Domesday Book

JANE FISHER

Jane Fisher says to Susan Hamilton,
That Coroner has no excuse to bring
You, me before him. There are many too
Who could throw light on Elenor Murray’s life
Besides the witnesses he calls to tell
The cause of death: could he call us and hear
About the traits we know, he should have us.
What do we know of Elenor Murray’s death?
Why, not a thing, unless her death began
With Simeon Strong and Gregory Wenner—then
I could say something, for she told me much
About her plan to marry Simeon Strong,
And could have done so but for Gregory Wenner,
Whose fault of life combined with fault of hers
To break the faith of Simeon Strong in her.
And so what have we? Gregory Wenner’s love
Poisons the love of Simeon Strong, from that
Poor Elenor Murray falls into decline;
From that, re-acts to nursing and religion,
Which leads her to the war; and from the war
Some other causes come, I know not what;
I wish I knew. And Elenor Murray dies,
Is killed or has a normal end of life.

But, Susan, Elenor Murray feasted richly
While life was with her, spite of all the pain.
If you could choose, be Elenor Murray or
Our schoolmate, Mary Marsh, which would you be?
Elenor Murray had imagination,
And courage to sustain it; Mary Marsh
Had no imagination, was afraid,
Could not envision life in Europe, married
And living there in England, threw her chance
Away to live in England, was content,
And otherwise not happy but to lift
Her habitation from the west of town
And settle on the south side, wed a man
Whose steadiness and business sense made sure
A prosperous uniformity of life.
Life does not enter at your door and seek you,
And pour her gifts into your lap. She drops
The chances and the riches here and there.
They find them who fly forth, as faring birds
Know northern marshes, rice fields in the south;
While the dull turtle waddles in his mud.
The bird is slain perhaps, the turtle lives,
But which has known the thrills?

Well, on a time
Elenor Murray, Janet Stearns, myself
Thought we would see Seattle and Vancouver,
We had saved money teaching school that year—
The plan was Elenor Murray’s. So we sailed
To ’Frisco from Los Angeles, saw ’Frisco
By daylight, but to see the town by night
Was Elenor Murray’s wish, and up to now
We had no men, had found none. Elenor said,
“Let’s go to Palo Alto, find some men.”
We landed in a blinding sun, and walked
About the desolate campus, but no men.
And Janet and myself were tired and hot;
But Elenor, who never knew fatigue,
Went searching here and there, and left us sitting
Under a palm tree waiting. Hours went by,
Two hours, I think, when she came down the walk
A man on either side. She brought them up
And introduced them. They were gay and young,
Students with money. Then the fun began:
We wished to see the place, must hurry back
To keep engagements in the city—whew!
How Elenor Murray baited hooks for us
With words about the city and our plans;
What fun we three had had already there!
Until at last these fellows begged to come,
Return with us to ’Frisco, be allowed
To join our party. “Could we manage it?”
Asked Elenor Murray, “do you think we can?”
We fell into the play and talked it over,
Considered this and that, resolved the thing,
And said at last to come, and come they did....
Well, such a time in ’Frisco. For you see
Our money had been figured down to cents
For what we planned to do. These fellows helped,
We scarcely had seen ’Frisco but for them.
They bought our dinners, paid our way about
Through China Town and so forth, but we kept
Our staterooms on the boat, slept on the boat.
And after three days’ feasting sailed away
With bouquets for each one of us.

But this girl
Could never get enough, must on and on
See more, have more sensations, never tired.
And when we saw Vancouver then the dream
Of going to Alaska entered her.
I had no money, Janet had no money
To help her out, and Elenor was short.
We begged her not to try it—what a will!
She set her jaw and said she meant to go.
And when we missed her for a day, behold
We find her, she’s a cashier in a store,
And earning money there to take the trip.
Our boat was going back, we left her there.
I see her next when school commences, ruling
Her room of pupils at Los Angeles.
The summer after this she wandered east,
Was now engaged to Simeon Strong, but writing
To Gregory Wenner, saw him in Chicago.
She traveled to New York, he followed her.
She was a girl who had to live her life,
Could not live through another, found no man
Whose life sufficed for hers, must live herself,
Be individual.

And en route for France
She wrote me from New York, was seeing much
Of Margery, an aunt—I never knew her,
But sensed an evil in her, and a mind
That used the will of Elenor Murray—how
Or why, I knew not. But she wrote to me
This Margery had brought her lawyer in,
There in New York to draw a document,
And put some letters in a safety box.
Whose letters? Gregory Wenner’s? I don’t know.
She told me much of secrets, but of letters
That needed for their preciousness a box,
A lawyer to arrange the matter, nothing.
For if there was another man, she felt
Too shamed, no doubt, to tell me:—“This is he,
The love I sought, the great reality,”
When she had said as much of Gregory Wenner.
But now a deeper matter: with this letter
She sent a formal writing giving me
Charge of these letters, if she died to give
The letters to the writer. I’m to know
The identity of the writer, so she planned
When I obtain them. How about this lawyer,
And Margery the aunt? What shall I do?
Write to this lawyer what my duty is
Appointed me of her, go to New York?

I must do something, for this lawyer has,
As I believe, no knowledge of my place
In this affair. Who has the box’s key?
This lawyer, or the aunt—I have no key—
And if they have the key, or one of them,
And enter, take the letters, look! our friend
Gets stains upon her memory; or the man
Who wrote the letters finds embarrassment.
Somehow, I think, these letters hold a secret,
The deepest of her life and cruelest,
And figured in her death. My dearest friend,
What if they brought me to the coroner,
If I should get these letters, and they learned
I had them, this relation to our Elenor!
Yet how can I neglect to write this lawyer
And tell him Elenor Murray gave to me
This power of disposition?

Come what may
I must write to this lawyer. Here I write
To get the letters, and obey the wish
Of our dear friend. Our friend who never could
Carry her ventures to success, but always
Just at the prosperous moment wrecked her hope.
She really wished to marry Simeon Strong.
Then why imperil such a wish by keeping
This Gregory Wenner friendship living, go
About with Gregory Wenner, fill the heart
Of Simeon Strong with doubt?

Oh well, my friend,
We wonder at each other, I at you,
And you at me, for doing this or that.
And yet I think no man or woman acts
Without a certain logic in the act
Of nature or of circumstance.

