Domesday Book

AT FAIRBANKS

Bill, look here! Here’s the Times. You see this picture,
Read if you like a little later. You never
Heard how I came to Fairbanks, chanced to stay.
It’s eight years now. You see in nineteen eleven
I lived in Hammond, Indiana, thought
I’d like a trip, see mountains, see Alaska,
Perhaps find fortune or a woman—well
You know from your experience how it is.
It was July and from the train I saw
The Canadian Rockies, stopped at Banff a day,
At Lake Louise, and so forth. At Vancouver
Found travelers feasting, Englishmen in drink,
Flirtations budding, coming into flower;
And eager spirits waiting for the boat.
Up to this time I hadn’t made a friend,
Stalked silently about along the streets,
Drank Scotch like all the rest, as much besides.

Well, then we took the steamship Princess Alice
And started up the Inland Channel—great!
Got on our cheeks the breezes from the crystal
Cradles of the north, began at once
To find the mystery, silence, see clear stars,
The whites and blacks and greens along the shores.
And still I had no friend, was quite alone.
Just as I came on deck I saw a face,
Looked, stared perhaps. Her eyes went over me,
Would not look at me. At the dinner table
She sat far down from me, I could not see her,
But made a point to rise when she arose,
Did all I could to catch her eye—no use.
So things went and I gave up—still I wondered
Why she had no companion. Was she married?
Was husband waiting her, at Skagway?—well
I fancied something of the sort, at last,
And as I said, gave up.

But on a morning
I rose to see the sun rise, all the sky
First as a giant pansy, petals flung
In violet toward the zenith streaked with fire;
The silver of the snows change under light,
Mottled with shadows of the mountain tops
Like leaves that shadow, flutter on a lawn.
At last the topaz splendors shoot to heaven,
The sun just peeks and gilds the porcelain
Of snow with purest gold. And in the valleys
Darkness remains, Orician ebony
Is not more black. You’ve seen this too, I know,
And recognize my picture. There I stood,
Believed I was alone, then heard a voice,
“Is it not beautiful?” and looked around,
And saw my girl, who had avoided me,
Would not make friends before. This is her picture,
Name, Elenor Murray. So the matter started.
I had my seat at table changed and sat
Next to my girl to talk with her. We walked
The deck together. Then she said to me
Her home was in Chicago, so it is
Travelers abroad discover they are neighbors
When they are home. She had been teaching school,
And saved her money for this trip, had planned
To go as far as Fairbanks. As for me,
I thought I’d stop with Skagway—Oh this life!
Your hat blows off, you chase it, bump a woman,
Then beg her pardon, laugh and get acquainted,
And marry later.

As we steamed along
She was the happiest spirit on the deck.
The Wrangell Narrows almost drove her wild,
There where the mountains are like circus tents,
Big show, menagerie and all the rest,
But white as cotton with perennial snow.
We swum past aisles of pine trees where a stream
Rushed down in terraces of hoary foam.
The nights were glorious. We drank and ate
And danced when there was dancing.

Well, at first,
She seemed a little school ma’am, quaint, demure,
Meticulous and puritanical.
And then she seemed a school ma’am out to have
A time, so far away, where none would know,
And like a woman who had heard of life
And had a teasing interest in its wonder,
Too long caged up. At last my vision blurred:
I did not know her, lost my first impressions
Amid succeeding phases which she showed.

But when we came to Skagway, then I saw
Another Elenor Murray. How she danced
And tripped from place to place—such energy!
She almost wore me out with seeing sights.
But now behold! The White Pass she must see
Upon the principle of missing nothing—
But oh the grave of “Soapy” Smith, the outlaw,
The gambler and the heeler, that for her!
We went four miles and found the cemetery,
The grave of “Soapy” Smith.—Came back to town
Where she would see the buildings where they played
Stud poker, Keno, in the riotous days.
Time came for her to go. She looked at me
And said “Come on to Fairbanks.” As for that,
I’d had enough, was ready to return,
But sensed an honorarium, so I said,
“You might induce me,” with a pregnant tone.
That moment we were walking ’cross the street,
She stopped a moment, shook from head to heels,
And said, “No man has talked to me that way.”
I dropped the matter. She renewed it—said,
“Why do you hurry back? What calls you back?
Come on to Fairbanks, see the gardens there,
That tag the blizzards with their rosy hands
And romp amid the snows.” She smiled at me.
Well, then I thought—why not? And smiled her back,
And on we went to Fairbanks, where my hat
Blows off, as I shall tell you.

For a day
We did the town together, and that night
I thought to win her. First we dined together,
Had many drinks, my little school ma’am drank
Of everything I ordered, had a place
For more than I could drink. And truth to tell
At bed time I was woozy, ten o’clock.
We had not registered. And so I said,
“I’m Mr. Kelly and you’re Mrs. Kelly.”
She shook her head. And so to make an end
I could not win her, signed my name in full;
She did the same, we said good night and parted.

Next morning when I woke, felt none too good,
Got up at last and met her down at breakfast;
Tried eggs and toast, could only drink some coffee;
Got worse; in short, she saw it, put her hand
Upon my head and said, “Your head is hot,
You have a fever.” Well, I lolled around
And tried to fight it off till noon—no good.
By this time I was sick, lay down to rest.
By night I could not lift my head—in short,
I lay there for a month, and all the time
She cared for me just like a mother would.
They moved me to a suite, she took the room
That opened into mine, by night and day
She nursed me, cheered me, read to me. At last
When I sat up, was soon to be about,
She said to me, “I’m going on to Nome,
St. Michael first. They tell me that you cross
The Arctic Circle going to St. Michael,
And I must cross the Arctic Circle—think
To come this far and miss it. I must see
The Indian villages.” And there again
I saw, but clearer than before, the spirit
Adventuresome and restless, what you call
The heart American. I said to her,
“I’m not too well, I’m lonely,—yes, and more—
I’m fond of you, you have been good to me,
Stay with me here.—She darted in and out
The room where I was lying, doing things,
And broke my pleadings just like icicles
You shoot against a wall.

But here she was,
A month in Fairbanks, living at expense,
Said “I am short of money—lend me some,
I’ll go to Nome, return to you and then
We’ll ship together for the States.”

You see
I really owed her money for her care,
Her loss in staying—then I loved the girl,
Had played all cards but one—I played it now:
“Come back and marry me.” Her eyes looked down.
“I will be fair with you,” she said, “and think.
Away from you I can make up my mind
If I have love enough to marry you.”
I gave her money and she went away,
And for some weeks I had a splendid hell
Of loneliness and longing, you might know,
A stranger in Alaska, here in Fairbanks,
In love besides, and mulling in my mind
Our days and nights upon the steamer Alice,
Our ramblings in the Northland.

Weeks went by,
No letter and no girl. I found my health
Was vigorous again. One morning walking
I kicked a twenty dollar gold piece up
Right on the side-walk. Picked it up and said:
“An omen of good luck, a letter soon!
Perhaps this town has something for me!” Well,
I thought I’d get a job to pass the time
While waiting for my girl. I got the job
And here I am to-day; I’ve flourished here,
Worked to the top in Fairbanks in eight years,
And thus my hat blew off.

What of the girl?
Six weeks or more a letter came from her,
She crossed the Arctic Circle, went to Nome,
Sailed back to ’Frisco where she wrote to me.
Sent all the money back I loaned to her,
And thanked me for the honor I had done her
In asking her in marriage, but had thought
The matter over, could not marry me,
Thought in the circumstances it was useless
To come to Fairbanks, see me, tell me so.

