The Fate of the Jury/Part 8
VIII
Around the lovely country of Starved Rock
Their life began on horses. Arielle raised
Her spirits like a storm beaten flower
On which the balminess of soft blowing airs
Has come with tranquil sunshine. Merival
Attended her and served her, gave her rest.
He lifted from her life the vexing load
Of that estate in Madison. He willed
His sacrifice to her, how sweet this love
Which thought of her alone and not of self!
What use for his remaining years like this
Devotion? Let the dream go by of sons
And daughters romping on this ample lawn;
He put that hope aside in care of her,
In caution for her sake. Yet a few months
Brought emphasis to her curious moods, her words
Of various contradiction, lack of truth;
She passed from ecstasies to melancholy,
And wandered far afield alone; or sat
Pensive far looking to the riverside.
Then Merival returning after a day's
Absence, the horror broke upon his life.
As he approached his gate he saw a woman
Awaiting him, and thought that Arielle
Had come to meet him. So he waved to her.
But drawing nearer the face was wholly strange.
As he dismounted, and his stableman
Came forward for the horse, the woman walked
With diffidence toward him, and made known
Herself as Mary, who in Arielle's youth
Had read and walked and played with Arielle
In Wytheville. Now she told how she had come,
And knocked upon the door, which Arielle
Opened to her, and stared at her at first,
Then seemed to faint, then quickly turned away,
And reappeared bearing a knife, and rushed
With sharp, shrill cries on Mary, swiftly running
To escape the knife. Meanwhile, as Mary told,
The servants coming forth caught Arielle
And mastered her, and locked her in the attic,
Where she sat now, staring through flowing tears.
But she had killed the Airedale, Boy, before
The knife was wrested from her hand, and there
Lay Boy beside the gate with slitted throat,
Which Mary pointed to, and weeping said
That poverty had driven her to come
From Idaho to Arielle, and with hope
That she might serve her somehow, and so earn
A servant's room and bread. Now Merival
In the terror of the moment could not stay
To analyze this story, but in a flash
He wondered why, if Arielle sent her money,
There was a need for Mary to come, and break
His home's peace thus, and topple Arielle's mind.
He hastened to the attic, to Arielle.
She sat there staring with her blouse all torn,
Her hair disheveled; but when she saw her husband
She hid her eyes, and with clutched fingers groaned.
She rose and tottered toward him, kneeled to him;
She clung to him and wept, with nervous hands,
And trembling fingers like the terrified
Claws of a bird she plucked his coat and stroked
His hands and face. Then Merival called in
Nurses and guards to watch her. Through long years
She passed from days of violence to calm,
From sunny self-possession to dark hours,
Turned, as it seemed, to mazed and wandering thought
On things remembered, or to unreal shapes.
But with the years more surely she became
The fading phantom of lost loveliness,
A quiet feebleness who walked about
The lawn of Merival with guards. And he,
Her senior by some fifteen years, slipped down
To seventy years, a hale, old man at last.
And he supported Mary while she lived
There in LeRoy. For later paralysis
Struck Mary down, soon after the dreadful day
Which darkened Arielle's mind. So Merival
Provided Mary with a house and nurse,
While the years went on for him and Arielle.
George, Newfeldt, Maiworm drifted off at last
Passed out forgotten, never wrote their lives
For Merival to read. Forgotten too
Were Elenor Murray and the famous inquest.
Their life began on horses. Arielle raised
Her spirits like a storm beaten flower
On which the balminess of soft blowing airs
Has come with tranquil sunshine. Merival
Attended her and served her, gave her rest.
He lifted from her life the vexing load
Of that estate in Madison. He willed
His sacrifice to her, how sweet this love
Which thought of her alone and not of self!
What use for his remaining years like this
Devotion? Let the dream go by of sons
And daughters romping on this ample lawn;
He put that hope aside in care of her,
In caution for her sake. Yet a few months
Brought emphasis to her curious moods, her words
Of various contradiction, lack of truth;
She passed from ecstasies to melancholy,
And wandered far afield alone; or sat
Pensive far looking to the riverside.