Look here,
This letter to the lawyer. Will it do?
I think so. If it brings the letters—well!
If not, I’ll get them somehow, it must be,
I loved her, faults and all, and so did you....

So while Jane Fisher pondered on her duty,
But didn’t write the letter to the lawyer,
Who had the charge of Elenor Murray’s letters,
The lawyer, Henry Baker, in New York
Finds great perplexity. Sometimes a case
Walks in a lawyer’s office, makes his future,
Or wrecks his health, or brings him face to face
With some one rising from the mass of things,
Faces and circumstance, that ends his life.
So Henry Baker took such chances, taking
The custody of these letters.

James Rex Hunter
Is partner of this Baker, sees at last
Merival and tells him how it was
With Baker at the last; he died because
Of Elenor Murray’s letters, Hunter told
The coroner at the Waldorf. Dramatized
His talk with Lawyer Baker in these words:—

HENRY BAKER, AT NEW YORK

One partner may consult another—James,
Here is a matter you must help me with,
It’s coming to a head.

Well, to be plain,
And to begin at the beginning first,
I knew a woman up on Sixty-third,
Have known her since I got her a divorce,
Married, divorced, before—last night we quarreled,
I must do something, hear me and advise.

She is a woman notable for eyes
Bright for their oblong lights in them; they seem
Like crockery vases, rookwood, where the light
Shows spectrally almost in squares and circles.
Her skin is fair, nose hooked, of amorous flesh,
A feaster and a liver, thinks and plans
Of money, how to get it. And this husband
Whom she divorced last summer went away,
And left her to get on as best she could.
All legal matters settled, we went driving—
This story can be skipped.

Last night we dined,
Afterward went to her apartment. First
She told me at the dinner that her niece
Named Elenor Murray died some days ago.
I sensed what she was after—here’s the point:—
She followed up the theme when we returned
To her apartment, where we quarreled. You see
I would not do her bidding, left her mad,
In silent wrath after some bitter words.
I managed her divorce as I have said,
Then I stepped in as lover, months had passed.
When Elenor Murray came here to New York,
I met her at the apartment of the aunt
Whose name is Margery Camp. Before, she said
Her niece was here, was happy and in love
But sorrowful for leaving, just the talk
That has no meaning till you see the subject
Or afterwards, perhaps; it passes in
One ear and out the other. Then at last
One afternoon I met this Elenor Murray
When I go up to call on Margery Camp.
The staging of the matter is like this:
The niece looks fagged, is sitting on the couch,
Has loosed her collar for her throat to feel
The air about it, for the day is hot.
And Margery Camp goes out, brings in a pitcher
Of absinthe cocktails, so we drink. I sit,
Begin to study what is done, and look
This Elenor Murray over, get the thought
That somehow Margery Camp has taken Elenor
In her control for something, has begun
To use her, manage her, is coiling her
With dominant will or cunning. Then I look,
See Margery Camp observing Elenor Murray,
Who drinks the absinthe, and in Margery’s eyes
I see these parallelograms of light
Just like a vase of crockery, there she stands,
Her face like ivory, and laughs and shows
Her marvelous teeth, smooths with her shapely hands
The skirt upon her hips. Somehow I feel
She is a soul who watches passion work.
Then Elenor Murray rouses, gets her spirits
Out of the absinthe, rises and exclaims:
“I’m better now;” and Margery Camp speaks up,
Poor child, in intonation like a doll
That speaks from reeds of steel, no sympathy
Or meaning in the words. The interview
Seems spooky to me, cold and sinister.
We drink again and then we drink again.
And what with her fatigue and lowered spirits,
This Elenor Murray drifts in talk and mood
With so much drink. At last this Margery Camp
Says suddenly: “You’ll have to help my niece,
There is a matter you must manage for her,
We’ve talked it over; in a day or two
Before she goes away, we’ll come to you.”
I took them out to dinner, after dinner
Drove Margery Camp to her apartment, then
Went down with Elenor Murray to her place.

Then in a day or two, one afternoon
Margery Camp and Elenor Murray came
Here to my office with a bundle, which
This Margery Camp was carrying, rather large.
And Margery Camp was bright and keen as winter.
But Elenor Murray seemed a little dull,
Abstracted as of drink, or thought perhaps.
After the greeting and preliminaries,
Margery said to Elenor: “Better tell
What we have come for, get it done and go.”
Then Elenor Murray said: “Here are some letters,
I’ve tied them in this package, and I wish
To put them in a safety box, give you
One key and keep the other, leave with you
A sealed instruction, which, in case I die,
While over-seas, you may break open, read
And follow, if you will.” She handed me
A writing signed by her which merely read
What I have told you—here it is—you see:
“When legal proof is furnished I am dead,
Break open the sealed letter which will give
Instruction for you.” So I took the trust,
Went with these women to a vault and placed
The letters in the box, gave her a key,
Kept one myself. They left. At dinner time
I joined them, saw more evidence of the will
Of Margery Camp controlling Elenor’s.
Which seemed in part an older woman’s power
Against a younger woman’s, and in part
Something less innocent. We ate and drank,
I took them to their places as before,
And didn’t see this Elenor again.

But now last night when I see Margery
She says at once, “My niece is dead;” goes on
To say, no other than herself has care
Or interest in her, was estranged from father,
And mother too, herself the closest heart
In all the world, and therefore she must look
After the memory of the niece, and adds:
“She came to you through me, I picked you out
To do this business.” So she went along
With this and that, advancing and retreating
To catch me, bind me. Well, I saw her game,
Sat non-committal, sipping wine, but keeping
The wits she hoped I’d lose, as I could see.

After the dinner we went to her place
And there she said these letters might contain
Something to smudge the memory of her niece,
She wished she had insisted on the plan
Of having one of the keys, the sealed instruction
Made out and left with her; being her aunt,
The closest heart in the world to Elenor Murray,
That would have been the right way. But she said
Her niece was willful and secretive, too,
Not over wise, but now that she was dead
It was her duty to reform the plan,
Do what was best, and take control herself.

So working to the point by devious ways
She said at last: “You must give me the key,
The sealed instruction: I’ll go to the box,
And get the letters, do with them as Elenor
Directed in the letter; for I think,
Cannot believe it different, that my niece
Has left these letters with me, so directs
In that sealed letter.” “Then if that be true,
Why give the key to me, the letter?—no
This is a trust, a lawyer would betray,
A sacred trust to do what you request.”
I saw her growing angry. Then I added:
“I have no proof your niece is dead:” “My word
Is good enough,” she answered, “we are friends,
You are my lover, as I thought; my word
Should be sufficient.” And she kept at me
Until I said: “I can’t give you the key,
And if I did they would not let you in,
You are not registered as a deputy
To use the key.” She did not understand,
Did not believe me, but she tacked about,
And said: “You can do this, take me along
When you go to the vault and open the box,
And break the letter open which she gave.”
I only answered: “If I find your niece
Has given these letters to you, you shall have
The letters, but I think the letters go
Back to the writer, and if that’s the case,
I’ll send them to the writer.”

Here at last
She lost control, took off her mask and stormed:
“We’ll see about it. You will scarcely care
To have the matter aired in court. I’ll see
A lawyer, bring a suit and try it out,
And see if I, the aunt, am not entitled
To have my niece’s letters and effects,
Whatever’s in the package. I am tired
And cannot see you longer. Take five days
To think the matter over. If you come
And do what I request, no suit, but if
You still refuse, the courts can settle it.”
And so I left her.

In a day or two
I read of Elenor Murray’s death. It seems
The coroner investigates her death.
She died mysteriously. Well, then I break
The sealed instruction, look! I am to send
The package to Jane Fisher, in Chicago.
We know, of course, Jane Fisher did not write
The letters, that the letters are a man’s.
What is the inference? Why, that Elenor Murray
Pretended to comply, obey her aunt,
Yet slipped between her fingers, did not wish
The aunt or me to know who wrote the letters.
Feigned full submission, frankness with the aunt,
Yet hid her secret, hid it from the aunt
Beyond her finding out, if I observe
The trust imposed, keep hands of Margery Camp
From getting at the letters.

Now two things:
Suppose the writer of the letters killed
This Elenor Murray, is somehow involved
In Elenor Murray’s death? If that’s the case,
Should not these letters reach the coroner?
To help enforce the law is higher trust
Than doing what a client has commanded.
And secondly, if Margery Camp should sue,
My wife will learn the secret, bring divorce.
Three days remain before the woman’s threat
Is ripe to execute. Think over this.
We’ll talk again—I really need advice....
————
So Hunter told the coroner. Then resumed
The matter was a simple thing: I said
To telegraph the coroner. You are right:
Those letters give a clue perhaps, your trust
Is first to see the law enforced. And yet
I saw he was confused and drinking too,
For fear his wife would learn of Margery Camp.
I added, for that matter open the box,
Take out the letters, find who wrote them, send
A telegram to the coroner giving the name
Of the writer of the letters. Well, he nodded,
Seemed to consent to anything I said.
And Hunter left me, leaving me in doubt
What he would do. And what is next? Next day
He’s in the hospital and has pneumonia.
I take a cab to see him, but I find
He is too sick to see, is out of mind.
In three days he is dead. His wife comes in
And tells me worry killed him—knows the truth
About this Margery Camp, oh, so she said.
Had sent a lawyer to her husband asking
For certain letters of an Elenor Murray.
And that her husband stood between the fire
Of some exposure by this Margery Camp,
Or suffering these letters to be used
By Margery Camp against the writer for
A bit of money. This was Mrs. Hunter’s
Interpretation. Well, the fact is clear
That Hunter feared this Margery Camp—was scared
About his wife who in some way had learned
just at this time of Margery Camp—I think
Was called up, written to. Between it all
Poor Hunter’s worry, far too fast a life,
He broke and died. And now you know it all.
I’ve learned no client enters at your door
And nothing casual happens in the day
That may not change your life, or bring you death.
And Hunter in a liaison with Margery
Is brought within the scope of Elenor’s
Life and takes his mortal hurt and dies.
————
So much for riffles in New York. We turn
Back to LeRoy and see the riffles there,
See all of them together. Loveridge Chase
Receives a letter from a New York friend,
A secret service man who trails and spies
On Henry Baker, knows about the letters,
And writes to Loveridge Chase and says to him:
“That Elenor Murray dying near LeRoy
Left letters in New York. I trailed the aunt
Of Elenor Murray, Margery Camp. Also
A lawyer, Henry Baker, who controls
A box with letters left by Elenor Murray—
So for the story. Why not join with me
And get these letters? There is money in it,
Perhaps, who knows? I work for Mrs. Hunter—
She wants the letters placed where they belong,
And wants the man who killed this Elenor Murray
Punished as he should be. Go see the coroner
And get the work of bringing back the letters.”
And Chase came to the coroner and spoke:

LOVERIDGE CHASE

Here is the secret of the death of Elenor,
From what I learn of her, from what I know
In living, knowing women, I am clear
About this Elenor Murray. Give me power
To get the letters, power to give a bond
To indemnify the company, for you know
Letters belong to him who writes the letters;
And if the company is given bond
It will surrender them, and then you’ll know
What man she loved, this Gregory Wenner or
Some other man, and if some other man,
Whether he caused her death.

The coroner
And Loveridge Chase sat in the coroner’s office
And talked the matter over. And the coroner,
Who knew this Loveridge Chase, was wondering
Why Loveridge Chase had taken up the work
Of secret service, followed it, and asked,
“How did you come to give your brains to this,
Who could do other things?” And Loveridge said:
“A woman made me, I went round the world
As jackie once, was brought into this world
By a mother good and wise, but took from her,
My father, someone, sense of chivalry
Too noble for this world, a pity too,
Abused too much by women. I came back,
Was hired in a bank; had I gone on
By this time had been up in banking circles,
But something happened. You can guess, I think
It was a woman, was my wife Leone.
It matters nothing here, except I knew
This Elenor Murray through my wife. These two
Were schoolmates, even chums. I’ll get these letters
If you commission me. The fact is this:
I think this Elenor Murray and Leone
Were kindred spirits, and it does me good
Now that I’m living thus without a wife
To ferret out this matter of Elenor Murray,
Perhaps this way, or somewhere on the way,
Find news of my Leone; what life she lives,
And where she is. I’m curious still, you see.”
Then Coroner Merival, who had not heard
Of Elenor Murray’s letters in New York
Before this talk of Loveridge Chase, who heard
This story and analysis of Leone
Mixed in with other talk, and got a light
On Elenor Murray, said: “I know your work,
Know you as well, have confidence in you,
Make ready to go, and bring the letters back.”

And on the day that Loveridge Chase departs
To get the letters in New York, Bernard,
A veteran of Belleau, married that day
To Amy Whidden, on a lofty dune
At Millers, Indiana, with his bride—
Long quiet, tells her something of the war.
These soldiers cannot speak what they have lived.
But Elenor Murray helps him; for the talk
Of Elenor Murray runs the rounds, so many
Stations whence the talk is sent:—the men
Or women who had known her, came in touch
Somehow with her. These newly wedded two
Go out to see blue water, yellow sand,
And watch the white caps pat the sky, and hear
The intermittent whispers of the waves.
And here Bernard, the soldier, tells his bride
Of Elenor Murray and their days at Nice:

AT NICE

Dear, let me tell you, safe beside you now,
Your hand in mine, here from this peak of sand,
Under this pine tree, where the wild grapes spill
Their fragrance on the lake breeze, from that oak
Half buried in the sand, devoured by sand—
The water of the lake is just as blue
As the sea is there at Nice, the caps as white
As foam around Mont Boron, Cap Ferrat.
Here let me tell you things you do not know,
I could not write, repeat what well you know,
How love of you sustained me, never changed,
But through a love was brighter, flame of the torch
I bore for you in battle, as an incense
Cast in a flame awakes the deeper essence
Of fire and makes it mount.

And I am here—
Here now with you at last—the war is over—
I have this aching side, these languid mornings,
And pray for that old strength which never knew
Fatigue or pain—but I am here with you,
You are my bride now, I have earned you, dear.
I fought the fight, endured the endless days
When rain fell, days of absence, and the days
Of danger when my only prayer was this:
Give me, O God, to see you once again.
This is the deepest rapture, tragedy
Of this our life, beyond our minds to fathom,
A thing to stand in awe of, touch in reverence,
That we—we mortals, find in one another
Such source of ecstasy, of pain. My love,
I lay there in the hospital so weak,
Flopping my hands upon the coverlet,
And praying God to live. In such an hour
To be away from you! There are no words
To speak the weary hours of fear and thought,
In such an absence, facing death, perhaps,
A burial in France, with thoughts of you,
Mourning some years, perhaps, healed partly then
And wedded to another; then at last
Myself forgot, or nearly so, and life
Taking you on with duties, house and children;
And my poor self forgotten, gone to dust,
Wasted along the soil of France.

Thank God,
I’m here with you—it’s real, all this is true:
The roar of the water, sand-hills, infinite sky,
The gulls, the distant smoke, the smell of grapes,
The haze of amethyst behind us there,
In those ravines of stunted oak and pine.
All this is real. This is America.
The very air we find from coast to coast,
The sensible air for lungs seems freer here.
I had no sooner landed in New York
Than my arms said stretch out, there’s room to stretch.
I walked along the streets so happy, light
Of heart and heard the newsboys, shop-girls talk:
“O, what a cheese he is,” or “beat it now”—
I can’t describe the thrill I had to hear
This loose abandoned slang spilled all around,
Like coppers soiled from handling, but so real,
And having power to purchase memories
Of what I loved and lost awhile, my land!
Well, then I wanted roast-beef, corn on cob,
And had them in an hour at early lunch.
I telegraphed you, gave New York a day,
And came to you. We are together now,
We do not dream, do we? We are together
After the war, to live our lives and grow
And make of love, experience, life more rich.
That’s what you say to me—it shall be so.

Now I will tell you what I promised to tell
About my illness and the battle—well,
I wrote you of my illness, only hinted
About the care I had, that is the point;
’Twas care alone that saved me, I was ill
Beyond all words to tell. And all the while
I suffered, fearing I would die; but then
I could not bear to think I should not rise
To join my fellows, battle once again,
And charge across the trenches, take no part
In crushing down the Prussian. For I knew
He would be crushed at last. I could not bear
To think I should not take a hand in that,
Be there when he lay fallen, victory
From voice to voice should pass along the lines.
Well, for some weeks I lay there, and at last
Words dropped around me that the time was near
For blows to count—would I be there to strike?
Could I get well in time? And every day
A sweet voice said: “You’re better, oh it’s great
How you are growing stronger; yesterday
Your fever was but one degree, to-day
It is a little higher. You must rest,
Not think so much! It may be normal perhaps
To-morrow or the next day. In a week
You will be up and gaining, and the battle
Will not be fought before then, I am sure,
And not until you’re well and strong again.”
And thus it went from day to day. Such hands
Washed my hot face and bathed me, tucked me in,
And fed me too. And once I said to her:
“I love a girl, I must get well to fight,
I must get well to go to her.” And she,
It was the nurse I spoke to, took my hand,
And turned away with tears. You see it’s there
We see the big things, nothing else, the things
That stand out like the mountains, lesser things
Are lost like little hillocks under the shadows
Of great emotions, hopes, realities.
Well, so it went. And on a day she leaned
Above my face to smooth the pillow out.
And from her heart a golden locket fell,
And dangled by the silver chain. The locket
Flew open and I saw a face within it,
That is I saw there was a face, but saw
No eyes or hair, saw nothing to limn out
The face so I would know it.

Then I said:
“You have a lover, nurse.” She straightened up
And questioned me: “Have you been ill before?
Do you know of the care a nurse can give,
And what she can withhold?” I answered “Yes.”
And then she asked: “Have you felt in my hands
Great tenderness, solicitude, even prayer?”—
Here, sweetheart, do not let your eyes get moist,
I’ll tell you everything, for you must see
How spirits work together, love to love
Passes and does its work.

Well, it was true,
I felt her tenderness, which was like prayer,
And so I answered her: “If I get well,
You will have cured me with your human love.”
And then she said: “Our unit reached this place
When there was neither stoves nor lights. At night
We went to bed by candles. Stumbled around
Amid the trunks and beds by candle light.
Well, one of us would light a candle, then
Each, one by one, the others lighted theirs
From this one down the room. And so we passed
The light along. And as a candle died,
The others burned, to which the light was passed.
Well, now,” she said, “that is a figure of love:
We get the flame from someone, light another,
Make brighter light by holding flame to flame—
Sometimes we searched for something, held two candles
Together for a greater light. And so,
My soldier, I have given you the care
That comes from love—of country and the cause,
But brightened, warmed by one from whom the flame
Was passed to me, a love that took my hand
And warmed it, made it tender for that love,
Which said pour out and serve, take love for him
And use it in the cause, by using hands
To bathe, to soothe, to smooth a pillow down,
To heal, sustain.”

The truth is, dearest heart,
I had not lived, I think, except for her.
And there we were: I filled with love for you,
And therefore praying to get well and fight,
Be worthy of your love, and there she was
With love for someone, striving with that love
To nurse me through and give me well and strong
To battle in the cause.

Then I got well
And joined my company. She took my hand
As I departed, closed her eyes and said:
“May God be with you.”

Well, it was Belleau,
That jungle of machine guns, like a thicket
Of rattle snakes. And there was just one thing
To clean that thicket out—we had to charge,
And so we yelled and charged. No soldier knows
How one survives in such a charge as that.
You simply yell and charge; the bullets fall
Like drops of rain around you pitter-pat;
And on you go and think: where will it get me,
The stomach or the heart or through the head?
What will it be like, sudden blackness, pain,
No pain at all? And so you charge the nests.
The fellows fell around us like tenpins,
Dropped guns, or flung them up, fell on their faces,
Or toppled backward, pitched ahead and flung
Their helmets off in pitching. And at last
I found myself half-dazed, as in a dream,
Right in a nest, two Boches facing me,
And then I saw this locket, as I saw it
Fall from her breast, it might have been a glint
Of metal, flash of firing, I don’t know.
I only know I ran my bayonet
Through one of them; he fell, I stuck the other,
Then something stung my side. When I awoke
I lay upon a cot, and heard the nurses
Discuss the peace, the armistice was signed,
The war was over. Well, and in a way
We won the war, I won the war, as one
Who did his part, at least.

Then I got up,
But I was weak and dazed. They said to me
I should not cross the ocean in the winter,
My lungs might get infected; anyway,
The flu was raging. So they sent me down
To Nice upon a furlough, as I wrote.
I could not write you all I saw and heard,
It was all lovely and all memorable.

But first before I picture Nice to you,
My days at Nice, lest you have doubts and fears
When I reveal to you I saw this nurse
First on the Promenade des Anglais there,
Saw much of her in Nice, I saw at once
She was that Elenor Murray whom they found
Along the river dead; and for the rest
To make all clear, I’ll tell you everything.
You see I didn’t write you of this girl
And what we did there, lest you might suspect
Some vagrant mood in me concealed or glossed,
Which ended in betrayal of our love.
Eyes should look into eyes to supplement
The words of truth with light of truth, where nothing
Of thoughts that hide have chance to slip and crawl
Through eyes averted, twinklings, change of light,
Or if they do, reveal themselves, as snakes
Are seen when winding into coverts of grass.

Well, then we met upon the promenade.
She ran toward me, kissed me—oh so glad.
I told her of the battle, of my wound.
And for herself it seemed she had been ill,
Off duty for a month before she came
To Nice for health; she said as much to me.
I think she had been ill, yet I could sense,
Or seemed to sense a mystery, I don’t know,
Behind her illness. Yet you understand
How it was natural we should be happy
To meet again, in Nice, too. For you see
The army life develops comradeship.
And when we meet the old life rises up
And wakes its thrills and memories. It seemed
She had been there some days when I arrived
And knew the place, and said, “I’ll show you Nice.”
There was a major she was waiting for,
As it turned out. He came there in a week,
We had some walks together, all the three,
And then I lost them.

But before he came
We did the bright cafés and Monte Carlo,
And here my little nurse showed something else
Besides the tender hands, the prayerful soul.
She had been taking egg-nogs, so she said,
But now she took to wine, and drink she could
Beyond all men I know. I had to stop
Or fall beneath the table, leaving her
To order more. And she would sit and weave
From right to left hip in a rhythmic way,
And cast her eyes obliquely right and left.
It was this way: The music set her thrilling,
And keeping time this way. She loved to go
Where we could see cocotes, adventurers;
Where red vitality was feasting, drinking,
And dropping gold upon the gaming table.
We sunned ourselves within the Jardin Public,
And walked the beach between the bathing places
Where they dry orange peel to make perfumes.
And in that golden sunshine by the sea
Caught whiffs of lemon blossoms, and each day
I bought her at the stands acacia,
Or red anemones—I tell you all—
There was no moment that my thought betrayed
Your heart, dear one. She had been good to me.
I saw that she was hungry for these things,
For rapture, so I gave them—you don’t mind,
It came to nothing, dearest.

But at last
A different Elenor Murray than I knew
There in the hospital took shape before me.
That serving soul, that maid of humble tasks,
And sacrifice for others, and that face
Of waitress or of ingenue, day by day
Assumed sophistication, looks and lines
Of knowledge in the world, experience
in places of patrician ways. She knew
New York as well as I, cafés and shops;
Dropped pregnant hints at times that made me think
What more she knew, what she was holding back.
Until at last all she had done for me
Seemed just what mortals do to earn their bread
In any calling, made more generous, maybe,
By something in a moment’s mood. In truth
The ideal showed the clogged pores in the skin
Under the light she stood in. For you know
When we see people happy we can say
Those tears were not all tears—we pitied more
Than we were wise to pity—that’s the feeling:
Most men are Puritans in this, I think.
A woman dancing, drinking, makes you laugh,
And half despise yourself for great emotion
When seeing her in prayer or reverent thought.
But now I come to something more concrete:
The day before the major came we lunched
Where we could see the Mediterranean,
The clubs, hotels and villas. There she sat
All dressed in white, a knitted jacket of silk
Matching the leaves upon the trees, and looked
As fashionable as the rest. The waiter came.
She did not take the card nor order from it,
Was nonchalant, familiar, said at last:
“We want some Epernay. You have it doubtless.”
The waiter bowed. I looked at Elenor,
That was the character of revealing things
I saw from day to day. For truth to tell
This Epernay might well have been charged water
For all I knew. I asked her, and she said:
“Delicious wine, not strong.” And so we lunched,
And the music stormed, and lunchers gabbled, smoked,
And dandies ogled. And this Epernay
Worked in our blood and Elenor rattled on.
And she was flinging eyes from right to left
And moving rhythmically from hip to hip,
And with a finger beating out the time.
Somehow our hands touched, then she closed her eyes,
Her body shook a little and grew limp.
“What is the matter?” Then she raised her eyes
And looked me through an instant. What, my dear,
You won’t hear any more? Oh, very well,
That’s all, there is no more.

But after while
When things got quieter, the lunchers thinned,
The music ended, and the wine grown tame
Within our veins, she told me on a time
Some years before she was confirmed, and thought
She’d take the veil, and for two years or more
Was all absorbed in pious thoughts and works.
“But how we learn and change,” she added then,
“In training we see bodies, learn to know
How thirst and hunger, needs of body cry
For daily care, become materialists,
Unmoralists a little in the sense
That any book, or theories of the soul
Should tie the body from its natural needs.
Though I accept the faith, no less than ever,
That God is and the Savior is and spirit
Is no less real than body, has its needs,
Separate or through the body.”

Oh, that girl!
She made me guess and wonder. But next day
I had a fresh surprise, the major came
And she was changed completely. I forgot,
I must tell you what happened after lunch.
We rose and she grew impish, stood and laughed
As if the secret of the laugh was hers
Beyond the concrete matter of the laugh.
She said, “I’ll show you something beautiful.”
We started out to see it, walked the road
Around the foot of Castle Hill. You know
The wind blows gustily at Nice; and so
All of a sudden went my hat, way up,
Far off, and instantly such laughter rose,
And boisterous shouts that made me think at once
I had been tricked, somehow. It is this way:
The gamins loiter there to watch the victims
Who lose their hats. And Elenor sat down,
And laughed until she cried. I do not know,
Perhaps I was not amorous enough
At luncheon and she pranked me for revenge.
Well, then the major came, he took my place.
I was the third one in the party now,
But saw them every day. What did we do?
No Monte Carlo now, nor ordering
Without the card, she was completely changed,
Demure again, all words of lovely things:
The war had changed the world, had lifted up
The spirit of man to visions, and the major
Adored her, drank it in. And we explored
Limpia and the Old Town, looked aloft
At Mont Cau d’Aspremont, picked hellebore,
And orchids in the gorges, saw St. Pons,
The Valley of Hepaticas, sunned ourselves
Within the Jardin Public, where the children
Play riotously; and Elenor would draw
A straying child to her and say: “You darling.”
I saw her do this once and dry her eyes
And to the major say: “They are so lovely,
I had to give up teaching school, the children
Stirred my emotions till I could not bear
To be among them.” And to make an end,
I spent the parts of three days with these two.
And on the last day we went to the summit
Of the Corinche Road, and saw the sea and Europe
Spread out before us—oh, you cannot know
The beauty of it, dear, until you see it.
And Elenor sat down as in a trance,
And looked and did not speak for minutes. Then
She said: “How pure a place this is—it’s nature,
And I can worship here, this makes you hate
The cafés and the pleasures of the town.”
What was this woman, dear, what was her soul?
Or was she half and half? Oh, after all,
I am a hostile mixture, so are you.

And so I drifted out, and only stayed
A day or two beyond that afternoon.
I took a last walk on the Promenade;
At last saw just ahead of me these two,
His arm was fast in hers, they sauntered on
As if in serious talk. As I came up,
I greeted them and said good-bye again.

Where is the major? Did the major steal
The heart of Elenor Murray, speed her death?
They could have married. Why did she return?
Or did the major follow her? Well, dear,
Here is the story, truthful to a fault.
My soul is yours, I kept it true to you.
Hear how the waters roar upon the sand!
I close my eyes and almost can believe
We are together on the Corniche Road.
————
Well, it may never be that Merival
Heard from Bernard of Elenor at Nice,
Although he knew it sometime, knew as well
Her service in the war had nerved the men
And by that much had put the Germans down.
America at the fateful moment lent
Her strength to bring the war’s end. Elenor
Was one of many to cross seas and bring
Life strength against the emperor, once secure,
And throned in power against such phagocytes
As Elenor Murray, Bernard, even kings.
And sawing wood at Amerongen all
He thought of was of brains and monstrous hearts
Which sent the phagocytes from America,
England and France to eat him up at last.

One day an American soldier, so ’tis said
Someone told Merival, was walking near
The house at Amerongen, saw a man
With drooped mustache and whitened beard approach,
Two mastiffs walked beside him. As he passed
Unrecognized, the soldier to a mate
Spoke up and said: “What hellish dogs are those?—
Like Bismarck used to have; I saw a picture
Of Bismarck with his dogs.” The drooped mustache
Turned nervously and took the soldiers in,
Then strode ahead. The emperor was stunned
To hear an American soldier use a knife
As sharp as that.

But Elenor at Nice
Walked with the major as Bernard has told.
And this is wrinkled water, dark and far
From Merival, unknown to him. He hears,
And this alone, she went from Nice to Florence,
Was ill there in a convent, we shall see.
This is the tale that Irma Leese related
To Coroner Merival in a leisure hour:

THE MAJOR AND ELENOR MURRAY AT NICE

Elenor Murray and Petain, the major,
The Promenade des Anglais walked at Nice.
A cloud was over him, and in her heart
A growing grief.

He knew her at the hospital,
First saw her face among a little group
Of faces at a grave when rain was falling,
The burial of a nurse, when Elenor’s face
Was bathed in tears and strained with agony.
And after that he saw her in the wards;
Heard soldiers, whom she nursed, say as she passed,
Dear little soul, sweet soul, or take her hand
In gratitude and kiss it.

But as a stream
Flows with clear water even with the filth
Of scum, debris that drifts beside the current
Of crystal water, nor corrupts it, keeps
Its poisoned, heavier medium apart,
So at the hospital where the nurses’ hands
Poured sacrifice, heroic love, the filth
Of envy, anger, malice, plots, intrigue
Kept pace with pure devotion, noble work
For suffering and the cause.

The major helped
To free the rules for Elenor Murray so
She might recuperate at Nice, and said:
“Go and await me, I shall join you there.
For in my trouble I must have a friend,
A woman to assuage me, give me light,
And ever since I saw you by that grave,
And saw you cross yourself, and bow your head
And watched your services along the wards
Among the sick and dying, I have felt
The soul of you, its human tenderness,
Its prodigal power of giving, pouring forth
Itself for others. And you seem a soul
Where nothing of our human frailty
Has come to dim the flame that burns in you,
You are all light, I think.”

And Elenor Murray
Looked down and said: “There is no soul like that.
This hospital, the war itself, reflects
The good and bad together of our souls.
You are a boy—oh such a boy to see
All good in me.”

And Major Petain said:
“At least you have not found dishonor here
As I have found it, for a lust of flesh
A weakness and a trespass.”

This was after
The hospital was noisy with the talk
Of Major Petain and his shame, the hand
Of discipline lay on him.

Elenor Murray
Looked steadily in his eyes, but only said:
“We mortals know each other but a little,
Nor guess each other’s secrets.” And she glanced
A moment at the tragedy that had come
To her at Paris on her furlough there,
And of its train of sorrows, even now
Her broken health and failure in the work
As consequence to that, and how it brought
The breaking of her passionate will and dream
To serve and not to fail—she glanced at this
A moment as she faced him, looked at him.
Then as she turned away: “There is one thing
That I must tell you, it is fitting now,
I love and am beloved. But if you come
To Nice and I can help you, come, if talk
And any poor advice of mine can help.”

So Major Petain, Elenor Murray walked
The Promenade at Nice, arm fast in arm.
And Major Petain to relieve his heart
Told all the tragedy that had come to him:

“Duty to France was first with me where love
Was paramount with you, if I divine
Your heart, America’s, at least a love
Unmixed of other feelings as may be.
What could you find here, if you seek no husband,
Even in seeing France so partially?
What in adventure, lures to bring you here,
Where peril, labor are? You either came
To expiate your soul, or as you say,
To make more worthy of this man beloved
Back in America your love for him.
Dear idealist, I give my faith to you,
And all your words. But as I said ’twas duty,
Then dreams of freedom, Europe’s chains struck off,
The menace of the German crushed to earth
That fired me as a soldier, trained to go
When France should need me. So it is you saw
France go about this business calm and stern,
And patient for the prize, or if ’twere lost
Then brave to meet the future as France met
The arduous years that followed Metz, Sedan.”

“But had I been American to the core,
Would I have put the sweet temptation by?
However flamed with zeal had I said no
When lips like hers were offered? Oh, you see
Whatever sun-light gilds the mountain tops
Rich grass grows in the valleys, herds will feed,
Though rising suns put glories on the heights.
And herds will run and stumble over rocks,
Break fences and encounter beasts of prey
To get the grass that’s sweetest.”

“To begin
I met her there in Paris. In a trice
We loved each other, wrote, made vows, she pledged
The consummation. There was danger here,
Great danger, as you know, for her and me.
And yet it never stopped us, gave us fear.
And then I schemed and got her through the lines,
Took all the chances.”

“Danger was not all:
There was my knowledge of her husband’s love,
His life immaculate, his daily letters.
He put by woman chances that arose
With saying, I am married, am beloved,
I love my wife, all said so earnestly
We could not joke him, though behind his back
Some said: He trusts her, but he’d better watch;
At least no sense of passing good things by.
I sat with him at mess, I saw him read
The letters that she wrote him, face of light
Devouring eyes. The others rallied him;
But I was like a man who knows a plot
To take another’s life, but keeps the secret,
Eats with the victim, does not warn him, makes
Himself thereby a party to the plot.
Or like a man who knows a fellow man
Has some insidious disease beginning,
And hears him speak with unconcern of it,
And does not tell him what to do, you know,
And let him go to death. And just for her,
The rapture of a secret love I choked
All risings of an honest manhood, mercy,
Honor with self and him. Oh, well you know
The isolation, hunger of us soldiers,
I only need to hint of these. But now
I see these well endured for sake of peace
And quiet memory.”

“For here we stood
Just ’round the corner in that long arcade
That runs between our building, next to yours.
And this is what I hear—the husband’s voice,
Which well I knew, the officer’s in command:
‘Why have you brought your wife here?’ asked the officer.
‘Pardon, I have not done so,’ said the husband.
‘You’re adding falsehood to the offense; you know
The rules forbid your wife to pass the lines.’
‘Pardon, I have not brought her,’ he exclaimed
In passionate earnestness.

“Well, there we stood.
My sweetheart, but his wife, was turned to snow,
As white and cold. I got in readiness
To kill the husband. How could we escape?
I thought the husband had been sent away;
Her coming had been timed with his departure,
Arriving afterward, and we had failed.
But as for that, before our feet could stir,
The officer said, ‘Come now, I’ll prove your lie,’
And in a twinkling, taking a dozen steps
They turned into the arcade, there they were,
The officer was shaking him and saying,
‘You lie! You lie!’

“All happened in a moment,
The humbled, ruined fellow saw the truth,
And blew his brains out on the very spot!
And made a wonder, gossip for you girls—
And here I am.”

So Major Petain finished.
Then Elenor Murray said: “Let’s watch the sea.”
And as they sat in silence, as he turned
To look upon her face, he saw the tears,
Hanging like dew drops on her lashes, drip
And course her cheeks. “My friend, you weep for me,”
The major said at last, “my gratitude
For tears like these.” “I weep,” said Elenor Murray,
“For you, but for myself. What can I say?
Nothing, my friend, your soul must find its way.
Only this word: I’ll go to mass with you,
I’ll sit beside you, pray with you, for you,
And do you pray for me.”

And then she paused.
The long wash of the sea filled in the silence.
And then she said again, “I’ll go with you,
Where we may pray, each for the other pray.
I have a sorrow, too, as deep as yours.”

THE CONVENT

Elenor Murray stole away from Nice
Before her furlough ended, tense to see
Something of Italy, and planned to go
To Genoa, explore the ancient town
Of Christopher Columbus, if she might
Elude the regulation, as she did,
In leaving Nice for Italy. But for her
Always the dream, and always the defeat
Of what she dreamed.

She found herself in Florence
And saw the city. But the weariness
Of labor and her illness came again
At intervals, and on such days she lay
And heard the hours toll, wished for death and wept,
Being alone and sorrowful.

On a morning
She rose and looked for galleries, came at last
Into the Via Gino Capponi
And saw a little church and entered in,
And saw amid the darkness of the church
A woman kneeling, knelt beside the woman,
And put her hand upon the woman’s forehead
To find that it was wrinkled, strange to say
A scar upon the forehead, like a cross....
Elenor Murray rose and walked away,
Sobs gathering in her throat, her body weak,
And reeled against the wall, for so it seemed,
Against which hung thick curtains, velvet, red,
A little grimed and worn. And as she leaned
Against the curtains, clung to them, she felt
A giving, parted them, and found a door,
Pushed on the door which yielded, opened it
And saw a yard before her.

It was walled.
A garden of old urns and ancient growths,
Some flowering plants around the wall.

Before her
And in the garden’s center stood a statue,
With outstretched arms, the Virgin without the child.
And suddenly on Elenor Murray came
Great sorrow like a madness, seeing there
The pitying Virgin, stretching arms to her.
And so she ran along the pebbly walk,
Fell fainting at the Virgin’s feet and lay
Unconscious in the garden.

When she woke
Two nuns were standing by, and one was dressed
In purest white, and held within her hands
A tray of gold, and on the tray of gold
There was a glass of wine, and in a cup
Some broth of beef, and on a plate of gold
A wafer.

And the other nun was dressed
In purest white, but over her shoulders lay
A cape of blue, blue as the sky of Florence
Above the garden wall.

Then as she saw
The nuns before her, in the interval
Of gathering thought, re-limning life again
From wonder if she had not died, and these
Were guides or ministrants of another world,
The nun with cape of blue to Elenor
Said: “Drink this wine, this broth;” and Elenor
Drank and arose, being lifted up by them,
And taken through the convent door and given
A little room as white and clean as light,
And a bed of snowy linen.

Then they said:
“This is the Convent where we send up prayers,
Prayers for the souls who do not pray for self—
Rest, child, and be at peace; and if there be
Friends you would tell that you are here, then we
Will send the word for you, sleep now and rest.”
And listening to their voices Elenor slept.
And when she woke a nurse was at her side,
And food was served her, broths and fruit. Each day
A doctor came to tell her all was well,
And health would soon return.

So for a month
Elenor Murray lay and heard the bells,
And breathed the fragrance of the flowering city
That floated through her window, in the stillness
Of the convent dreamed, and said to self: This place
Is good to die in, who is there to tell
That I am here? There was no one. To them
She gave her name, but said: “Till I am well
Let me remain, and if I die, some place
Must be for me for burial, put me there.
And if I live to go again to France
And join my unit, let me have a writing
That I did not desert, was stricken here
And could not leave. For while I stole away
From Nice to get a glimpse of Italy,
I might have done so in my furlough time,
And not stayed over it.” And to Elenor
The nuns said: “We will help you, but for now
Rest and put by anxieties.”

On a day
Elenor Murray made confessional.
And to the nuns told bit by bit her life,
Her childhood, schooling, travels, work in the war,
What fate had followed her, what sufferings.
And Sister Mary, she who saw her first,
And held the tray of gold with wine and broth,
Sat often with her, read to her, and said:
“Letters will go ahead of you to clear
Your absence over time—be not afraid,
All will be well.”

And so when Elenor Murray
Arose to leave she found all things prepared:
A cab to take her to the train, compartments
Reserved for her from place to place, her fare
And tickets paid for, till at last she came
To Brest and joined her unit, in three days
Looked at the rolling waters as the ship
Drove to America—such a coming home!
To what and whom?
————
Loveridge Chase returned and brought the letters
To Coroner Merival from New York. That day
The chemical analysis was finished, showed
No ricin and no poison. Elenor Murray
Died how? What were the circumstances? Then
When Coroner Merival broke the seals of wax,
And cut the twine that bound the package, found
The man was Barrett Bays who wrote the letters—
There were a hundred—then he cast about
To lay his hands on Barrett Bays, and found
That Barrett Bays lived in Chicago, taught,
Was a professor, aged some forty years.
Why did this Barrett Bays emerge not, speak,
Come forward? Was it simply to conceal
A passion written in these letters here
For his sake or his wife’s? Or was it guilt
For some complicity in Elenor’s death?
And on this day the coroner had a letter
From Margery Camp which said: “Where’s Barrett Bays?
Why have you not arrested him? He knows
Something, perhaps about the death of Elenor.”
So Coroner Merival sent process forth
To bring in Barrett Bays, non est inventus.
He had not visited his place of teaching,
Been seen in haunts accustomed for some days—
Not since the death of Elenor Murray, none
Knew where to find him, and none seemed to know
What lay between this man and Elenor Murray.
This was the more suspicious. Then the Times
Made headlines of the letters, published some
Wherein this Barrett Bays had written Elenor:
“You are my hope in life, my morning star,
My love at last, my all.” From coast to coast
The word was flashed about this Barrett Bays;
And Mrs. Bays at Martha’s Vineyard read,
Turned up her nose, continued on the round
Of gaieties, but to a chum relieved
Her loathing with these words: “Another woman,
He’s soiled himself at last.”

And Barrett Bays,
Who roughed it in the Adirondacks, hoped
The inquest’s end would leave him undisclosed
In Elenor Murray’s life, though wracked with fear
About the letters in the vault, some day
To be unearthed, or taken, it might be,
By Margery Camp for uses sinister—
He reading that the letters had been given
To Coroner Merival, and seeing his name
Printed in every sheet, saw no escape
In any nook of earth, returned and walked
In Merival’s office: trembling, white as snow.

So Barrett Bays was sworn, before the jury
Sat and replied to questions, said he knew
Elenor Murray in the fall before
She went to France, saw much of her for weeks;
Had written her these letters before she left.
Had followed her in the war, and gone to France,
Had seen her for some days in Paris when
She had a furlough. Had come back and parted
With Elenor Murray, broken with her, found
A cause for crushing out his love for her.
Came back to win forgetfulness, had written
No word to her since leaving Paris—let
Her letters lie unanswered; brought her letters,
And gave them to the coroner. Then he told
Of the day before her death, and how she came
By motor to Chicago with her aunt,
Named Irma Leese, and telephoned him, begged
An hour for talk. “Come meet me by the river,”
She had said. And so went to meet her. Then he told
Why he relented, after he had left her
In Paris with no word beside this one:
“This is the end.” Now he was curious
To know what she would say, what could be said
Beyond what she had written—so he went
Out of a curious but hardened heart.