Now, Bill, I’m egotist enough to think
This girl could do no better. Now it seems
She’s dead and never married—why not me?
Why did she ditch me? So I thought about it,
Was piqued of course, concluded in the end
There was another man. A woman’s no
Means she has someone else, expects to have,
More suited to her fancy. Then one morning
As I awoke with thoughts of her as usual
Right in my mind there plumped an incident
On shipboard when she asked me if I knew
A certain man in Chicago. At the time
The question passed amid our running talk,
And made no memory. But you watch and see
A woman when she asks you if you know
A certain man, the chances are the man
Is something in her life. So now I lay
And thought there is a man, and that’s the man;
His name is stored away, I’ll dig it up
Out of the cells subliminal—so I thought
But could not bring it back.

I found at last
The telephone directory of Chicago,
And searched and searched the names from A to Z.
Some mornings would pronounce a name and think
That is the name, then throw the name away—
It did not fit the echo in my brain.

But now at last—look here! Eight years are gone,
I’m healed of Elenor Murray, married too;
And read about her death here in the Times,
And turn the pages over—column five—
Chicago startled by a suicide—
Gregory Wenner kills himself—behold
The name, at last, she spoke!
————
So much for waters in Alaska. Now
Turn eyes upon the waters nearer home.
Anton Sosnowski has a fateful day
And Winthrop Marion runs the story down,
And learns Sosnowski read the Times the day,
He broke from brooding to a dreadful deed;
Sosnowski saw the face of Elenor Murray
And Rufus Fox upon the self-same page,
And afterwards was known to show a clipping
Concerning Elenor Murray and the banner
Of Joan of Arc, the words she wrote and folded
Within the banner: to be brave, nor flinch.

ANTON SOSNOWSKI

Anton Sosnowski, from the Shakspeare School
Where he assists the janitor, sweeps and dusts,
The day now done, sits by a smeared up table
Munching coarse bread and drinking beer; before him
The evening paper spread, held down or turned
By claw-like hands, covered with shiny scars.
He broods upon the war news, and his fate
Which keeps him from the war, looks up and sees
His scarred face in the mirror over the wainscot;
His lashless eyes and browless brows and head
With patches of thin hair. And then he mutters
Hot curses to himself and turns the paper
And curses Germany, and asks revenge
For Poland’s wrongs.

And what is this he sees?
The picture of his ruin and his hate,
Wert Rufus Fox! This leader of the bar
Is made the counselor of the city, now
The city takes gas, cars and telephones
And runs them for the people. So this man
Grown rich through machinations against the people,
Who fought the people all his life before,
Abettor, aider, thinker for the slickers
Regraters and forestallers and engrossers,
Is now the friend, adviser of the city,
Which he so balked and thwarted, growing rich,
Feared, noted, bowed to for the very treason
For which he is so hated, yet deferred to.

And Anton looks upon the picture, reads
About the great man’s ancestry here printed,
And all the great achievements of his life;
Once president of the bar association,
And member of this club and of that club.
Contributor to charities and art,
A founder of a library, a vestryman.
And Anton looks upon the picture, trembles
Before the picture’s eyes. They are the eyes
Of Innocent the Tenth, with cruelty
And cunning added—eyes that see all things
And boulder jaws that crush all things—the jaws
That place themselves at front of drifts, are placed
By that world irony which mocks the good,
And gives the glory and the victory
To strength and greed.

Anton Sosnowski looks
Long at the picture, then at his own hands,
And laughs maniacally as he takes the mug
With both hands like a bird with frozen claws,
These broken, burned off hands which handle bread
As they were wooden rakes. And in a mirror
Beside the table in the wall, smeared over
With steam from red-hots, kraut and cookery,
Of smoking fats, fixed by the dust in blurs,
And streaks, he sees his own face, horrible
For scars and splotches as of leprosy;
The eyes that have no lashes and no brows;
The bullet head that has no hair, the ears
Burnt off at top.

So comes it to this Pole
Who sees beside the picture of the lawyer
The clear cut face of Elenor Murray—yes,
She gave her spirit to the war, is dead,
Her life is being sifted now. But Fox
Lives for more honors, and by honors covers
His days of evil.

Thus Sosnowski broods,
And lives again that moment of hell when fire
Burst like a geyser from a vat where gas
Had gathered in his ignorance; being sent
To light a drying stove within the vat,
A work not his, who was the engineer.
The gas exploded as he struck the match,
And like an insect fixed upon a pin
And held before a flame, hands, face and body
Were burned and broken as his body shot
Up and against the brewery wall. What next?
The wearisome and tangled ways of courts
With Rufus Fox for foe, four trials in all
Where juries disagreed who heard the law
Erroneously given by the court.
At last a verdict favorable, and a court
Sitting above the forum where he won
To say, as there’s no evidence to show
Just how the gas got in the vat, Sosnowski
Must go for life with broken hands unhelped.
And that the fact alone of gas therein
Though naught to show his fault had brought it there,
The mere explosion did not speak a fault
Against the brewery.

Out from court he went
To use a broom with crumpled hands, and look
For life in mirrors at his ghastly face.
And brood until suspicion grew to truth
That Rufus Fox had compassed juries, courts;
And read of Rufus Fox, who day by day
Was featured in the press for noble deeds,
For Art or Charity, for notable dinners,
Guests, travels and what not.

So now the Pole
Reading of Elenor Murray, cursed himself
That he could brood and wait—for what?—and grow
More weak of will for brooding, while this woman
Had gone to war and served and ended it,
Yet he lived on, and could not go to war;
Saw only days of sweeping with these hands,
And every day his face within the mirror,
And every afternoon this glass of beer,
And coarse bread, and these thoughts.
And every day some story to arouse
His sense of justice; how the generous
Give and pass on, and how the selfish live
And gather honors. But Sosnowski thought
If I could do a flaming thing to show
What courts are ours, what matter if I die?
What if they took their quick-lime and erased
My flesh and bones, expunged my very name,
And made its syllables forbidden?—still
If I brought in a new day for the courts,
Have I not served? he thought. Sosnowski rose
And to the bar, drank whiskey, then went out.

That afternoon Elihu Rufus Fox
Came home to dress for a dinner to be given
For English notables in town—to rest
After a bath, and found himself alone,
His wife at Red Cross work. And there alone,
Collarless, lounging, in a comfort chair,
Poring on Wordsworth’s poems—all at once
Before he hears the door turned, rather feels
A foot-fall and a presence, hears too soon
A pistol shot, looks up and sees Sosnowski,
Who fires again, but misses; grabs the man,
Disarms him, flings him down, and finding blood
Upon his shirt sleeve, sees his hand is hit,
No other damage—then the pistol takes,
And covering Sosnowski, looks at him.
And after several seconds gets the face
Which gradually comes forth from memories
Of many cases, knows the man at last.
And studying Sosnowski, Rufus Fox
Divines what drove the fellow to this deed.
And in these moments Rufus Fox beholds
His life and work, and how he made the law
A thing to use, how he had builded friendships
In clubs and churches, courted politicians,
And played with secret powers, and compromised
Causes and truths for power and capital
To draw on as a lawyer, so to win
Favorable judgments when his skill was hired
By those who wished to win, who had to win
To keep the social order undisturbed
And wealth where it was wrenched to.

And Rufus Fox
Knew that this trembling wreck before him knew
About this course of life at making law
And using law, and using those who sit
To administer the law. And then he said:
“Why did you do this?”

And Sosnowski spoke:
“I meant to kill you—where’s your right to live
When millions have been killed to make the world
A safer place for liberty? Where’s your right
To live and have more honors, be the man
To guide the city, now that telephones,
Gas, railways have been taken by the city?
I meant to kill you just to help the poor
Who go to court. For had I killed you here
My story would be known, no matter if
They buried me in lime, and made my name
A word no man could speak. Now I have failed.
And since you have the pistol, point it at me
And kill me now—for if you tell the world
You killed me in defense of self, the world
Will never doubt you, for the world believes you
And will not doubt your word, whatever it is.”

And Rufus Fox replied: “Your mind is turned
For thinking of your case, when you should know
This country is a place of laws, and law
Must have its way, no matter who is hurt.
Now I must turn you over to the courts,
And let you feel the hard hand of the law.”
Just then the wife of Rufus Fox came in,
And saw her husband with his granite jaws,
And lowering countenance, blood on his shirt,
The pistol in his hand, the scarred Sosnowski,
Facing the lawyer.

Seeing that her husband
Had no wound but a hand clipped of the skin,
And learning what the story was, she saw
It was no time to let Sosnowski’s wrong
Come out to cloud the glory of her husband,
Now that in a new day he had come to stand
With progress, fairer terms of life—to let
The corpse of a dead day be brought beside
The fresh and breathing life of brighter truth.
Quickly she called the butler, gave him charge
Over Sosnowski, who was taken out,
Held in the kitchen, while the two conferred,
The husband and the wife.

To him she said,
They two alone now: “I can see your plan
To turn this fellow over to the law.
It will not do, my dear, it will not do.
For though I have been sharer in your life,
Partaker of its spoils and fruits, I see
This man is just a ghost of a dead day
Of your past life, perhaps, in which I shared.
But that dead life I would not resurrect
In memory even, it has passed us by,
You shall not live it more, no more shall I.
The war has changed the world—the harvest coming
Will have its tares no doubt, but the old tares
Have been cut out and burned, wholly, I trust.
And just to think you used that sharpened talent
For getting money, place, in the old regime,
To place you where to-day? Why, where you must
Use all your talents for the common good.
A barter takes two parties, and the traffic
Whereby the giants of the era gone—
(You are a giant rising on the wreck
Of programs and of plots)—made riches for
Themselves and those they served, is gone as well.
Since gradually no one is left to serve
Or have an interest but the state or city,
The community which is all and should be all.
So here you are at last despite yourself,
Changed not in mind perhaps, but changed in place,
Work, interest, taking pride too in the work;
And speaking with your outer mind, at least
Praise for the day and work.

I am at fault,
And take no virtue to myself—I lived
Your life with you and coveted the things
Your labors brought me. All is changed for me.
I would be poorer than this wretched Pole
Rather than go back to the day that’s dead,
Or reassume the moods I lived them through.
What can we do now to undo the past,
Those days of self-indulgence, ostentation,
False prestige, witless pride, that waste of time,
Money and spirit, haunted by ennui
Insatiable emotion, thirst for change.
At least we can do this: We can set up
The race’s progress and our country’s glory
As standards for our work each day, go on
Perhaps in ignorance, misguided faith;
And let the end approve our poor attempts.
Now to begin, I ask two things of you:
If you or anyone who did your will
Wronged this poor Pole, make good the wrong at once.
And for the sake of bigness let him go.
For your own name’s sake, let the fellow go.
Do you so promise me?”

And Rufus Fox,
Who looked a thunder cloud of wrath and power
Before the mirror tying his white tie,
All this time silent—only spoke these words:
“Go tell the butler to keep guard on him
And hold him till we come from dinner.”

The wife
Looked at the red black face of Rufus Fox
There in the mirror, which like Lao’s mirror
Reflected what his mind was, then went out
Gently to her bidding, found Sosnowski
Laughing and talking with the second maid,
Watched over by the butler, quite himself,
His pent up anger half discharged, his grudge
In part relieved.

There was a garrulous ancient at LeRoy
Who traced all evils to monopoly
In land, all social cures to single tax.
He tried to button-hole the coroner
And tell him what he thought of Elenor Murray.
But Merival escaped. And then this man,
Consider Freeland named, got in a group
And talked his mind out of the case, the land
And what makes poverty and waste in lives:

CONSIDER FREELAND

Look at that tract of land there—five good acres
Held out of use these thirty years and more.
They keep a cow there. See! the cow’s there now.
She can’t eat up the grass, there is so much.
And in these thirty years these houses here,
Here, all around here have been built. This lot
Is worth five times the worth it had before
These houses were built round it.

Well, by God,
I am in part responsible for this.
I started out to be a first rate lawyer.
Was I first rate lawyer? Well, I won
These acres for the Burtons in the day
When I could tell you what is gavel kind,
Advowsons, corodies, frank tenements,
Scutage, escheats, feoffments, heriots,
Remainders and reversions, and mortmain,
Tale special and tale general, tale female,
Fees absolute, conditional, copyholds;
And used to stand and argue with the courts
The difference ’twixt a purchase, limitation,
The rule in Shelley’s case.

And so it was
In my good days I won these acres here
For old man Kingston’s daughter, who in turn
Bound it with limitation for the life
Of selfish sons, who keep a caretaker,
Who keeps a cow upon it. There’s the cow!
The land has had no use for thirty years.
The children are kept off it. Elenor Murray,
This girl whose death makes such a stir, one time
Was playing there—but that’s another story.
I only say for the present, these five acres
Made Elenor Murray’s life a thing of waste
As much as anything, and a damn sight more.
For think a minute!

Kingston had a daughter
Married to Colonel Burton in Kentucky.
And Kingston’s son was in the Civil War.
But just before the war, the Burtons deeded
These acres here, which she inherited
From old man Kingston, to this Captain Kingston,
The son aforesaid of Old Kingston. Well,
The deed upon its face was absolute,
But really was a deed in trust.

The Captain
Held title for a year or two, and then
An hour before he fought at Shiloh, made
A will, and willed acres to his wife,
Fee simple and forever. Now you’d think
That contemplating death, he’d make a deed
Giving these acres back to Mrs. Burton,
The sister who had trusted him. I don’t know
What comes in people’s heads, but I believe
The want of money is the root of evil,
As well as love of money; for this Captain
Perhaps would make provision for his wife
And infant son, thought that the chiefest thing
No matter how he did it, being poor,
Willed this land as he did. But anyway
He willed it so, went into Shiloh’s battle,
And fell dead on the field.

What happened then?
They took this will to probate. As I said
I was a lawyer then, you may believe it,
Was hired by the Burtons to reclaim
These acres from the Widow Kingston’s clutch,
Under this wicked will. And so I argued
The will had not been witnessed according to law.
Got beat upon that point in the lower court,
But won upon it in the upper courts.
Then next I filed a bill to set aside
This deed the Burtons made to Captain Kingston—
Oh, I was full of schemes, expedients,
In those days, I can tell you. Widow Kingston
Came back and filed a cross bill, asked the court
To confirm the title in her son and her
As heirs of Captain Kingston, let the will
Go out of thought and reckoning. Here’s the issue;
You understand the case, no doubt. We fought
Through all the courts. I lost in the lower court,
As I lost on the will. There was the deed:
For love and affection and one dollar we
Convey and warrant lots from one to ten
In the city of LeRoy, to Captain Kingston
To be his own forever.

How to go
Behind such words and show the actual trust
Inhering in the deed, that was the job.
But here I was resourceful as before,
Found witnesses to testify they heard
This Captain Kingston say he held the acres
In trust for Mrs. Burton—but I lost
Before the chancellor, had to appeal,
But won on the appeal, and thus restored
These acres to the Burtons. And for this
What did I get? Three hundred lousy dollars.
That’s why I smoke a pipe; that’s also why
I quit the business when I saw the business
Was making ready to quit me. By God,
My life is waste so far as it was used
By this law business, and no coroner
Need hold an inquest on me to find out
What waste was in my life—God damn the law!

Well, then I go my way, and take my fee,
And pay my bills. The Burtons have the land,
And turn a cow upon it. See how nice
A playground it would be. I’ve seen ten sets
Of children try to play there—hey! you hear,
The caretaker come out, get off of there!
And then the children scamper, climb the fence.

