynthia to come. Now in a week
They would arrive. But meantime Merival
Refreshed his mind with other thought. For Borrow
The sunny pessimist of varied life
Had died upon the platform while he scathed
The League of Nations. Merival possessed
The envelope which Borrow sealed and gave
His clerk to send to Merival. It contained
What Borrow meant to be the realest thing
He lived, the secret never told in life,
Something he hid always, could never tell,
Or had no time to tell, the thing which entered
The whole mad music of his life, was both
The undertone and overtone.
He thought these things, until he seemed two selves:
One which could see, reject this Arielle;
And one which loved her, shut his eyes with love,
And clasped the fate, whatever it might be,
With mystical, voluptuous immolation
For Arielle's sake—what was his life without?
Meanwhile her letters came, and his were sent
Daily almost, sometimes with just the thought
That time might solve what baffled all his wit.
Plotting his way he wrote to come again,
And Arielle with a delicate avoidance
Better to fire his longing wrote delay,
Smiling to self, "These men of fifty years
Need stimulation. In this circumstance
A man of thirty would be at my door
To break it down—and he—he asks to come."
But Merival was thinking it would be
Better to send for her and Cynthia,
And give them rides and dinners for a week.
But amid servants and with Cynthia near
He would be bound to ways punctilious,
And that must be until he saw his way—
Unless that parting night at Arielle's
Had closed the book of honor—if it had!
So thinking he wiped a troubled brow. He lived
A future filled with every uncontrol,
With every horror from the one mad cause
Flowing that such predicaments set loose:
Arielle ill or dying! Arielle mad,
Incompetent in such case to contract;
Concealing marriage; mad in a few brief weeks,
Shorn of a mind contractual—and what talk
Would seep about the country, although the press
Out of no death, or beautiful, sad face,
Like Arielle's mother when she faced the judge
Found warrant for a picture. Elenor Murray
Never in all her baffled pilgrimage
Met greater idiocy of fate than now
Confronted Merival, or might confront.
The issue of three weeks of thought's delay
Ended with Merival writing Arielle
And Cynthia to come. Now in a week
They would arrive. But meantime Merival
Refreshed his mind with other thought. For Borrow
The sunny pessimist of varied life
Had died upon the platform while he scathed
The League of Nations. Merival possessed
The envelope which Borrow sealed and gave
His clerk to send to Merival. It contained
What Borrow meant to be the realest thing
He lived, the secret never told in life,
Something he hid always, could never tell,
Or had no time to tell, the thing which entered
The whole mad music of his life, was both
The undertone and overtone.
The undertone and overtone.So it was
The jurors of the Elenor Murray inquest
Once more assembled, there in Merival's
Library—Winthrop Marion looking ill;
And Samuel Ritter, owner of the bank;
Llewellyn George, the antisocial searcher;
And Rev. Maiworm, charitable in deeds;
And Isaac Newfeldt, who had studied tariffs,
Lands, money, economics, social states.
Then Merival broke the envelope and read:
The jurors of the Elenor Murray inquest
Once more assembled, there in Merival's
Library—Winthrop Marion looking ill;
And Samuel Ritter, owner of the bank;
Llewellyn George, the antisocial searcher;
And Rev. Maiworm, charitable in deeds;
And Isaac Newfeldt, who had studied tariffs,
Lands, money, economics, social states.
Then Merival broke the envelope and read: