The Fate of the Jury/Part 7
VII
In this unvital recurrence of useless days
More and still more he turned to Marion;
And Marion came to dinner, came for talks
Through jovial evenings when he laughed about
His hard pressed wits to manage money ends;
And about his life in all, which had escaped
Long since all hands' control; about his health
Which multiplied disorders. Marion said:
"I'm like a man who's tied where water comes
To waist, to breast, to mouth, at last to eyes,
And so snuffs out the brain. This soul of mine
Rests like a lamp upon enteric coils,
Which have a way of writhing, rising up
To show the lamp how it may be upset,
Or how it may be strictured and submerged.
It makes me laugh. For every time I see
My doctor he discovers a new disease
To add to others; and in time I'll be
An ambulate pathology, and the seventh
Wonder for ills in all the medical world."
And Merival sometimes would read to Marion
From Arielle's letters, as she wrote to him
From East or West, wherever her unexplained
Life and its restlessness was taking her.
And Marion listened, seeing that Merival
Was tangled, fretted, and divining much
About his friend's unsettled, wavering mind.
Out of these talks came luminous prompts to change
What Marion had written to be read
When this engulfing flesh rose over him.
More and still more he turned to Marion;
And Marion came to dinner, came for talks
Through jovial evenings when he laughed about
His hard pressed wits to manage money ends;
And about his life in all, which had escaped
Long since all hands' control; about his health
Which multiplied disorders. Marion said:
"I'm like a man who's tied where water comes
To waist, to breast, to mouth, at last to eyes,
And so snuffs out the brain. This soul of mine
Rests like a lamp upon enteric coils,
Which have a way of writhing, rising up
To show the lamp how it may be upset,
Or how it may be strictured and submerged.
It makes me laugh. For every time I see
My doctor he discovers a new disease
To add to others; and in time I'll be
An ambulate pathology, and the seventh
Wonder for ills in all the medical world."
And Merival sometimes would read to Marion
From Arielle's letters, as she wrote to him
From East or West, wherever her unexplained
Life and its restlessness was taking her.
And Marion listened, seeing that Merival
Was tangled, fretted, and divining much
About his friend's unsettled, wavering mind.
Out of these talks came luminous prompts to change
What Marion had written to be read
When this engulfing flesh rose over him.
So. passed a year's best part. And Arielle
Wrote Merival about her wanderings.
And she wrote letters in which all tender love
Was poured to Merival, in which she blamed
With artless words her own velleities,
Saying that were she wise she would return
With swiftness to him—where she longed to be.
At last she wrote of Helena and her wedding
In Florida, because of which she planned
Chicago for a residence at once.
"That will be near to you, Strong-heart, and we
Can see each other frequently again."
Now Merival read these words to Marion, who
Laughed with superior wisdom at his friend,
And said, "If you could turn one-half your thoughts
To youth's emotion, you'd be married now.
Women are realists and see love-making
And love achievement so ridiculous
That they can't fellow in it, but must be
Captured, subdued, and raped for all of that;
While you sit here and meditate and delay."
Wrote Merival about her wanderings.
And she wrote letters in which all tender love
Was poured to Merival, in which she blamed
With artless words her own velleities,
Saying that were she wise she would return
With swiftness to him—where she longed to be.
At last she wrote of Helena and her wedding
In Florida, because of which she planned
Chicago for a residence at once.
"That will be near to you, Strong-heart, and we
Can see each other frequently again."
Now Merival read these words to Marion, who
Laughed with superior wisdom at his friend,
And said, "If you could turn one-half your thoughts
To youth's emotion, you'd be married now.
Women are realists and see love-making
And love achievement so ridiculous
That they can't fellow in it, but must be
Captured, subdued, and raped for all of that;
While you sit here and meditate and delay."
The talk went round LeRoy that Marion
Struggled to keep his weekly sheet alive;
First that his insubordinate integrity
Kept him from money, closed the suborning purse
Of light and power against him. There was profit
For him from a bridge which privilege espoused,
If he'd give help, not won by palpable bribes
But indirectly paid by advertising
Of products marketed of unrelated
Interests—or hidden in relationship.
But Marion stood fast; and there were sneers
About his precious goodness—how achieved
Out of those days when Marion levied coin
From social figures whose respectable
Positions could not suffer to be exposed
In scandalous shames? Now it was full ten years
Since Marion had gathered booty so;
Ten years now he had stood immaculate
For social justice; but setting now his face
Against exploiters, they brought to light
His dead self in a war of whispering.
They plotted the downfall of his weekly sheet,
And dried in every place the revenues
Which gave it life. And with increasing illness
Added to harder struggles to exist
Marion tottered to the night he came
Back to LeRoy and took to bed. Not now,
Did morning find him rising to renew
With strength refreshed and courage the daily fight.
He lifted up his head and stood from bed,
Then in a sudden moment felt throughout
His body an ultimate weakness, and realized
What strength is, how the length of life is strength,
How between men of equal bulk it's strength,
The intangible current coursing arms and back
Which makes for mastery. And so sinking back
Upon the pillow, and closing eyes he saw
The end of life approaching.
Struggled to keep his weekly sheet alive;
First that his insubordinate integrity
Kept him from money, closed the suborning purse
Of light and power against him. There was profit
For him from a bridge which privilege espoused,
If he'd give help, not won by palpable bribes
But indirectly paid by advertising
Of products marketed of unrelated
Interests—or hidden in relationship.
But Marion stood fast; and there were sneers
About his precious goodness—how achieved
Out of those days when Marion levied coin
From social figures whose respectable
Positions could not suffer to be exposed
In scandalous shames? Now it was full ten years
Since Marion had gathered booty so;
Ten years now he had stood immaculate
For social justice; but setting now his face
Against exploiters, they brought to light
His dead self in a war of whispering.
They plotted the downfall of his weekly sheet,
And dried in every place the revenues
Which gave it life. And with increasing illness
Added to harder struggles to exist
Marion tottered to the night he came
Back to LeRoy and took to bed. Not now,
Did morning find him rising to renew
With strength refreshed and courage the daily fight.
He lifted up his head and stood from bed,
Then in a sudden moment felt throughout
His body an ultimate weakness, and realized
What strength is, how the length of life is strength,
How between men of equal bulk it's strength,
The intangible current coursing arms and back
Which makes for mastery. And so sinking back
Upon the pillow, and closing eyes he saw
The end of life approaching.
The end of life approaching.Then Merival came,
And sat with Marion to comfort him.
And Merival brought specialists to consult
On Marion's mysterious malady. They said
The over-used machine was past repair.
There in those little rooms, too badly kept,
In poverty as well, lay Marion
Laughing between the spasms of blinding pain,
And flashing from a brain too much alive
Humor and epigram and tales of youth.
Dolly was fuming, and with a scattered brain
Tried to keep house. And when the bank account
Sank to a few poor dollars she raged, and came
To Merival and told him. And Merival
Replenished it, and with a generous hand
Surrounded Marion with comforts, brought
A nurse to wait upon him; and supplied
Dolly with other living rooms, to give
Marion more breath and chance of peace.
When Arielle reached Chicago she sent flowers,
And in her daily letter to Merival
Asked for the latest news of Marion.
But in her letters, growing more and more,
Merival saw the use of eccentric words,
And thoughts expressed which had a latency,
Or staccato of images, of broken ends,
Which with each other lacked significance,
And pointed to no meaning anywhere
Intelligibly in time or space. She wrote
To Merival to visit her—he was loth;
And with this daily care of Marion
He had excuse for staying with his friend.
Moreover there was likelihood that death
Would come to Marion any day or night.
And sat with Marion to comfort him.
And Merival brought specialists to consult
On Marion's mysterious malady. They said
The over-used machine was past repair.
There in those little rooms, too badly kept,
In poverty as well, lay Marion
Laughing between the spasms of blinding pain,
And flashing from a brain too much alive
Humor and epigram and tales of youth.
Dolly was fuming, and with a scattered brain
Tried to keep house. And when the bank account
Sank to a few poor dollars she raged, and came
To Merival and told him. And Merival
Replenished it, and with a generous hand
Surrounded Marion with comforts, brought
A nurse to wait upon him; and supplied
Dolly with other living rooms, to give
Marion more breath and chance of peace.
When Arielle reached Chicago she sent flowers,
And in her daily letter to Merival
Asked for the latest news of Marion.
But in her letters, growing more and more,
Merival saw the use of eccentric words,
And thoughts expressed which had a latency,
Or staccato of images, of broken ends,
Which with each other lacked significance,
And pointed to no meaning anywhere
Intelligibly in time or space. She wrote
To Merival to visit her—he was loth;
And with this daily care of Marion
He had excuse for staying with his friend.
Moreover there was likelihood that death
Would come to Marion any day or night.
In Marion he sensed a change of air
About the rooms. It might have been the light
Of autumn in the rooms, thin, mystical;
It might have been the scent of flowers; or else
The light, soft movements of the nurse, or all
These things together. Dolly had gone out;
And Marion lay half sleeping. Merival
Saw with a shock how grayer he had grown,
How great long strands of whitest fallen hair
Lay over his brow, and how the might of flesh
Which made a lordly magnitude of Marion
In the days of health had shrunk to fluttering strips
Above his difficult breath. So Merival stood
And gazed upon him, till with sudden eyes
Opened to Merival's presence, Marion
Looked, smiled and spoke: "You're just in time for me
To give you something. Now it won't be long
Before I'll know what Elenor Murray knows,
Or doesn't know—poor girl. Reach under here,
This pillow. There! That is my soul's account;
Read it. I hope you fellows will get good
Out of it—you—especially you—some one.
I'd hate to think that lying here all men
Would be unprofited by what I've lived.
That's the torture lying here, to think
Your life was nothing—all your chances wasted,
Your right way missed. Well, so a creature lies
Gripped on his deathbed, cornered, trapped at last,
No backing further back against the wall;
But with thought left him strong enough to range
His old life over, live neglected hours
With thought clairvoyant—with an edged remorse.
My friend, give me a decent burial;
No sermon and no prayer, no tearful song—
Arrange it somehow. But for God's sweet sake
No Ethical Culture ritual—that's one-half
Of one per cent a Christian ceremony
And borrows, parallels the genuine,
But isn't that. Wine over the body and fire
To burn it, that is pagan, beautiful.
You can't do that. Well, does it matter much?"
Then Marion ceased, closed eyes. The nurse came in;
And Merival was leaving. Suddenly
Marion looked again and stretched his hand
To Merival, and said "Farewell."
About the rooms. It might have been the light
Of autumn in the rooms, thin, mystical;
It might have been the scent of flowers; or else
The light, soft movements of the nurse, or all
These things together. Dolly had gone out;
And Marion lay half sleeping. Merival
Saw with a shock how grayer he had grown,
How great long strands of whitest fallen hair
Lay over his brow, and how the might of flesh
Which made a lordly magnitude of Marion
In the days of health had shrunk to fluttering strips
Above his difficult breath. So Merival stood
And gazed upon him, till with sudden eyes
Opened to Merival's presence, Marion
Looked, smiled and spoke: "You're just in time for me
To give you something. Now it won't be long
Before I'll know what Elenor Murray knows,
Or doesn't know—poor girl. Reach under here,
This pillow. There! That is my soul's account;
Read it. I hope you fellows will get good
Out of it—you—especially you—some one.
I'd hate to think that lying here all men
Would be unprofited by what I've lived.
That's the torture lying here, to think
Your life was nothing—all your chances wasted,
Your right way missed. Well, so a creature lies
Gripped on his deathbed, cornered, trapped at last,
No backing further back against the wall;
But with thought left him strong enough to range
His old life over, live neglected hours
With thought clairvoyant—with an edged remorse.
My friend, give me a decent burial;
No sermon and no prayer, no tearful song—
Arrange it somehow. But for God's sweet sake
No Ethical Culture ritual—that's one-half
Of one per cent a Christian ceremony
And borrows, parallels the genuine,
But isn't that. Wine over the body and fire
To burn it, that is pagan, beautiful.
You can't do that. Well, does it matter much?"
Then Marion ceased, closed eyes. The nurse came in;
And Merival was leaving. Suddenly
Marion looked again and stretched his hand
To Merival, and said "Farewell."
To Merival, and said "Farewell."That night
At nine o'clock they came for Merival.
And when he entered Marion lay becalmed
As a boat which waits the breeze. His speech was gone,
But he was looking, watching, as it seemed.
When he saw Merival enter recognition
Lighted his eyes, then suddenly they stared,
His breath went out. And Dolly sent a shriek
Which pierced the night, "That's all, that is the end—"
Then fainted.
At nine o'clock they came for Merival.
And when he entered Marion lay becalmed
As a boat which waits the breeze. His speech was gone,
But he was looking, watching, as it seemed.
When he saw Merival enter recognition
Lighted his eyes, then suddenly they stared,
His breath went out. And Dolly sent a shriek
Which pierced the night, "That's all, that is the end—"
Then fainted.
All that night sat Merival
By the side of his coffined friend. He broke the seal
Of Marion's soul confession, and as he read
Looked at the dead face, now so crystalline;
Read on, then looked again, till all was read.
Then after an hour took out the sheets again
And read them over. These were Marion's words:
By the side of his coffined friend. He broke the seal
Of Marion's soul confession, and as he read
Looked at the dead face, now so crystalline;
Read on, then looked again, till all was read.
Then after an hour took out the sheets again
And read them over. These were Marion's words:
"First I set down that I was meant to be
A poet. But what's a poet? Not just verse;
Many are skillful in rhythms and in rhymes.
It's having courage, resolution, will,
A judgment true, a passion for the good,
The beautiful in life, the love of justice,
And rational thoughts that weigh with finest scales
All logics, inner cores of the real
That make a poet. Like a prophet too,
He should be uncontaminate of the world,
Of the gross greeds, ambitions, feelings, aims
Of men in the world, while going to and fro
Among them, learning, knowing, keeping still
A spotless life. I don't mean he should push
The cup of life away with anchorite
Abstention. No, he should seek happiness,
But happiness that comes of high regard
For what results along his inner life,
Bring no regret, no self-contempt, no hate
For the self soiled; for if the self be soiled
Soiled song will rise from you. Is this, maybe,
A platitude? If so why does each crop
Of poets fail to mark the platitude?
Wine as a symbol, woman as love, and drink
Belong to poets, but with delicate
Appreciation of their use, wherein
I failed. But I had courage of a sort,
And will and resolution; though in truth
There is the flash of powder in the pan
And the burning flame which never fails, and I
Was flashing, going black and flashing up,
Until the mere explosive of my soul
Was burned away. So had I for the good
A passion, and that lasted me to prose,
That's the ironic taunt against my life!
I loved the beautiful with a love betrayed,
Or else misguided by the encroaching lusts
Which crawl upon a man who lets himself
Fall into weak despairs; and so at last
I walked all spotted from this evil world
Whose enmity a poet must perceive
In time to avoid its touch. And that's to say
I Jacked the delicate scales of rationality
Which weigh invisible logics. Now let's see
What quality my will and courage was.
Here rise not merely the pleasure to go on;
But also the set will to do it against
Scant bread, a lonely room, and winking eyes
Of those who prosper, and take you for a fool.
You must be strong to keep your self-regard
When you hear 'fool' too commonly remarked
About your resolution. For in truth
There is a devil whisper here which says
When you are hungry, and your shoes are out:
'You're not a poet, you'd better give it up!'
Concretely now if I had set my will,
And having set it had obeyed
Careful economies, the matter of food
Would not have bothered me. I sold some poems;
And as I write these words I feel convinced
I might have lived by poems in a way;
A poor way, maybe; but there's the rub again:
Must you have much, a pocket full of coin—
And joke on me, I never had that much—
Or have your life's success—Here logic comes,
Already named, and as a life logician
I failed in this, in almost everything.
It's natural to have a loss of faith
In self when what you write cannot be sold,
Comes back rejected. When that fell to me
I buckled to, I stood my ground a while,
I laughed out lyrics; I remember one
About a bard who tried for seven years
And then returned to castled Fame to see
If she had put his name above the gate.
She hadn't; and for seven years again
He strove, returned, and saw her gate—no name!
He tried again, returned and found that Fame
Was Sorrow, bore that name, so he was fooled;
But with proud, tearless eyes saluted her
And went his way. That was my lyric then;
Judge for yourself. But see what lack of faith
And lack of will were doing to this art
Which must be fed with currents of blood so strong,
So singing, confident that it sings despite
Defeat and makes defeat a noble theme,
Never a lady of Sorrow in a castle.
Now I had wine, the liquid's self—too much;
And I had women to the last mad search
Of flesh for happiness, till a vanity—
I hate to write this—danced my steps along;
A vanity which vaunted such amours
As come to any writer. And with these
I drugged myself to ecstasy, to belief
That what I felt was love, the thing divine;
Until the poor stung nerves no more responded;
And with a vision dulled I could not tell
Whether I loved, or ever loved. So love
Which must be guarded for the sake of song
Passed from me as a theme. Besides unfaith
Often is met with in such faring free;
This I incurred enough—a proper thing
For gaining wisdom if your soul escape
The trivial cynicism of a worldly mind.
But I emerged infected with contempt
For women from these misadventurous ties.
Well who can say I had great genius? All
Can say I failed! But now I have belief,
And write it with all confidence in self,
After these years of thinking, living, I
Had surely risen to some height—how great
It's folly to describe—if I had worked
With patience, calmly, sticking to my task
With firm belief in the real usefulness
Of rising where I could, appraising that
As best success, best stewardship of my gifts.
I didn't. I with anger, in disdain
Threw down the task. I bought that little sheet
To make a living by, in which to print
At first my mockeries and blasphemies.
I sold myself for clothes, for rings and trips;
For drink, for vellum bindings, first editions,
For what the drunkard or the dilettante
Prizes. And I went snooping here and there
For secret shames to capitalize, by which
I could get money keeping them unexposed.
Nothing smells viler than do rotting grapes
Which sour and scum. And I was rotting now,
And luminous with decay. I hunted out
All pornographs, and reveled in belles lettres,
And filled my columns up, with Oscar Wilde,
And soaked my style in Walter Pater's till
My pristine self was lost.
A poet. But what's a poet? Not just verse;
Many are skillful in rhythms and in rhymes.
It's having courage, resolution, will,
A judgment true, a passion for the good,
The beautiful in life, the love of justice,
And rational thoughts that weigh with finest scales
All logics, inner cores of the real
That make a poet. Like a prophet too,
He should be uncontaminate of the world,
Of the gross greeds, ambitions, feelings, aims
Of men in the world, while going to and fro
Among them, learning, knowing, keeping still
A spotless life. I don't mean he should push
The cup of life away with anchorite
Abstention. No, he should seek happiness,
But happiness that comes of high regard
For what results along his inner life,
Bring no regret, no self-contempt, no hate
For the self soiled; for if the self be soiled
Soiled song will rise from you. Is this, maybe,
A platitude? If so why does each crop
Of poets fail to mark the platitude?
Wine as a symbol, woman as love, and drink
Belong to poets, but with delicate
Appreciation of their use, wherein
I failed. But I had courage of a sort,
And will and resolution; though in truth
There is the flash of powder in the pan
And the burning flame which never fails, and I
Was flashing, going black and flashing up,
Until the mere explosive of my soul
Was burned away. So had I for the good
A passion, and that lasted me to prose,
That's the ironic taunt against my life!
I loved the beautiful with a love betrayed,
Or else misguided by the encroaching lusts
Which crawl upon a man who lets himself
Fall into weak despairs; and so at last
I walked all spotted from this evil world
Whose enmity a poet must perceive
In time to avoid its touch. And that's to say
I Jacked the delicate scales of rationality
Which weigh invisible logics. Now let's see
What quality my will and courage was.
Here rise not merely the pleasure to go on;
But also the set will to do it against
Scant bread, a lonely room, and winking eyes
Of those who prosper, and take you for a fool.
You must be strong to keep your self-regard
When you hear 'fool' too commonly remarked
About your resolution. For in truth
There is a devil whisper here which says
When you are hungry, and your shoes are out:
'You're not a poet, you'd better give it up!'
Concretely now if I had set my will,
And having set it had obeyed
Careful economies, the matter of food
Would not have bothered me. I sold some poems;
And as I write these words I feel convinced
I might have lived by poems in a way;
A poor way, maybe; but there's the rub again:
Must you have much, a pocket full of coin—
And joke on me, I never had that much—
Or have your life's success—Here logic comes,
Already named, and as a life logician
I failed in this, in almost everything.
It's natural to have a loss of faith
In self when what you write cannot be sold,
Comes back rejected. When that fell to me
I buckled to, I stood my ground a while,
I laughed out lyrics; I remember one
About a bard who tried for seven years
And then returned to castled Fame to see
If she had put his name above the gate.
She hadn't; and for seven years again
He strove, returned, and saw her gate—no name!
He tried again, returned and found that Fame
Was Sorrow, bore that name, so he was fooled;
But with proud, tearless eyes saluted her
And went his way. That was my lyric then;
Judge for yourself. But see what lack of faith
And lack of will were doing to this art
Which must be fed with currents of blood so strong,
So singing, confident that it sings despite
Defeat and makes defeat a noble theme,
Never a lady of Sorrow in a castle.
Now I had wine, the liquid's self—too much;
And I had women to the last mad search
Of flesh for happiness, till a vanity—
I hate to write this—danced my steps along;
A vanity which vaunted such amours
As come to any writer. And with these
I drugged myself to ecstasy, to belief
That what I felt was love, the thing divine;
Until the poor stung nerves no more responded;
And with a vision dulled I could not tell
Whether I loved, or ever loved. So love
Which must be guarded for the sake of song
Passed from me as a theme. Besides unfaith
Often is met with in such faring free;
This I incurred enough—a proper thing
For gaining wisdom if your soul escape
The trivial cynicism of a worldly mind.
But I emerged infected with contempt
For women from these misadventurous ties.
Well who can say I had great genius? All
Can say I failed! But now I have belief,
And write it with all confidence in self,
After these years of thinking, living, I
Had surely risen to some height—how great
It's folly to describe—if I had worked
With patience, calmly, sticking to my task
With firm belief in the real usefulness
Of rising where I could, appraising that
As best success, best stewardship of my gifts.
I didn't. I with anger, in disdain
Threw down the task. I bought that little sheet
To make a living by, in which to print
At first my mockeries and blasphemies.
I sold myself for clothes, for rings and trips;
For drink, for vellum bindings, first editions,
For what the drunkard or the dilettante
Prizes. And I went snooping here and there
For secret shames to capitalize, by which
I could get money keeping them unexposed.
Nothing smells viler than do rotting grapes
Which sour and scum. And I was rotting now,
And luminous with decay. I hunted out
All pornographs, and reveled in belles lettres,
And filled my columns up, with Oscar Wilde,
And soaked my style in Walter Pater's till
My pristine self was lost.
My pristine self was lost."I married then
My first wife, first seduced. There by my side
She caught my spiritual rot. She took to drink,
Became a dipsomaniac, and used to shriek
For drink when I came home. I kept it from her
At times until T had to quiet her
By bringing out the bottle. Well, she died,
And I went woman hunting once again;
But found an easier solace laying up
With Dolly at her sporting house. And now
Fate fell to pranking. First when I was broke
I went to Dolly, and she helped me out;
One time the printer almost put an end
To my sheet; but Dolly saved it. She came forth
And paid the printer's bill and I went on.
That's the first item among the pranks of Fate.
Verse having failed me, now the staff of prose
Was breaking in my hand; or you might say
That golden blackmail had become alloyed,
For I ran out of victims, and besides
Some social change made fears of exposés
Less sensitive to threats. My revenue
Flowed from subscriptions now, or little ads—
But Dolly chiefly.
My first wife, first seduced. There by my side
She caught my spiritual rot. She took to drink,
Became a dipsomaniac, and used to shriek
For drink when I came home. I kept it from her
At times until T had to quiet her
By bringing out the bottle. Well, she died,
And I went woman hunting once again;
But found an easier solace laying up
With Dolly at her sporting house. And now
Fate fell to pranking. First when I was broke
I went to Dolly, and she helped me out;
One time the printer almost put an end
To my sheet; but Dolly saved it. She came forth
And paid the printer's bill and I went on.
That's the first item among the pranks of Fate.
Verse having failed me, now the staff of prose
Was breaking in my hand; or you might say
That golden blackmail had become alloyed,
For I ran out of victims, and besides
Some social change made fears of exposés
Less sensitive to threats. My revenue
Flowed from subscriptions now, or little ads—
But Dolly chiefly.
But Dolly chiefly."Now I had fared enough
On Pater and his kind, on Oscar Wilde,
On all exquisites, precious balladists,
Such shavings, straw, such lifeless chemic foods.
I needed meat, fresh spinach, things that grow
Free in the sun, and from the sun extract
By photosynthesis the living fire.
Now comes the item second. The coroner—
When you read this, my friend, smile and be glad—
The coroner lent me Marx. I read it all.
I saw that he's a thief who lives without
Work, and I saw that he who lives on thieves
As I was living was an itching tick
Which burrows and sucks blood. That social flame
Which struggled in me as a poet, tried
To make me one, returned to me. I vowed
To run my paper as a lusty voice
Of social justice. How much we do for God
That proves pure folly for ourselves, who knows,
For mankind too? For having so aligned
My work in life I found all chances gone
Forever of prosperity. Advertisers
Drew off, subscriptions fell; and oftentimes
I peered ahead and said, Well, I can last
Another month, and after that I'll tramp
Doing police reporting. But every time
When I was deviled by the printer's bill
Dolly would save the day with money earned
From wine which drunken revelers bought, from fees
Raked by her girls out of the muck of lust.
What Dolly did was like the cyanide
Process by which crushed ores are leached in vats
With dilute of potassium cyanide
Which brings a gold precipitate from slimes.
So Dolly found me gold and I went on
Defying railroads, power and light, the giants
Of giant thieveries. When I fought that bridge,
That switchyard, I was almost downed; but Dolly
Came forward with her money. That's the secret
Of my applauded constancy and strength
By which the people profited. All's due
To Dolly and her girls. The fight so won
I went upon a roaring drunk, laid up
At Dolly's for a week, while doing so
Walked out with her and married her, but not
In drunken recklessness. I had thought it out
In sober days before in every phase,
Weighed every reason. First what Dolly was,
What her profession. But I had sold myself,
My fellow beings too. I had reformed,
But Dolly helped me in my high crusades,
Shared my reform thereby, indeed with joy;
She knew the game of life, the crooked ways
Of money men, and she was glad to soak
Her fists against their jowls. She laughed one time,
'These fellows come here, pay for girls and wine,
Then this same money is handed on by me
For you to fight them with.' And that was true.
So then as prostitutes, and as souls reformed
We stood together, tallied. I don't say
That it was gratitude that prompted me
To marry Dolly, rather a justice sense.
But there were other things more exigent.
I had been cruel to a drunken wife,
Had led her into drunkenness, and so craved
Way down in some dark crevice of the heart
Where gnaws the undying worm, a chance to gouge
The worm out. But I'd counsel all who read
This soul confession to be generous,
Forgiving, gentle with your womenfolk.
A mystery is here: You dare not stand
Resisting woman's breast. Just as the sperm
Will die if staying back it never reach
The predestined ovum, so will man who flies
The woman by the course of life made his.
Cognate to such philosophy was thought
Stirring in me by never a being guessed
Who knew me, wondered why I married Dolly,
And thought I threw myself away. The poet
Was not all dead in me, though verseless long.
I thirsted for a chance to make amends
For all my failures, all my sins, all grimes,
From wallowings. What better way to do it
Than by such marriage, which would test all strength
Of patience, which might put to sacrifice
Pride, taste, peace, happiness, comfort, heart's desire
For beauty? Did I know the slimy rocks
As I descended, know the mephitic hell
Which lay below to which I walked? I knew.
Did I not see ill-nature in her eyes,
And note upon her mouth the odious words
Of ignorance, obscenity and spleen?
I noted them. Did I indulge the hope
That with the bagnio left behind, a wife
Married to me, her old associates
Would drop away, nor rather lurk along
The shadows of her former life to steal
Thence to her presence when my back was turned,
And taint my rooms of life with memories
Of what she was? I saw this in advance;
And I endured all when it came. And why?
Clearly to make my penance all the more.
For in proportion as her life offended
Did I bring equal spirit to submit,
Forgive, if that's the word, and so obtain
By sacrifice an expiation for all
My cruelties and lusts and prodigal
Waste of the gift of life. Have I paid all
This woeful debt? I think that any God
Would be appeased. For lastly did I see
The future thriftless with no bagnio
To subsidize my ideals when she left
That life for marriage? That, of course, I saw.
But I had hope of new prosperity.
It didn't come; meanwhile the fierce onslaught
Of giants on me deepened, and my campaigns
Grew heavier, and less financed with time;
Till with disease which took me suddenly
Defeat slunk by my steps and Poverty
Crossed from the bank and rattled at my door.
I must recur to something, nothing less
Than Elenor Murray, all I learned and lived
During that inquest as a juryman.
For truth to say I married Dolly when
The letters of Elenor Murray to Barrett Bays
Were read to us, and I took close to heart
Her sufferings in the war, of which she wrote;
And when I saw past any doubt at all
She loved him with a love which made me see
What love is—it was that that made me turn
With love to Universal Truth, called God;
With recognition, too, by love bestowed,
Of Dolly's part in the mysterious fate
Which took my life, and helped it to best things,
As I conceived them, made me say at last
With full acceptance, understanding, too,
Although He slay me, still will I believe.
After all wanderings with the intellect
This intuition granted me at last
Into the nature of the deepest truths
Filled full my heart with happiness, and sustained
The hard days I have lived beside the Fate,
Which unveiled her face and let me see her eyes.
Now here I sit in a cold cheerless room
Writing upon the creaking, shaking leaf
Of a poor, cheap desk this record of my life.
I cooked my supper. Dolly is off somewhere—
God knows. The dining table still contains
The breakfast dishes. There's the bed unmade
With tumbled covers, sheets and pillow slips
Which show the grime. No drink is in the house.
What if there were? I could not relish it.
There's no one left to call to come to me.
The coroner has gone to Madison.
There is a lady there—good luck to him,
And fair success in love. Here ends the lesson.
Three words express it wholly: I HAVE PAID.
I only add that I am glad I have."
On Pater and his kind, on Oscar Wilde,
On all exquisites, precious balladists,
Such shavings, straw, such lifeless chemic foods.
I needed meat, fresh spinach, things that grow
Free in the sun, and from the sun extract
By photosynthesis the living fire.
Now comes the item second. The coroner—
When you read this, my friend, smile and be glad—
The coroner lent me Marx. I read it all.
I saw that he's a thief who lives without
Work, and I saw that he who lives on thieves
As I was living was an itching tick
Which burrows and sucks blood. That social flame
Which struggled in me as a poet, tried
To make me one, returned to me. I vowed
To run my paper as a lusty voice
Of social justice. How much we do for God
That proves pure folly for ourselves, who knows,
For mankind too? For having so aligned
My work in life I found all chances gone
Forever of prosperity. Advertisers
Drew off, subscriptions fell; and oftentimes
I peered ahead and said, Well, I can last
Another month, and after that I'll tramp
Doing police reporting. But every time
When I was deviled by the printer's bill
Dolly would save the day with money earned
From wine which drunken revelers bought, from fees
Raked by her girls out of the muck of lust.
What Dolly did was like the cyanide
Process by which crushed ores are leached in vats
With dilute of potassium cyanide
Which brings a gold precipitate from slimes.
So Dolly found me gold and I went on
Defying railroads, power and light, the giants
Of giant thieveries. When I fought that bridge,
That switchyard, I was almost downed; but Dolly
Came forward with her money. That's the secret
Of my applauded constancy and strength
By which the people profited. All's due
To Dolly and her girls. The fight so won
I went upon a roaring drunk, laid up
At Dolly's for a week, while doing so
Walked out with her and married her, but not
In drunken recklessness. I had thought it out
In sober days before in every phase,
Weighed every reason. First what Dolly was,
What her profession. But I had sold myself,
My fellow beings too. I had reformed,
But Dolly helped me in my high crusades,
Shared my reform thereby, indeed with joy;
She knew the game of life, the crooked ways
Of money men, and she was glad to soak
Her fists against their jowls. She laughed one time,
'These fellows come here, pay for girls and wine,
Then this same money is handed on by me
For you to fight them with.' And that was true.
So then as prostitutes, and as souls reformed
We stood together, tallied. I don't say
That it was gratitude that prompted me
To marry Dolly, rather a justice sense.
But there were other things more exigent.
I had been cruel to a drunken wife,
Had led her into drunkenness, and so craved
Way down in some dark crevice of the heart
Where gnaws the undying worm, a chance to gouge
The worm out. But I'd counsel all who read
This soul confession to be generous,
Forgiving, gentle with your womenfolk.
A mystery is here: You dare not stand
Resisting woman's breast. Just as the sperm
Will die if staying back it never reach
The predestined ovum, so will man who flies
The woman by the course of life made his.
Cognate to such philosophy was thought
Stirring in me by never a being guessed
Who knew me, wondered why I married Dolly,
And thought I threw myself away. The poet
Was not all dead in me, though verseless long.
I thirsted for a chance to make amends
For all my failures, all my sins, all grimes,
From wallowings. What better way to do it
Than by such marriage, which would test all strength
Of patience, which might put to sacrifice
Pride, taste, peace, happiness, comfort, heart's desire
For beauty? Did I know the slimy rocks
As I descended, know the mephitic hell
Which lay below to which I walked? I knew.
Did I not see ill-nature in her eyes,
And note upon her mouth the odious words
Of ignorance, obscenity and spleen?
I noted them. Did I indulge the hope
That with the bagnio left behind, a wife
Married to me, her old associates
Would drop away, nor rather lurk along
The shadows of her former life to steal
Thence to her presence when my back was turned,
And taint my rooms of life with memories
Of what she was? I saw this in advance;
And I endured all when it came. And why?
Clearly to make my penance all the more.
For in proportion as her life offended
Did I bring equal spirit to submit,
Forgive, if that's the word, and so obtain
By sacrifice an expiation for all
My cruelties and lusts and prodigal
Waste of the gift of life. Have I paid all
This woeful debt? I think that any God
Would be appeased. For lastly did I see
The future thriftless with no bagnio
To subsidize my ideals when she left
That life for marriage? That, of course, I saw.
But I had hope of new prosperity.
It didn't come; meanwhile the fierce onslaught
Of giants on me deepened, and my campaigns
Grew heavier, and less financed with time;
Till with disease which took me suddenly
Defeat slunk by my steps and Poverty
Crossed from the bank and rattled at my door.
I must recur to something, nothing less
Than Elenor Murray, all I learned and lived
During that inquest as a juryman.
For truth to say I married Dolly when
The letters of Elenor Murray to Barrett Bays
Were read to us, and I took close to heart
Her sufferings in the war, of which she wrote;
And when I saw past any doubt at all
She loved him with a love which made me see
What love is—it was that that made me turn
With love to Universal Truth, called God;
With recognition, too, by love bestowed,
Of Dolly's part in the mysterious fate
Which took my life, and helped it to best things,
As I conceived them, made me say at last
With full acceptance, understanding, too,
Although He slay me, still will I believe.
After all wanderings with the intellect
This intuition granted me at last
Into the nature of the deepest truths
Filled full my heart with happiness, and sustained
The hard days I have lived beside the Fate,
Which unveiled her face and let me see her eyes.
Now here I sit in a cold cheerless room
Writing upon the creaking, shaking leaf
Of a poor, cheap desk this record of my life.
I cooked my supper. Dolly is off somewhere—
God knows. The dining table still contains
The breakfast dishes. There's the bed unmade
With tumbled covers, sheets and pillow slips
Which show the grime. No drink is in the house.
What if there were? I could not relish it.
There's no one left to call to come to me.
The coroner has gone to Madison.
There is a lady there—good luck to him,
And fair success in love. Here ends the lesson.
Three words express it wholly: I HAVE PAID.
I only add that I am glad I have."
So through the night read Merival, as he watched
Beside the coffin of his friend.
Beside the coffin of his friend.
Beside the coffin of his friend.Then came
The funeral where the Rev. Maiworm spoke
Of Marion's courage, genius, faith in man,
His Rabelaisian humor and belief
In man's uprightness, tendency to good;
And how he was the perfect Thelemite,
A jocund friend, a noble spark, a mind
Unenvious, and brave, and sworn to truth.
A few words by Llewellyn George. These three
Bore from the hall the coffin. Suddenly
Merival half down the aisle beheld
The face of Arielle sitting with the rest.
She looked at him, looked down. He looked at her
And gave her recognition with his eyes;
With no returning glance.
The funeral where the Rev. Maiworm spoke
Of Marion's courage, genius, faith in man,
His Rabelaisian humor and belief
In man's uprightness, tendency to good;
And how he was the perfect Thelemite,
A jocund friend, a noble spark, a mind
Unenvious, and brave, and sworn to truth.
A few words by Llewellyn George. These three
Bore from the hall the coffin. Suddenly
Merival half down the aisle beheld
The face of Arielle sitting with the rest.
She looked at him, looked down. He looked at her
And gave her recognition with his eyes;
With no returning glance.
With no returning glance.There at the grave
Of liberals, of little pamphleteers,
Of poor lame souls in life, of faces veiled,
A multitude had gathered of laborers,
Women from Dolly's life. And Dolly stood,
Shaking and crying, throwing rifled flowers
Upon the lowered coffin. Merival looked
In vain for Arielle until the clods
Rattled their hollow sound, and diggers heaped
The earth on Winthrop Marion.
Of liberals, of little pamphleteers,
Of poor lame souls in life, of faces veiled,
A multitude had gathered of laborers,
Women from Dolly's life. And Dolly stood,
Shaking and crying, throwing rifled flowers
Upon the lowered coffin. Merival looked
In vain for Arielle until the clods
Rattled their hollow sound, and diggers heaped
The earth on Winthrop Marion.
The earth on Winthrop Marion.Back to town
Merival searched for Arielle. First he asked
Garage men if a lady with a car
Had come and gone. He scanned the register
Of the Holly House; and at the station looked
For Arielle waiting for a train. At last
He ambled home and rode his favorite horse
About his many acres, lost in thought
Of Arielle, while mulling Marion's words
Still in his pocket. Now and then he stopped
To read some passage; then he spurred the horse
And galloped forward. Well, to-morrow night
He'd summon Rev. Maiworm, Newfeldt, George—
The three remaining jurors of Elenor Murray's
Inquest to come, and hear what Marion
Had written. But to-night what should he do,
First night for Marion on an earthen couch?
Merival searched for Arielle. First he asked
Garage men if a lady with a car
Had come and gone. He scanned the register
Of the Holly House; and at the station looked
For Arielle waiting for a train. At last
He ambled home and rode his favorite horse
About his many acres, lost in thought
Of Arielle, while mulling Marion's words
Still in his pocket. Now and then he stopped
To read some passage; then he spurred the horse
And galloped forward. Well, to-morrow night
He'd summon Rev. Maiworm, Newfeldt, George—
The three remaining jurors of Elenor Murray's
Inquest to come, and hear what Marion
Had written. But to-night what should he do,
First night for Marion on an earthen couch?
Returning from his ride Merival saw
Maiworm awaiting him upon the porch,
And wondered, but soon he knew how deeply grieved
Was Maiworm, and how he was haunted by
World fear and loneliness of soul, enhanced
By a trammel of little life there in LeRoy;
Trammeled but striving to put some meaning in
The passing days, and be a blessing to
His fellows. This gave Merival sadness now,
Scanning the futile figure of this man
There on the porch. So, too, it did to think
About the words which Maiworm said when hearing
The Borrow story, by which he half recanted
His faith expressed at the inquest's end, that all
Good would ensue from Christ's ascendancy,
And conquest of the world. Not that Merival prized
That conquest chiefly, but that he winced to see
A soul give up its inner hope and say
That what it treasured looked of smaller worth,
And in that fact confess soul homelessness.
Now Merival was touched, and took the hand
Of the village pastor, and said, "Come dine with me,
I am alone, and sorrowful enough
For Marion's death. We two shall never see
His like again, and a soul has gone from us
Whose loss the passing days will not repair.
I have his story here which you can read,
And then we'll talk." And Maiworm answered him:
"I want to see you, stay a little while,
But not to dine—I can't." They entered then;
And Maiworm read the story while Merival
Sent off a telegram to Arielle,
While in compassion, somehow, for the man
Who in the next room waited him, and thinking
What Maiworm's life must be, caught in the sum
Of village faith, and church theology,
Wearing the symbol of insignificance
By his very name, while hungering for God,
And in that very hunger given glimpses
Of that far world wherein imagination
With the Eternal rests.
With the Eternal rests.When Merival
Reëntered, Maiworm, having read the story
Of Marion, sat in silence, shedding tears.
But soon he said, "Well, coroner, I can't
Keep back the tears; these words go in the heart
Both for our friend who suffered, but as well
For ourselves who suffer, and more clearly see
What pain is ours and why. Shall we not say
That Marion wooed and won celestial things
While preying on earth's garbage? But of Borrow
That good escaped him though he wooed it in
The shape of heaven—heaven by him contemned
In his very heart, which left the mask assumed
Awry upon his face, and half exposed?
Yet thinking of myself while judging both
I feel like saying that the soul is like
The thing it hungers for. As Borrow longed
In youth, when the heart is fresh, for a better world,
For freedom, man's equality, was he not
At heart these things throughout? And Marion
Who felt the poet's passion in his youth
And felt it always, and even judged himself
In enmity almost for failing self,
Was he not by these things the poet, but
Sealed for his sins, a punishment enough?
Made dumb like Zacharias who was given
The thing he prayed for but being given it
Doubted its verity? As for myself
Less with the days do I condemn, and since
The Elenor Murray inquest, and those days
Of prized association with you and all
Who sat with me, my vision has been made
Deeper for truth, the universal truth;
So much did Elenor Murray do for me.
And I have thought about the radio,
And what the world becoming will become
Through music, voices, poured around our ears
In the silence of our hearths, in villages,
Through the far darkness. Beyond the literal fact
That Bach shall be familiar in LeRoy,
And what the dancers dance to in New York,
There will be comprehension of that world
Of spirits who did battle here and fled
Into the vastness. We shall worship, too,
More passionately the Universal Power;
And we shall feel that choirs and viols are
Beyond the dials of the radio
Which tease us, being inaccessible,
Well, for myself: Take first my very name,
Maiworm, what fate affixed it? But what fate
Made it appropriate? Think you that I've felt
No shame for this? Or take my place and work
Here in LeRoy, where rages the heavy storm
From the land at large about the virgin birth,
Atonement, grace, the mission of the church,
Immersion, resurrection from the dead;
Who thinks of me, a poor, weak, little man
Holding my coat about me as I battle
Such controversial winds, for veriest bread?
No rather do they frown upon my soul,
My vision, and dishonor it, because
They brought me to such fellowships as this
Upon this jury, and led me to declare
That God is known and loved by the inner eye,
Not by the tongue of doctrine.
Not by the tongue of doctrine."What's my secret
Which I must write? Essentially but this:
All that has kept me from the vision of God,
From love of Him, shut out, left isolate
In some imprisoning hate, but at the last
Concretely this: That I was never loved,
Believed in by my mother, which to-day,
And all along has been a taint of soul
Bad as a taint of actual blood. That Christ
Has never cured this lifts my eyes perhaps
To the Father beyond the Son. But how to write
All the years' agony for this mother's doubt,
Dispraise and disbelief which sapped my life
With brooding pain, is just the task I have.
And how to show a sister shared in it,
And joined with her to take the little house
Away from me, which father meant for me,
Who loved me, understood me—how this stands
Against my better nature, has made frustrate
My growth, is what I must confess in full.
Will you believe me, though I am most poor,
The house as property I can forbear?
But the souls whose quality denies the house,
While I cannot deny the souls are mine,
That is the wound that makes me cry aloud
A soul forsakeness which loses God.
Is there worse sin than this? Well was it said
To fear not them who kill the body, but
Fear them who kill the soul. For I am made
By this resentment and this mother hate
Uncandid with myself and furtive too;
My soul hunts rat holes for escape; it looks
With bleared eyes at the sun; I am consumed
With memory, and with lurking; I am filled
With self-depreciation, diffidence,
And have been from my youth increasingly.
Where will it end? Look at the deep offense
Which gathers virulence, and sends me blind
For the vision! Now although I've promised you
I wonder if I should lay bare my heart,
Seeing it must expose my mother's hate
For my father, and her hate of me because
I am his son, not hers in very soul;
Her hate that has so crippled me, to which
A sister's hate was added to make the sum
Of my soul struggle, and defeat perhaps."
Maiworm awaiting him upon the porch,
And wondered, but soon he knew how deeply grieved
Was Maiworm, and how he was haunted by
World fear and loneliness of soul, enhanced
By a trammel of little life there in LeRoy;
Trammeled but striving to put some meaning in
The passing days, and be a blessing to
His fellows. This gave Merival sadness now,
Scanning the futile figure of this man
There on the porch. So, too, it did to think
About the words which Maiworm said when hearing
The Borrow story, by which he half recanted
His faith expressed at the inquest's end, that all
Good would ensue from Christ's ascendancy,
And conquest of the world. Not that Merival prized
That conquest chiefly, but that he winced to see
A soul give up its inner hope and say
That what it treasured looked of smaller worth,
And in that fact confess soul homelessness.
Now Merival was touched, and took the hand
Of the village pastor, and said, "Come dine with me,
I am alone, and sorrowful enough
For Marion's death. We two shall never see
His like again, and a soul has gone from us
Whose loss the passing days will not repair.
I have his story here which you can read,
And then we'll talk." And Maiworm answered him:
"I want to see you, stay a little while,
But not to dine—I can't." They entered then;
And Maiworm read the story while Merival
Sent off a telegram to Arielle,
While in compassion, somehow, for the man
Who in the next room waited him, and thinking
What Maiworm's life must be, caught in the sum
Of village faith, and church theology,
Wearing the symbol of insignificance
By his very name, while hungering for God,
And in that very hunger given glimpses
Of that far world wherein imagination
With the Eternal rests.
With the Eternal rests.When Merival
Reëntered, Maiworm, having read the story
Of Marion, sat in silence, shedding tears.
But soon he said, "Well, coroner, I can't
Keep back the tears; these words go in the heart
Both for our friend who suffered, but as well
For ourselves who suffer, and more clearly see
What pain is ours and why. Shall we not say
That Marion wooed and won celestial things
While preying on earth's garbage? But of Borrow
That good escaped him though he wooed it in
The shape of heaven—heaven by him contemned
In his very heart, which left the mask assumed
Awry upon his face, and half exposed?
Yet thinking of myself while judging both
I feel like saying that the soul is like
The thing it hungers for. As Borrow longed
In youth, when the heart is fresh, for a better world,
For freedom, man's equality, was he not
At heart these things throughout? And Marion
Who felt the poet's passion in his youth
And felt it always, and even judged himself
In enmity almost for failing self,
Was he not by these things the poet, but
Sealed for his sins, a punishment enough?
Made dumb like Zacharias who was given
The thing he prayed for but being given it
Doubted its verity? As for myself
Less with the days do I condemn, and since
The Elenor Murray inquest, and those days
Of prized association with you and all
Who sat with me, my vision has been made
Deeper for truth, the universal truth;
So much did Elenor Murray do for me.
And I have thought about the radio,
And what the world becoming will become
Through music, voices, poured around our ears
In the silence of our hearths, in villages,
Through the far darkness. Beyond the literal fact
That Bach shall be familiar in LeRoy,
And what the dancers dance to in New York,
There will be comprehension of that world
Of spirits who did battle here and fled
Into the vastness. We shall worship, too,
More passionately the Universal Power;
And we shall feel that choirs and viols are
Beyond the dials of the radio
Which tease us, being inaccessible,
Well, for myself: Take first my very name,
Maiworm, what fate affixed it? But what fate
Made it appropriate? Think you that I've felt
No shame for this? Or take my place and work
Here in LeRoy, where rages the heavy storm
From the land at large about the virgin birth,
Atonement, grace, the mission of the church,
Immersion, resurrection from the dead;
Who thinks of me, a poor, weak, little man
Holding my coat about me as I battle
Such controversial winds, for veriest bread?
No rather do they frown upon my soul,
My vision, and dishonor it, because
They brought me to such fellowships as this
Upon this jury, and led me to declare
That God is known and loved by the inner eye,
Not by the tongue of doctrine.
Not by the tongue of doctrine."What's my secret
Which I must write? Essentially but this:
All that has kept me from the vision of God,
From love of Him, shut out, left isolate
In some imprisoning hate, but at the last
Concretely this: That I was never loved,
Believed in by my mother, which to-day,
And all along has been a taint of soul
Bad as a taint of actual blood. That Christ
Has never cured this lifts my eyes perhaps
To the Father beyond the Son. But how to write
All the years' agony for this mother's doubt,
Dispraise and disbelief which sapped my life
With brooding pain, is just the task I have.
And how to show a sister shared in it,
And joined with her to take the little house
Away from me, which father meant for me,
Who loved me, understood me—how this stands
Against my better nature, has made frustrate
My growth, is what I must confess in full.
Will you believe me, though I am most poor,
The house as property I can forbear?
But the souls whose quality denies the house,
While I cannot deny the souls are mine,
That is the wound that makes me cry aloud
A soul forsakeness which loses God.
Is there worse sin than this? Well was it said
To fear not them who kill the body, but
Fear them who kill the soul. For I am made
By this resentment and this mother hate
Uncandid with myself and furtive too;
My soul hunts rat holes for escape; it looks
With bleared eyes at the sun; I am consumed
With memory, and with lurking; I am filled
With self-depreciation, diffidence,
And have been from my youth increasingly.
Where will it end? Look at the deep offense
Which gathers virulence, and sends me blind
For the vision! Now although I've promised you
I wonder if I should lay bare my heart,
Seeing it must expose my mother's hate
For my father, and her hate of me because
I am his son, not hers in very soul;
Her hate that has so crippled me, to which
A sister's hate was added to make the sum
Of my soul struggle, and defeat perhaps."
So Maiworm talked, while Merival gazed at him
And listened with all attention. Then at once
Maiworm arose, and once again declined
To dine with Merival, and walked away,
So lonely, Merival watching him disappear.
And listened with all attention. Then at once
Maiworm arose, and once again declined
To dine with Merival, and walked away,
So lonely, Merival watching him disappear.
Merival ate alone, so much absorbed
In thought about the pastor, but no less
In Marion and his story, that he knew
Scarcely at all what food was served, or when
He finished, or what servant set the courses;
Or when he left the table, and once again
Began to read what Marion had written.
With thought of Arielle he read each word
Of Marion's confession, which could light
His way with Arielle, read it once again,
Over and over. Then at nine o'clock
He rang Chicago, tried to talk to her;
Her hotel room was silent, no response.
Had she returned? Had she returned and gone
Out for the evening? But how strange for her
To journey to LeRoy and go away,
And fail to see him. Yet perhaps how like
Her whimsicality.
In thought about the pastor, but no less
In Marion and his story, that he knew
Scarcely at all what food was served, or when
He finished, or what servant set the courses;
Or when he left the table, and once again
Began to read what Marion had written.
With thought of Arielle he read each word
Of Marion's confession, which could light
His way with Arielle, read it once again,
Over and over. Then at nine o'clock
He rang Chicago, tried to talk to her;
Her hotel room was silent, no response.
Had she returned? Had she returned and gone
Out for the evening? But how strange for her
To journey to LeRoy and go away,
And fail to see him. Yet perhaps how like
Her whimsicality.
Her whimsicality.So the night came down,
And Merival by a table in the room
With a bow window looking on the porch
Was reading Marion's story once again.
He heard a sound behind the hallway door,
A step it was, perhaps a servant's foot.
He rose and opened—but no one was there.
He sat again, and heard the severing crack
Of woodwork, then a step, it seemed to be
Upon the porch. He pressed his face against
The blackness of the windowpane and stared
Where nothing took his eye but the leafless vine
Which the wind shook, and made the trellis creak.
Seated again he found a book to read;
But restlessness was on him. All the room
Somehow had eyes; they stared against his back,
Out of the darkness through the window staring;
And once when glancing up he seemed to see
A light or whiteness vanish; once again
Quick turning to the window he beheld
The face of Arielle, faintly pale and sweet!
With pensiveness she gave her eyes to him.
Then Merival threw up the window, took
Her hands in his and drew her in the room,
And hid her on his breast. She whispered now:
"I'm tired of wandering, tired of loneliness."
That night he married Arielle. Maiworm came
And read the ritual.
And Merival by a table in the room
With a bow window looking on the porch
Was reading Marion's story once again.
He heard a sound behind the hallway door,
A step it was, perhaps a servant's foot.
He rose and opened—but no one was there.
He sat again, and heard the severing crack
Of woodwork, then a step, it seemed to be
Upon the porch. He pressed his face against
The blackness of the windowpane and stared
Where nothing took his eye but the leafless vine
Which the wind shook, and made the trellis creak.
Seated again he found a book to read;
But restlessness was on him. All the room
Somehow had eyes; they stared against his back,
Out of the darkness through the window staring;
And once when glancing up he seemed to see
A light or whiteness vanish; once again
Quick turning to the window he beheld
The face of Arielle, faintly pale and sweet!
With pensiveness she gave her eyes to him.
Then Merival threw up the window, took
Her hands in his and drew her in the room,
And hid her on his breast. She whispered now:
"I'm tired of wandering, tired of loneliness."
That night he married Arielle. Maiworm came
And read the ritual.