Well, after while the Burtons die. The will
Leaves these five acres to their sons for life,
Remainder to the children of the sons.
The sons are living yet at middle life,
These acres have been tied up twenty years,
They may be tied up thirty years beside:
The sons can’t sell it, and their children can’t,
Only the cow can use it, as it stands.
It grows more valuable as the people come here,
And bring in being Elenor Murrays, children,
And make the land around it populous.
That’s what makes poverty, this holding land,
It makes the taxes harder on the poor,
It makes work scarcer, and it takes your girls
And boys and throws them into life half made,
Half ready for the battle. Is a country
Free where the laws permit such things? Your priests,
Your addle-headed preachers mouthing Christ
And morals, prohibition, laws to force
People to be good, to save the girls,
When every half-wit knows environment
Takes natures, made unstable in these homes
Of poverty and does the trick.

That baronet
Who mocked our freedom, sailing back for England
And said: Your Liberty Statue in the harbor
Is just a joke, that baronet is right,
While such conditions thrive.

Well, look at me
Who for three hundred dollars take a part
In making a cow pasture for a cow
For fifty years or so. I hate myself.
And were the Burtons better than this Kingston?
Kingston would will away what was not his.
The Burtons took what is the gift of God,
As much as air, and fenced it out of use—
Save for the cow aforesaid—for the lives
Of sons in being.

Oh, I know you think
I have a grudge. I have.

This Elenor Murray
Was ten years old I think, this law suit ended
Twelve years or so, and I was running down,
Was tippling just a little every day;
And I came by this lot one afternoon
When school was out, a sunny afternoon.
The children had no place except the street
To play in; they were standing by the fence,
The cow was way across the lot, and Elenor
Was looking through the fence, some boys and girls
Standing around her, and I said to them:
“Why don’t you climb the fence and play in there?”
And Elenor—she always was a leader,
And not afraid of anything, said: “Come on,”
And in a jiffy climbed the fence, the children,
Some quicker and some slower, followed her.
Some said “They don’t allow it.” Elenor
Stood on the fence, flung up her arms and crowed,
And said “What can they do? He says to do it,”
Pointing at me. And in a moment all of them
Were playing and were shouting in the lot.
And I stood there and watched them half malicious,
And half in pleasure watching them at play.
Then I heard “hey!” the care-taker ran out.
And said “Get out of there, I will arrest you.”
He drove them out and as they jumped the fence
Some said, “He told us to,” pointing at me.
And Elenor Murray said “Why, what a lie!”
And then the care-taker grabbed Elenor Murray
And said, “You are the wildest of them all.”
I spoke up, saying, “Leave that child alone.
I won this God damn land for those you serve,
They use it for a cow and nothing else,
And let these children run about the streets,
When there are grass and dandelions there
In plenty for these children, and the cow,
And space enough to play in without bothering
That solitary cow.” I took his hands
Away from Elenor Murray; he and I
Came face to face with clenched fists—but at last
He walked away; the children scampered off.

Next day, however, they arrested me
For aiding in a trespass clausam fregit,
And fined me twenty dollars and the costs.
Since then the cow has all her way in there.
And Elenor Murray left this rotten place,
Went to the war, came home and died, and proved
She had the sense to leave so vile a world.
————
George Joslin ending up his days with dreams
Of youth in Europe, travels, and with talk,
Stirred to a recollection of a face
He saw in Paris fifty years before,
Because the face resembled Elenor Murray’s,
Explored his drawers and boxes, where he kept
Mementos, treasures of the olden days.
And found a pamphlet, came to Merival,
With certain recollections, and with theories
Of Elenor Murray:—

GEORGE JOSLIN ON LA MENKEN

Here, Coroner Merival, look at this picture!
Whom does it look like? Eyes too crystalline,
A head like Byron’s, tender mouth, and neck,
Slender and white, a pathos as of smiles
And tears kept back by courage. Yes, you know
It looks like Elenor Murray.

Well, you see
I read each day about the inquest—good!
Dig out the truth, begin a system here
Of making family records, let us see
If we can do for people when we know
How best to do it, what is done for stock.
So build up Illinois, the nation too.
I read about you daily. And last night
When Elenor Murray’s picture in the Times
Looked at me, I began to think, Good Lord,
Where have I seen that face before? I thought
Through more than fifty years departed, sent
My mind through Europe and America
In all my travels, meetings, episodes.
I could not think. At last I opened up
A box of pamphlets, photographs, mementos,
Picked up since 1860, and behold
I find this pamphlet of La Belle Menken.
Here is your Elenor Murray born again,
As here might be your blackbird of this year
With spots of red upon his wings, the same
As last year’s blackbird, like a pansy springing
Out of the April of this year, repeating
The color, form of one you saw last year.
Repeating and the same, but not the same;
No two alike, you know. I’ll come to that.

Well, then, La Menken—as a boy in Paris
I saw La Menken, I’ll return to this.
But just as Elenor Murray has her life
Shadowed and symbolized by our Starved Rock—
And everyone has something in his life
Which takes him, makes him, is the image too
Of fate prefigured—La Menken has Mazeppa,
Her notable first part as actress, emblem
Of spirit, character, and of omen too
Of years to come, the thrill of life, the end.

Who is La Menken? Symbol of America,
One phase of spirit! She was venturesome,
Resourceful, daring, hopeful, confident,
And as she wrote of self, a vagabond,
A dweller in tents, a reveler, and a flame
Aspiring but disreputable, coming up
With leaves that shamed her stalk, could not be shed,
But stuck out heavy veined and muddy hued
In time of blossom. There are souls, you know,
Who have shed shapeless immaturities,
Betrayals of the seed before the blossom
Comes to proclaim a beauty, a perfection;
Or risen with their stalk, until such leaves
Were hidden in the grass or soil—not she,
Nor even your Elenor Murray, as I read her.
But being America and American,
Brings good and bad together, blossom and leaves
With prodigal recklessness, in vital health
And unselective taste and vision mixed
Of beauty and of truth.

Who was La Menken?
She’s born in Louisiana in thirty-five,
Left fatherless at seven—mother takes her
And puts her in the ballet at New Orleans.
She dances then from Texas clear to Cuba;
Then gives up dancing, studies tragedy,
And plays Bianca! Fourteen years of age
Weds Menken, who’s a Jew, divorced from him;
Then falls in love with Heenan, pugilist.
They quarrel and separate—it’s in this pamphlet
Just as I tell you; you can take it, Coroner.
Now something happens, nothing in her birth
Or place of birth to prophesy her life
Like Starved Rock to this Elenor—being grown,
A hand instead is darted from the curtain
That hangs between to-day, to-morrow, sticks
A symbol on her heart and whispers to her:
You’re this, my woman. Well, the thing was this:
She played Mazeppa: take your dummy off,
And lash me to the horse. They were afraid,
But she prevailed, was nearly killed the first night,
And after that succeeded, was the rage
And for her years remaining found herself
Lashed to the wild horse of ungoverned will,
Which ran and wandered, till she knew herself
With stronger will than vision, passion stronger
Than spirit to judge; the richness of the world,
Love, beauty, living, greater than her power.
And all the time she had the appetite
To eat, devour it all. Grown sick at last,
She diagnosed her case, wrote to a friend:
The soul and body do not fit each other—
A human spirit in a horse’s flesh.
This is your Elenor Murray, in a way.
But to return to pansies, run your hand
Over a bed of pansies; here’s a pansy
With petals stunted, here’s another one
All perfect but one petal, here’s another
Too streaked or mottled—all are pansies though.
And here is one full petaled, strikes the eye
With perfect color, markings. Elenor Murray
Has something of the color and the form
Of this La Menken, but is less a pansy,
And Sappho, Rachel, Bernhardt are the flowers
La Menken strove to be, and could not be,
Ended with being only of their kind.
And now there’s pity for this Elenor Murray,
And people wept when poor La Menken died.
Both lived and had their way. I hate this pity,
It makes you overlook there are two hours:
The hour of joy, the hour of finding out
Your joy was all mistake, or led to pain.
We who inspect these lives behold the pain,
And see the error, do not keep in mind
The hour of rapture, and the pride, indeed
With which your Elenor Murrays and La Menkens
Have lived that hour, elation, pride and scorn
For any other way—“this is the life”
I hear them say.