Then Merival returning after a day's
Absence, the horror broke upon his life.
As he approached his gate he saw a woman
Awaiting him, and thought that Arielle
Had come to meet him. So he waved to her.
But drawing nearer the face was wholly strange.
As he dismounted, and his stableman
Came forward for the horse, the woman walked
With diffidence toward him, and made known
Herself as Mary, who in Arielle's youth
Had read and walked and played with Arielle
In Wytheville. Now she told how she had come,
And knocked upon the door, which Arielle
Opened to her, and stared at her at first,
Then seemed to faint, then quickly turned away,
And reappeared bearing a knife, and rushed
With sharp, shrill cries on Mary, swiftly running
To escape the knife. Meanwhile, as Mary told,
The servants coming forth caught Arielle
And mastered her, and locked her in the attic,
Where she sat now, staring through flowing tears.
But she had killed the Airedale, Boy, before
The knife was wrested from her hand, and there
Lay Boy beside the gate with slitted throat,
Which Mary pointed to, and weeping said
That poverty had driven her to come
From Idaho to Arielle, and with hope
That she might serve her somehow, and so earn
A servant's room and bread. Now Merival
In the terror of the moment could not stay
To analyze this story, but in a flash
He wondered why, if Arielle sent her money,
There was a need for Mary to come, and break
His home's peace thus, and topple Arielle's mind.
He hastened to the attic, to Arielle.
She sat there staring with her blouse all torn,
Her hair disheveled; but when she saw her husband
She hid her eyes, and with clutched fingers groaned.
She rose and tottered toward him, kneeled to him;
She clung to him and wept, with nervous hands,
And trembling fingers like the terrified
Claws of a bird she plucked his coat and stroked
His hands and face. Then Merival called in
Nurses and guards to watch her. Through long years
She passed from days of violence to calm,
From sunny self-possession to dark hours,
Turned, as it seemed, to mazed and wandering thought
On things remembered, or to unreal shapes.
But with the years more surely she became
The fading phantom of lost loveliness,
A quiet feebleness who walked about
The lawn of Merival with guards. And he,
Her senior by some fifteen years, slipped down
To seventy years, a hale, old man at last.
And he supported Mary while she lived
There in LeRoy. For later paralysis
Struck Mary down, soon after the dreadful day
Which darkened Arielle's mind. So Merival
Provided Mary with a house and nurse,
While the years went on for him and Arielle.
George, Newfeldt, Maiworm drifted off at last
Passed out forgotten, never wrote their lives
For Merival to read. Forgotten too
Were Elenor Murray and the famous inquest.
Save on Memorial Days when soldiers' graves
Had the remembrance of LeRoy, a wreath
Was laid upon the nurse's cenotaph,
Which marked the center of the village square,
With its bronze tablet showing in relief
Her face, and underneath it date of birth,
And date of death, and just these words: "The spoils
Of war are leaves which destiny blows away;
Her hope was as the tree which still endures."
This was the work of Merival who remained
After his jury vanished from LeRoy,
Leaving to him in the middle, lonely years
To finish what they planned. And at the last
Those who remembered Elenor Murray, or
Later remembered what their parents told,
Spoke of the bad, strange woman who as nurse
Served in the war in France; or of LeRoy's
Joan of Arc, who gave her life for love
Of country and of truth.
Had the remembrance of LeRoy, a wreath
Was laid upon the nurse's cenotaph,
Which marked the center of the village square,
With its bronze tablet showing in relief
Her face, and underneath it date of birth,
And date of death, and just these words: "The spoils
Of war are leaves which destiny blows away;
Her hope was as the tree which still endures."
This was the work of Merival who remained
After his jury vanished from LeRoy,
Leaving to him in the middle, lonely years
To finish what they planned. And at the last
Those who remembered Elenor Murray, or
Later remembered what their parents told,
Spoke of the bad, strange woman who as nurse
Served in the war in France; or of LeRoy's
Joan of Arc, who gave her life for love
Of country and of truth.
Of country and of truth.Now Merival
Along the years from time to time set down
Words of his life, but never finished them.
One time he wrote: "We search for love, that's all;
That's all my story, that is every one's,
However circumstance may vary it."
To this he added after many years:
"This is Memorial Day, my birthday, too,
On which I reach my seventieth year. . . . I stood
Before the cenotaph of Elenor Murray,
And tried to think. Brief, long has been my life;
Brief, long the history of the human race.
It gives me faith to think the world has stood
A billion years, and yet will stand as long;
Yes, that these last five hundred years of time,
In which the race has climbed, and mastered laws—
How many laws—what wisdom it has won!—
Are as a second of the eternal clock,
And less than that my poor, small, seventy years.
What in the million years? An invisible gleam
From the swinging pendulum! As to my search,
My life's long passion, valuable for itself,
For my life's planning, worthless. These exist
Together—nor oppose nor contradict
Each other. What I worked for, has it failed?
Magnanimous vastness takes it! But my hope
Established me at last in peace with self,
And made me tuned with vastness which demands
Hope, love, truth, beauty, which I see as laws
Eternal like the laws of gravity,
Of energy. Then why this universe?
Why mind of man which the great scene explores,
If it be not for him to know, as part
Of its inherent reason that it is?
If it be not his mind was made to grow,
As it has grown these twenty thousand years—
As it must grow in the million years to come
To a wisdom millions greater than to-day's?
This is my faith, all reasonable, while doubt,
Which sees a universe in defeat, and man
Defeated as a mind for that defeat
Is all insane. No, I believe, and ride
By this belief vast wings from star to star,
From which I look on death beneath as a shadow
Thrown from a mountain by the rising sun;
And if night come as blotted consciousness,
The law conducts it; with what good compared
Is this law rendered bad? Were there not days
And nights before me and shall there not be days
And nights long after me? And from what? No less
From that same law which to deny denies
Myself, impugns that man has learned the laws,
That man has risen; and that the love of truth,
The love of love, in spite of all the loss,
The anguish, reckless hatred of our kind
Sustain and justify and help to prove
The inscrutable mission of the million years,
In which each incident is destiny,
Or negligible, leaving the destiny pure.
For I perceive necessity within
All trivial things, which in the aggregate
Make lives—made all my life—and epochs make
By the aggregate of lives, until the land
To the utmost limit of the ages stretches
And shows the chronicle of God, who is
The deep internal current flowing on
To an end beyond our vision, undisturbed
Unchanged by the surface waters, which deceive
The material eye by flowing counterwise,
Or by the run of waves, or water spouts,
Or lawless streams, thus saying there is no
Purpose, no law, no destiny, no God.
The Destiny can despise particular ill,
The failure of great men, a nation's hope,
Great wars—and why? They are the Destiny!
While we as individuals still must strive,
Nor escape the striving save by being less
In the Will which fashions forth an epoch's tale,
By seeing and using the divine which makes
The world becoming. Suppose America doomed;
Suppose its greatness be but outward form
Of greatness, asserted stridently to hide
The absence of any greatness within its life,
Shall I lie down in fatalistic sloth?
Or shall I for myself, and with the trust
That America is the symbol of the Power
Moving with rational purpose to some end
Go on, fight on, as surely I meant well
In taking a spiritual census of America
While assaying the life and death of Elenor Murray?
So on my seventieth birthday do I think."
Along the years from time to time set down
Words of his life, but never finished them.
One time he wrote: "We search for love, that's all;
That's all my story, that is every one's,
However circumstance may vary it."
To this he added after many years:
"This is Memorial Day, my birthday, too,
On which I reach my seventieth year. . . . I stood
Before the cenotaph of Elenor Murray,
And tried to think. Brief, long has been my life;
Brief, long the history of the human race.
It gives me faith to think the world has stood
A billion years, and yet will stand as long;
Yes, that these last five hundred years of time,
In which the race has climbed, and mastered laws—
How many laws—what wisdom it has won!—
Are as a second of the eternal clock,
And less than that my poor, small, seventy years.
What in the million years? An invisible gleam
From the swinging pendulum! As to my search,
My life's long passion, valuable for itself,
For my life's planning, worthless. These exist
Together—nor oppose nor contradict
Each other. What I worked for, has it failed?
Magnanimous vastness takes it! But my hope
Established me at last in peace with self,
And made me tuned with vastness which demands
Hope, love, truth, beauty, which I see as laws
Eternal like the laws of gravity,
Of energy. Then why this universe?
Why mind of man which the great scene explores,
If it be not for him to know, as part
Of its inherent reason that it is?
If it be not his mind was made to grow,
As it has grown these twenty thousand years—
As it must grow in the million years to come
To a wisdom millions greater than to-day's?
This is my faith, all reasonable, while doubt,
Which sees a universe in defeat, and man
Defeated as a mind for that defeat
Is all insane. No, I believe, and ride
By this belief vast wings from star to star,
From which I look on death beneath as a shadow
Thrown from a mountain by the rising sun;
And if night come as blotted consciousness,
The law conducts it; with what good compared
Is this law rendered bad? Were there not days
And nights before me and shall there not be days
And nights long after me? And from what? No less
From that same law which to deny denies
Myself, impugns that man has learned the laws,
That man has risen; and that the love of truth,
The love of love, in spite of all the loss,
The anguish, reckless hatred of our kind
Sustain and justify and help to prove
The inscrutable mission of the million years,
In which each incident is destiny,
Or negligible, leaving the destiny pure.
For I perceive necessity within
All trivial things, which in the aggregate
Make lives—made all my life—and epochs make
By the aggregate of lives, until the land
To the utmost limit of the ages stretches
And shows the chronicle of God, who is
The deep internal current flowing on
To an end beyond our vision, undisturbed
Unchanged by the surface waters, which deceive
The material eye by flowing counterwise,
Or by the run of waves, or water spouts,
Or lawless streams, thus saying there is no
Purpose, no law, no destiny, no God.
The Destiny can despise particular ill,
The failure of great men, a nation's hope,
Great wars—and why? They are the Destiny!
While we as individuals still must strive,
Nor escape the striving save by being less
In the Will which fashions forth an epoch's tale,
By seeing and using the divine which makes
The world becoming. Suppose America doomed;
Suppose its greatness be but outward form
Of greatness, asserted stridently to hide
The absence of any greatness within its life,
Shall I lie down in fatalistic sloth?
Or shall I for myself, and with the trust
That America is the symbol of the Power
Moving with rational purpose to some end
Go on, fight on, as surely I meant well
In taking a spiritual census of America
While assaying the life and death of Elenor Murray?
So on my seventieth birthday do I think."
So sped the days of Merival with the care
Of Arielle, till eighty years were reached.
Then Arielle died. And Merival built a tomb
Below the slope that ended where the lawn
Merged with the fields; and there he housed her grief,
So long endured, so finished.
Of Arielle, till eighty years were reached.
Then Arielle died. And Merival built a tomb
Below the slope that ended where the lawn
Merged with the fields; and there he housed her grief,
So long endured, so finished.
So long endured, so finished.Until he died
The passer-by could see him near the porch,
A wasted body in a rustic chair
Too ample for his shrunken flesh. He seemed
To stare the woodland distance, with slouch hat
Over his eyes drawn down; and that white hair
Lay flat upon his slender neck; his hands
Rested upon a cane. How much immersed
In the wide landscape was his shriveled form
Lapped by insatiate life, and vanishing!
He was a solitary tree which lifts
Dead limbs to graying skies, nor even craves
The memory of past Junes and leaves of green.
(1)
THE END
The passer-by could see him near the porch,
A wasted body in a rustic chair
Too ample for his shrunken flesh. He seemed
To stare the woodland distance, with slouch hat
Over his eyes drawn down; and that white hair
Lay flat upon his slender neck; his hands
Rested upon a cane. How much immersed
In the wide landscape was his shriveled form
Lapped by insatiate life, and vanishing!
He was a solitary tree which lifts
Dead limbs to graying skies, nor even craves
The memory of past Junes and leaves of green.
(1)
THE END