Well, now I go along.
La Menken fills her purse with gold—she sends
Her pugilist away, tries once again
And weds a humorist, an Orpheus Kerr—
And plays before the miners out in ’Frisco,
And Sacramento, gathers in the eagles.
She goes to Europe then—with husband? No!
James Barkley is her fellow on the voyage.
She lands in London, takes a gorgeous suite
In London’s grandest hostlery, entertains
Charles Dickens, Prince Baerto and Charles Read,
The Duke of Wellington and Swinburne, Sand
And Jenny Lind; and has a liveried coachman;
And for a crest a horse’s head surmounting
Four aces, if you please. And plays Mazeppa,
And piles the money up.

Then next is Paris.
And there I saw her, 1866,
When Louis Napoleon and the King of Greece,
The Prince Imperial were in a box.

She wandered to Vienna, there was ill,
Came back to Paris, died, a stranger’s grave
In Pere la Chaise was given, afterwards
Exhumed in Mont Parnasse was buried, got
A little stone with these words carved upon it:
“Thou Knowest” meaning God knew, while herself
Knew nothing of herself.

But when in Paris
They sold her picture taken with her arms
Around Dumas, and photographs made up
Of postures ludicrous, obscene as well,
Of her and great Dumas, I have them home.
Can show you sometime. Well she loved Dumas,
Inscribed a book of poems to Charles Dickens,
By his permission, mark you—don’t you see
Your Elenor Murray here? This Elenor Murray
A miniature imperfect of La Menken?
She loved sensation, all her senses thrilled her;
A delicate soul too weighted by the flesh;
A coquette, quick of wit, intuitive,
Kind, generous, unaffected, mystical,
Teased by the divine in life, and melancholy,
Of deep emotion sometimes. One has said
She had a nature spiritual, religious
Which warred upon the flesh and fell in battle;
Just as your Elenor Murray joined the church,
And did not keep the faith, if truth be told.

Now look, here is a letter in this pamphlet
La Menken writes a poet—for she hunts
For seers and for poets, lofty souls.
And who does that? A woman wholly bad?
Why no, a woman to be given life
Fit for her spirit in another realm
By God who will take notice, I believe.
Now listen if you will! “I know your soul.
It has met mine somewhere in starry space.
And you must often meet me, vagabond
Of fancy without aim, a dweller in tents
Disreputable before the just. Just think
I am a linguist, write some poems too,
Can paint a little, model clay as well.
And yet for all these gropings of my soul
I am a vagabond, of little use.
My body and my soul are in a scramble
And do not fit each other—let them carve
Those words upon my stone, but also these
Thou Knowest, for God knows me, knows I love
Whatever is good and beautiful in life;
And that my soul has sought them without rest.
Farewell, my friend, my spirit is with you,
Vienna is too horrible, but know Paris
Then die content.”

Now, Coroner Merival,
You’re not the only man who wants to see,
Will work to make America a republic
Of splendors, freedoms, happiness, success.
Though I am seventy-six, cannot do much,
Save talk, as I am talking now, bring forth
Proofs, revelations from the years I’ve lived.
I care not how you view the lives of people,
As pansy beds or what not, lift your faith
So high above the pansy bed it sees
The streaked and stunted pansies filling in
The pattern that the perfect pansies outline,
Therefore are smiling, even indifferent
To this poor conscious pansy, dying at last
Because it could not be the flower it wished.
My heart to Elenor Murray and La Menken
Goes out in sorrow, even while I know
They shook their leaves in April, laughed and thrilled,
And either did not know, or did not care
The growing time was precious, and if wasted
Could never be regained. Look at La Menken
At seven years put in the ballet corps;
And look at Elenor Murray getting smut
Out of experience that made her wise.
What shall we do about it?—let it go?
And say there is no help, or say a republic,
Set up a hundred years ago, raised to the helm
Of rulership as president a list
Of men more able than the emperors,
Kings, rulers of the world, and statesmen too
The equal of the greatest, money makers,
And domineers of finance and economies
Phenomenal in time—say, I repeat
A country like this one must let its children
Waste as they wasted in the darker years
Of Europe. Shall we let these trivial minds
Who see salvation, progress in restraint,
Pre-empt the field of moulding human life?
Or shall we take a hand, and put our minds
Upon the task, as recently we built
An army for the war, equipped and fed it,
An army better than all other armies,
More powerful, more apt of hand and brain,
Of thin tall youths, who did stop but said
Like poor La Menken, strap me to the horse
I’ll do it if I die—so giving to peace
The skill and genius which we use in war,
Though it cost twenty billion, and why not?
Why every dollar, every drop of blood
For war like this to guard democracy,
And not so much or more to build the land,
Improve our blood, make individual
America and her race? And first to rout
Poverty and disease, give youth its chance,
And therapeutic guidance. Soldier boys
Have huts for recreation, clergymen,
And is it more, less worth to furnish hands
Intimate, hearts intimate for the use
Of your La Menkens, Elenor Murrays, youths
Who feel such vigor in their restless wings
They tumble out of crowded nests and fly
To fall in thickets, dash themselves against
Walls, trees?

I have a vision, Coroner,
Of a new Republic, brighter than the sun,
A new race, loftier faith, this land of ours
Made over as to people, boys and girls,
Conserved like forests, water power or mines;
Watched, tested, put to best use, keen economies
Practiced in spirits, waste of human life,
Hope, aspiration, talent, virtues, powers,
Avoided by a science, science of life,
Of spirit, what you will. Enough of war,
And billions for the flag—all well enough!
Some billions now to make democracy
Democracy in truth with us, and life
Not helter-skelter, hitting as it may,
And missing much, as this La Menken did.
I’m not convinced we must have stunted pansies,
That have no use but just to piece the pattern.
Let’s try, and if we try and fail, why then
Our human duty ends, the God in us
Will have it just this way, no other way.
And then we may accept so poor a world,
A republic so unfinished.
————
Will Paget is another writer of letters
To Coroner Merival. The coroner
Spends evenings reading letters, keeps a file
Where he preserves them. And the blasphemy
Of Paget makes him laugh. He has an evening
And reads this letter to the jurymen:

WILL PAGET ON DEMOS AND HOGOS

To Coroner Merival, greetings, but a voice
Dissentient from much that goes the rounds,
Concerning Elenor Murray. Here’s my word:
Give men and women freedom, save the land
From dull theocracy—the theo, what?
A blend of Demos and Jehovah! Say,
Bring back your despots, bring your Louis Fourteenths,
And give them thrones of gold and ivory
From where with leaded sceptres they may whack
King Demos driven forth. You know the face?
The temples are like sea shells, hollows out,
Which narrow close the space for cortex cells.
There would be little brow if hair remained;
But hair is gone, because the dandruff came.
The eyes are close together like a weasel’s;
The jaws are heavy, that is character;
The mouth is thin and wide to gobble chicken;
The paunch is heavy for the chickens eaten.
Throned high upon a soap box Demos rules,
And mumbles decalogues: Thou shalt not read,
Save what I tell you, never books that tell
Of men and women as they live and are.
Thou shalt not see the dramas which portray
The evil passions and satiric moods
Which mock this Christian nation and its hope.
Thou shalt not drink, not even wine or beer.
Thou shalt not play at cards, or see the races.
Thou shalt not be divorced! Thou shalt not play.
Thou shalt not bow to graven images
Of beauty cut in marble, fused in bronze.
Behold my name is Demos, King of Kings,
My name is legion, I am many, come
Out of the sea where many hogs were drowned,
And now the ruler of hogocracy,
Where in the name of freedom hungry snouts
Root up the truffles in your great republic,
And crunch with heavy jaws the legs and arms
Of people who fall over in the pen.
Hierarchies in my name are planted under
Your states political to sprout and take
The new world’s soil,—religious freedom this!—
Thought must be free—unless your thought objects
To such dominion, and to literal faith
In an old book that never had a place
Except beside the Koran, Zarathustra.
So here is your theocracy and here
The land of Boredom. Do you wonder now
That people cry for war? You see that God
Frowns on all games but war. You shall not play
Or kindle spirit with a rapture save
A moral end’s in view. All joy is sin,
Where joy stands for itself alone, nor asks
Consent to be, save for itself. But war
Waged to put down the wrong, it’s always that;
To vindicate God’s truths, all wars are such,
Is game that lets the spirit play, is backed
By God and moral reasons, therefore war,
A game disguised as business, cosmic work
For great millenniums, no less relieves
The boredom of theocracies. But if
Your men and women had the chance to play,
Be free and spend superfluous energies,
In what I call the greatest game, that’s Life,
Have life more freely, deeply, and you say
How would you like a war and lose a leg,
Or come from battle sick for all your years?
You would say no, unless you saw an issue,
Stripped clean of Christian twaddle, as we’ll say
The Greeks beheld the Persians. Well, behold
All honest paganism in such things discarded
For God who comes in glory, trampling presses
Filled up with grapes of wrath.

Now hear me out:
I knew we’d have a war, it wasn’t only
That your hogocracy was grunting war
We’d fight Japan, take Mexico—remember
How dancing flourished madly in the land;
Then think of savages who dance the Ghost Dance,
And cattle lowing, rushing in a panic,
There’s psychic secrets here. But then at last
What can you do with life? You’re well and strong,
Flushed with desire, mad with appetites,
You turn this way and find a sign forbidden,
You turn that way and find the door is closed.
Hogocracy, King Demos say, go back,
Find work, develop character, restrain,
Draw up your belt a little tighter, hunger
And thirst diminish with a tighter belt.
And none to say, take off the belt and eat,
Here’s water for you.

Well, you have a war.
We used to say in foot ball kick their shins,
And gouge their eyes out—when our shins were kicked
We hollered foul and ouch. There was the south
Who called us mud-sills in this freer north,
And mouthed democracy; and as for that
Their churches made of God a battle leader,
An idea come from Palestine; oh, yes,
They soon would wipe us up, they were the people.
But when we slaughtered them they hollered ouch.
And why not? For a gun and uniform,
And bands that play are rapturous enough.
But when you get a bullet through the heart,
The game is not so funny as it was.
That’s why I hated Germany and hate her,
And feel we could not let this German culture
Spread over earth. That culture was but this:
Life must have an expression and a game,
And war’s the game, besides the prize is great
In land and treasure, commerce, let us play,
It lets the people’s passions have a vent
When fires of life burn hot and hotter under
The kettle and the lid is clamped by work,
Dull duty, daily routine, inhibitions.
Before this Elenor Murray woke to life
LeRoy was stirring, but the stir was play.
It was a Gretna Green, and pleasure boats
Ran up and down the river—on the streets
You heard the cry of barkers, in the park
The band was playing, and you heard the ring
Of registers at fountains and buffets.
All this was shabby maybe, but observe
There are those souls who see the wrath of God
As blackest background to the light of soul:
And when the thunder rumbles and the storm
Comes up with lightning then they say to men
Who laugh in bar-rooms, “Have a care, blasphemers,
You may be struck by lightning”—here’s the root
From which this mood ascetic comes to leaf
In all theocracies, and throws a shadow
Upon all freedom.

Look at us to-day.
They say to me, see what a town we have:
The men at work, smoke coming from the chimneys,
The banks full up of money, business good,
The workmen sober, going home at night,
No rowdy barkers and no bands a-playing,
No drinking and no gaming and no vice.
No marriages contracted to be broken.
Look how LeRoy is quiet, sane and clean!
And I reply, you like the stir of work,
But not the stir of play; your chimneys smoke,
Your banks have money. Let me look behind
The door that closes on your man at home,
The wife and children there, what shall I find?
A sick man looks to health as it were all,
But when the fever leaves him and he feels
The store of strength in muscles slumbering
And waiting to be used, then something else
Than health is needful, he must have a way
To voice the life within him, and he wonders
Why health seemed so desirable before,
And all sufficient to him.

Take this girl:
Why do you marvel that she rode at night
With any man who came along? Good God,
If I were born a woman and they put me
In a theocracy, hogocracy,
I’d do the first thing that came in my mind
To give my soul expression. Don’t you think
You’re something of a bully and a coward
To ask such model living from this girl
When you, my grunting hogos, run the land
And bring us scandals like the times of Grant,
And poisoned beef sold to the soldier boys,
When we were warring Spain, and all this stuff
Concerning loot and plunder, malversation,
That riots in your cities, printed daily?
I roll the panoramic story out
To Washington the great—what do I see?
It’s tangle foot, the sticky smear is dry;
But I can find wings, legs and heads, remember
How little flies and big were buzzing once
Of God and duty, country, virtue, faith;
And beating wings, already gummed with sweet,
Until their little bellies touched the glue,
They sought to fill their bellies with—at last
Long silence, which is history, scroll rolled up
And spoken of in sacred whispers.

Well,
I’m glad that Elenor Murray had her fling,
If that be really true. I understand
What drove her to the war. I think she knew
Too much to marry, settle down and live
Under the rule of Demos or of Hogos.
I wish we had a dozen Elenor Murrays
In every village in this land of Demos
To down Theocracy, which is just as bad
As Prussianism, is no different
From Prussianism. And I fear but this
As fruitage of the war: that men and women
Will have burnt on their souls the words ceramic
That war’s the thing, and this theocracy,
Where generous outlets for the soul are stopped
Will keep the words in mind. When boredom comes,
And grows intolerable, you’ll see the land
Go forth to war to get a thrill and live—
Unless we work for freedom, for delight
And self-expression.
————
Dwight Henry is another writer of letters,
Stirred by the Murray inquest; writes a screed
“The House that Jack Built,” read by Merival
To entertain his jury, in these words:

THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT

Why don’t they come to me to find the cause
Of Elenor Murray’s death? The house is first;
That is the world, and Jack is God, you know;
The malt is linen, purple, wine and food,
The rats that get the malt are nobles, lords,
Those who had feudal dues and hunting rights,
And privileges, first nights, all the rest.
The cats are your Voltaires, Rousseaus; the dogs,
Your jailers, Louis, Fredericks and such.
And O, you blessed cow, you common people,
Whom maidens all forlorn attend and milk.
Here is your Elenor Murray who gives hands,
Brain, heart and spirit to the task of milking,
And straining milk that other lips may drink,
Revive and flourish, wedding, if she weds,
The tattered man in church, which is your priest
Shaven and shorn, and wakened with the sun
By the cock, theology that keeps the house
Well timed and ruled for honor unto Jack,
Who must have order, rising on the hour,
And ceremony for his house.

If rats
Had never lived, or left the malt alone,
This girl had lived. Let’s trace the story down:
We went to France to fight, we go to France
To get the origin of Elenor’s death.
It’s 1750, say, the malt of France
And Europe, too, is over-run by rats;
The nobles and the clergy own the land,
Exact the taxes, drink the luscious milk
Of the crumpled horns. But cats come slinking by
Called Diderot, Voltaire, Rousseau. Now look!
Cat Diderot goes after war and taxes,
The slave trade, privilege, the merchant stomach.
In England, too, there is a sly grimalkin,
Who poisons rats with most malicious thoughts,
And bears the name of Adam—Adam Smith,
By Jack named Adam just to signify
His sinful nature. But the cat Voltaire
Says Adam never fell, that man is good,
An honest merchant better than a king,
And shaven priests are worse than parasites.
He rubs his glossy coat against the legs
Of Quakers, loving natures, loathes the trade
Of war, and runs with velvet feet across
The whole of Europe, scaring rats to death.
The cat Rousseau is instinct like a cat,
And purrs that man born free is still in chains
Here in this house that Jack built. Consequence?
There is such squeaking, running of the rats,
The cats in North America wake up
And drive the English rats out; then the dogs
Grow cautious of the cats, poor simple Louis
Convokes a French assembly to preserve
The malt against the rats and give the cow
Whose milk is growing blue and thin some malt.
And all at once rats, cats and dogs, the cow,
The shaven priest, the maiden all forlorn,
The tattered man, the cock, are in a hubbub
Of squeaking, caterwauling, barking, lowing,
With cock-a-doodles, curses, prayers and shrieks
Ascending from the melee. In a word,
You have a revolution.

All at once
A mastiff dog appears and barks: “Be still.”
And in a way in France’s room in the house
Brings order for a time. He grabs the fabric
Of the Holy Roman Empire, tears it up,
Sends for the shaven priest from Rome and bites
His shrunken calves; trots off to Jena where
He whips the Prussian dogs, but wakes them too
To breed and multiply, grow strong to fight
All other dogs in Jack’s house, bite to death
The maidens all forlorn, like Elenor Murray.

This mastiff, otherwise Napoleon called,
Is downed at last by dogs from everywhere.
They’re rid of him—but still the house of Jack
Is better than it was, the rats are thick,
But cats grow more abundant, malt is served
More generously to the cow. The Prussian dogs
Discover malt’s the thing, also the cow
Must have her malt, or else the milk gives out.
But all the while the Prussian dogs grow strong,
Well taught and angered by Napoleon.
And some of them would set the house in order
After the manner of America.
But many wish to fight, get larger rooms,
Then set the whole in order. At Sadowa
They whip the Austrian dogs, and once again
A mastiff comes, a Bismarck, builds a suite
From north to south, and forces Austria
To huddle in the kitchen, use the outhouse
Where Huns and Magyars, Bulgars and the rest
Keep Babel under Jack who split their tongues
To make them hate each other and suspect,
Not understanding what the other says.
This very Babel was the cause of death
Of Elenor Murray, if I chose to stop
And go no further with the story.

Next
Our mastiff Bismarck thinks of Luneville,
And would avenge it, grabs the throat of France,
And downs her; at Versailles growls and carries
An emperor of Germany to the throne.
Then pants and wags his tail, and little dreams
A dachshund in an early day to come
Will drive him from the kennel and the bone
He loves to crunch and suck.

This dachshund is
In one foot crippled, rabies from his sires
Lies dormant in him, in a day of heat
Froth from his mouth will break, his eyes will roll
Like buttons made of pearl with glints of green.
Already he feels envy of the dogs
Who wear brass collars, bay the moon of Jack,
And roam at will about the house of Jack,
The English, plainer said. This envy takes
The form of zeal for country, so he trots
About the house, gets secrets for reforms
For Germany, would have his lesser dogs
All merchants, traders sleek and prosperous,
Achieve a noble breed to rule the house.
And so he puts his rooms in order, while
The other dogs look on with much concern
And growing fear.

The business of the house
In every room is over malt; the cow
Must be well fed for milk. And if you have
No feudal dues, outlandish taxes, still
The game of old goes on, has only changed
Its dominant form. Grimalkin, Adam Smith
Spied all the rats, and all the tricks of rats,
Saw in his day the rats crawl hawser ropes
And get on ships, embark for Indias,
And get the malt; and now the merchant ships
For China bound, for Africa, for the Isles
Of farthest seas take rats, who slip aboard
And eat their fill before the patient cow,
Milked daily as before can lick her tongue
Against a mouthful of the precious stuff.
You have your eastern question, and your Congo.
France wants Morocco, gives to Germany
Possessions in the Congo for Morocco.
The dogs jump into China, even we
Take part and put the Boxers down, lay hands
Upon the Philippines, and Egypt falls
To England, all are building battle ships.
The dachshund barking he is crowded out,
Encircled, as he says, builds up the army,
And patriot cocks are crowing everywhere,
Until the house of Jack with snarls and growls,
The fuff, fuff, fuff of cats seems on the eve
Of pandemonium. The Germans think
The Slavs want Europe, and the Slavs are sure
The Germans want it, and it’s all for malt.
Meantime the Balkan Babel leads to war.
The Slavic peoples do not like the rule
Of Austro-Hungary, but the latter found
No way except to rule the Slavs and rule
Southeastern Europe, being crowded out
By mastiff Bismarck. And again there’s Jack
Who made confusion of the Balkan tongues.
And so the house awaits events that look
As if Jack willed them, anyway a thing
That may be put on Jack. It comes at last.
All have been armed for malt. A crazy man
Has armed himself and shoots a king to be,
The Archduke Francis, on the Serbian soil,
Then Austria moves on Serbia, Russia moves
To succor Serbia, France is pledged to help
The Russians, but our dachshund has a bond
With Austria and rushes to her aid.
Then England must protect the channel, yes,
France must be saved—and here you have your war.

And now for Elenor Murray. Top of brain
Where ideals float like clouds, we owed to France
A debt, but had we paid it, if the dog,
The dachshund, mad at last, had left our ships
To freedom of the seas? Say what you will,
This England is the smartest thing in time,
Can never fall, be conquered while she keeps
That mind of hers, those eyes that see all things,
Spies or no spies, knows every secret hatched
In every corner of the house of Jack.
And with one language spoken by more souls
Than any tongue, leads minds by written words;
Writes treaties, compacts which forstall the sword,
And makes it futile when it’s drawn against her....
You cuff your enemy at school or make
A naso-digital gesture, coming home
You fear your enemy, so walk beside
The gentle teacher; if your enemy
Throws clods at you, he hits the teacher. Well,
’Twas wise to hide munitions back of skirts,
And frocks of little children, most unwise
For Dachshund William to destroy the skirts
And frocks to sink munitions, since the wearers
Happened to be Americans. William fell
Jumping about his room and spilled the clock,
Raked off the mantel; broke his billikens,
His images of Jack by doing this.
For, seeing this, we rise; ten million youths
Take guns for war, and many Elenor Murrays
Swept out of placid places by the ripples
Cross seas to serve.

This girl was French in part,
In spirit was American. Look back
Do you not see Voltaire lay hold of her,
Hands out of tombs and spirits, from the skies
Lead her to Europe? Trace the causes back
To Adam, or the dwellers of the lakes,
It is enough to see the souls that stirred
The Revolution of the French which drove
The ancient evils from the house of Jack.
It is enough to hope that from this war
The vestiges of feudal wrongs shall lie
In Jack’s great dust-pan, swept therein and thrown
In garbage cans by maidens all forlorn,
The Fates we’ll call them now, lame goddesses,
Hags halt, far sighted, seeing distant things,
Near things but poorly—this is much to hope!
But if we get a freedom that is free
For Elenor Murrays, maidens all forlorn,
And tattered men, and so prevent the wars,
Already budding in this pact of peace,
This war is good, and Elenor Murray’s life
Not waste, but gain.

Now for a final mood,
As it were second sight. I open the door,
Walk from the house of Jack, look at the roof,
The chimneys, over them see depths of blue.
Jack’s house becomes a little ark that sails,
Tosses and bobbles in an infinite sea.
And all events of evil, war and strife,
The pain and folly, test of this and that,
The groping from one thing to something else,
Old systems turned to new, old eras dead,
New eras rising, these are ripples all
Moving from some place in the eternal sea
Where Jack is throwing stones,—these ripples lap
Against the house of Jack, or toss it so
The occupants go reeling here and there,
Laugh, scowl, grow sick, tread on each other’s toes.
While all the time the sea is most concerned
With tides and currents, little with the house,
Ignore this Elenor Murray or Voltaire,
Who living and who dying reproduce
Ripples upon the pools of time and place,
That knew them; and so on where neither eye
Nor mind can trace the ripples vanishing
In ether, realms of spirit, what you choose!
————
Now on a day when Merival was talking
More evidence at the inquest, he is brought
The card of Mary Black, associate
Of Elenor Murray in the hospital
Of France, and asks the coroner to hear
What Elenor Murray suffered in the war.
And Merival consents and has her sworn;
She testifies as follows to the jury:

Poor girl, she had an end! She seems to me
A torch stuck in a bank of clay, snuffed out,
Her warmth and splendor wasted. Never girl
Had such an ordeal and a fate before.
She was the lucky one at first, and then
Evils and enemies flocked down upon her,
And beat her to the earth.

But when we sailed
You never saw so radiant a soul,
While most of us were troubled, for you know
Some were in gloom, had quarreled with their beaux,
Who did not say farewell. And there were some
Who talked for weeks ahead of seeing beaux
And having dinners with them who missed out.

We were a tearful, a deserted lot.
And some were apprehensive—well you know!
But Elenor, she had a beau devoted
Who sent her off with messages and love,
And comforts for her service in the war.
And so her face was lighted, she was gay,
And said to us: “How wonderful it is
To serve, to nurse, to play our little part
For country, for democracy.” And to me
She said: “My heart is brimming over with love.
Now I can work and nurse, now use my hands
To soothe and heal, which burn to finger tips,
With flame for service.”

Oh she had the will,
The courage, resolution; but at last
They broke her down. And this is how it was:
Her love for someone gave her zeal and grace
For watching, working, caring for the sick.
Her heart was in the cause too—but this love
Gave beauty, passion to it. All her men
Stretched out to kiss her hands. It may be true
The wounded soldier is a grateful soul.
But in her case they felt a warmer flame,
A greater tenderness. So she won her spurs,
And honors, was beloved, she had a brain,
A fine intelligence. Then at the height
Of her success, she disobeyed a doctor—
He was a pigmy—Elenor knew more
Than he did, but you know the discipline:
War looses all the hatreds, meanest traits
Together with the noblest, so she crumpled,
Was disciplined for this. About this time
A letter to the head nurse came—there was
A Miriam Fay, who by some wretched fate
Was always after Elenor—it was she
Who wrote the letter, and the letter said
To keep a watch on Elenor, lest she snag
Some officer or soldier. Elenor,
Who had no caution, venturesome and brave,
Wrote letters more than frank to one she loved
Whose tenor leaked out through the censorship.
Her lover sent her telegrams, all opened,
And read first by the head nurse. So at last
Too much was known, and Elenor was eyed,
And whispers ran around. Those ugly girls,
Who never had a man, were wagging tongues,
And still her service was so radiant,
So generous and skillful she survived,
Helped by the officers, the leading doctors,
Who liked her and defended her, perhaps
In hopes of winning her—you know the game!
It was through them she went to Nice; but when
She came back to her duty all was ready
To catch her and destroy her—envy played
Its part, as you can see.

Our unit broke,
And some of us were sent to Germany,
And some of us to other places—all
Went with some chum, associate. But Elenor,
Who was cut off from every one she knew,
And shipped out like an animal to be
With strangers, nurses, doctors, wholly strange.
The head nurse passed the word along to watch her.
And thus it was her spirit, once aflame
For service and for country, fed and brightened
By love for someone, thus was left to burn
In darkness and in filth.

The hospital
Was cold, the rain poured, and the mud was frightful—
Poor Elenor was writing me—the food
Was hardly fit to eat. To make it worse
They put her on night duty for a month.
Smallpox broke out and they were quarantined.
A nurse she chose to be her friend was stricken
With smallpox, died and left her all alone.
One rainy morning she heard guns and knew
A soldier had been stood against the wall.
He was a boy from Texas, driven mad
By horror and by drink, had killed a Frenchman.
She had the case of crazy men at night,
And one of them got loose and knocked her down,
And would have killed her, had an orderly
Not come in time. And she was cold at night,
Sat bundled up so much she scarce could walk
There in that ward on duty. Everywhere
They thwarted her and crossed her, she was nagged,
Brow-beaten, driven, hunted and besought
For favors, for the word was well around
She was the kind who could be captured—false,
The girl was good whatever she had done.
All this she suffered, and her lover now
Had cast her off, it seems, had ceased to write,
Had gone back to America—even then
They did not wholly break her.

But I ask
What soldier or what nurse retained his faith,
The splendor of his flame? I wish to God
They’d pass a law and make it death to write
Or speak of war as glory, or as good.
What good can come of hatred, greed and murder?
War licenses these passions, legalizes
All infamies. They talk of cruelties—
We shot the German captives—and I nursed
A boy who shot a German, with two others
Rushed on the fallen fellow, ran him through,
Through eyes and throat with bayonets. The world
Is better, is it? And if Indians scalped
Our women for the British, and if Sherman
Cut through the south with sword and flame, to-day
Such terrors should not be, we are improved!
Yes, hate and lust have changed, and maniac rage,
And rum has lost its potency to fire
A nerve that sickens at the bloody work
Where men are butchered as you shoot and slash
An animal for food!

Well, now suppose
The preachers who preach Jesus meek and mild,
But fulminate for slaughter, when the game
Of money turns its thumbs down; if your statesmen
With hardened arteries and hardened hearts,
Who make a cult of patriotism, gain
Their offices and livelihood thereby;
Your emperors and kings and chancellors,
Who glorify themselves and win sometimes
Lands for their people; and your editors
Who whip the mob to fury, bellies fat,
Grown cynical, and rich, who cannot lose,
No matter what we suffer—if we nurses,
And soldiers fail; your patriotic shouters
Of murder and of madness, von Bernhardis,
Treitschkes, making pawns of human life
To shape a destiny they can’t control—
Your bankers and your merchants—all the gang
Who shout for war and pay the orators,
Arrange the music—if I say—this crowd
Finds us, the nurses and the soldiers, cold,
Our fire of youth and faith beyond command,
Too wise to be enlisted or enslaved,
What will they do who shout for war so much?

And haven’t we, the nurses and the soldiers
Written some million stories for the eyes
Of boys and girls to read these fifty years?
And if they read and understand, no war
Can come again. They can’t have war without
The spirit of your Elenor Murrays—no!
————
So Mary Black went on, and Merival
Gave liberty to her to talk her mind.
The jury smiled or looked intense for words
So graphic of the horrors of the war.
Then David Barrow asked: “Who is the man
That used to write to Elenor, went away?”
And Mary Black replied, “We do not know;
I do not know a girl who ever knew.
I only know that Elenor wept and grieved,
And did her duty like a little soldier.
It was some man who came to France, because
The word went round he had gone back, and left
The service, or the service there in France
Had left. Some said he’d gone to England, some
America. He must have been an American,
Or rather in America when she sailed,
Because she went off happy. In New York
Saw much of him before we sailed.”

And then
The Reverend Maiworm juryman spoke up—
This Mary Black had left the witness chair—
And asked if Gregory Wenner went to France.
The coroner thought not, but would inquire.
————
Jane Fisher was a friend of Elenor Murray’s
And held the secret of a pack of letters
Which Elenor Murray left. And on a day
She talks with Susan Hamilton, a friend.
Jane Fisher has composed a letter to
A lawyer in New York, who has the letters—
At least it seems so—and to get the letters,
And so fulfill the trust which Elenor
Had left to Jane. Meantime the coroner
Had heard somehow about the letters, or
That Jane knows something—she is anxious now,
And in a flurry, does not wish to go
Down to LeRoy and tell her story. So
She talks with Susan Hamilton like this: