Domesday Book Part 29

"I rose from bed, Went back to work, in nine days failed again, This time with influenza; for three weeks Was ill enough to die, for all the while My fever raged, my heart was hurting too, Because of you. When I got up again I looked a ghost, was weaker than a child, At last came here to Nice."

"This is the hundredth Letter that I've written since we parted.

My heart is tired, dear, I shall write no more.

You shall have silence for your silence, yet When I am silent, trust me none the less, Believe I love you. If you say that I Have hidden secrets, have not told you all, The diary flung away to keep my life Beyond your eye's inspection, still I say Where is your right to know what lips I've kissed, What hopes or dreams I cherished in the past Before I knew you. If you still accuse My spirit of deceit, hypocrisy In lifting up my flower of love to you Fresh, as it seemed, with morning dew, not tears, I have my own defense for that, you'll see.

Or lastly, if your love is turned to gall Because, as you discovered, body of love Was given to Gregory Wenner, after you Had come to me in love and chosen me As servant of you in the war, I write To clear myself to you respecting that, And re-insist 'twas body of love alone, Not love I gave, and what I gave was given Because you won me, left me, did not claim As wholly yours what you had won. But now, As I have hope of life beyond the grave, As I love G.o.d, though serving Him but ill, I say to you, I have been wholly yours In spirit and in body since the day I gave to you the locket, sat with you And heard the waltz of Chopin, six days after I went with Gregory Wenner. I explain Why I did this, shall mention it no more; You must be satisfied or go your way In bitterness and hatred."

"But first, my love, As spirits equal and with equal rights, Or privilege of equal wrongs, have I Demanded former purity of you?

I have repelled revealments of your past; Have never questioned of your marriage, asked, Which might be juster, rights withdrawn from her; May rightly think, since you and she have life In one abode together, that you live As marriage warrants. And above it all Have I not written you to go your way, Find pleasures where you could, have only begged That you keep out of love, continue to give Your love to me? And why? Be cynical, And think I gave you freedom as a gallant That I might with a quiet conscience take Such freedom for myself. It is not true: I've learned the human body, know the male, And know his life is motile, does not rest, And wait, as woman's does, cannot do so.

So understanding have put down distaste, That you should fare in freedom, in my heart Have wished that love or ideals might sustain Your spirit; but if not, my heart is filled With happiness, if you love me. Take these thoughts And with them solve your sorrow for my past, Your loathing of it, if you feel that way However bad it be, whatever sins Imagination in you stirred depicts As being in my past."

"Men have been known Whom women made fifth husbands, more than that.

Not my case, I'll say that, and if you face Reality, and put all pa.s.sion love Where nature puts it by the side of love Which custom favors, you have only left The matter of the truth to grasp, believe, See clearly and accept: Do I swear true I love you, and since loving you am faithful, Cannot be otherwise, nor wish to be?"

"Dear, listen and be fair. You did not love me When first I came to you. You did not ask, Because of love, a faithfulness; in truth You did not ask a faithfulness at all.

But then and theretofore you treated me As woman to be won, a happiness To be achieved and put aside. Be fair, This was your mood. But if you loved me then, Or soon thereafter loved me, as I know, What should I do? I loved you, am a woman.

At last behold your love, am lifted, thrilled.

See what I thought was love before was nothing; Know I was never loved before you loved me; And know as well I never loved before; Know all the former raptures of my heart As buds in March closed hard and scentless, never The June before for my heart! O, my love, What should I do when this most priceless gift Was held up like a crown within your hands To place upon my brows--what should I do?

Take you aside and say, here is the truth, Here's Gregory Wenner--what's the good of that?

How had it benefited you or me, Increased your love, or founded it upon A surer rock than beauty? Hideous truth!

Useless too often, childish in such case.

You would have suffered, turned from me, and lost The rapture which I gave you, and if rapture Be not a prize, where in this world so much Of ugliness and agony prevails, I do not know our life."

"But just suppose I gave you rapture, beauty--you concede I gave you these, that's why you suffer so: You choose to think them spurious since you found I knew this Gregory Wenner, are they so?

They are as real in spite of Gregory Wenner As if my lips had been a cradled child's.

But just suppose, as I began to say, You never had discovered Gregory Wenner, And had the rapture, beauty which you had, How stands the case? Was I not justified In hiding Gregory Wenner to preserve The beauty and the rapture which you craved?

Dear, it was love of beauty which impelled What you have called deceit, it was my woman's Pa.s.sionate hope to give the man she loved The beauty which he saw in her that inspired My acting, as you phrase it, an elaborate Hypocrisy, an ugly word from you!...

But listen, dear, how spirit works in love: When you beheld me pure, I would be pure; As virginal, I would be virginal; As innocent, I would be innocent; As truthful, constant, so I would be these Though to be truthful, constant when I loved you Came to me like my breath, as natural.

So I would be all things to you for love, Fill full your dreams, your vision of my soul For now and future days, but make myself In days before I knew you what you thought, Believed and cherished. Hence if you combine The thought that what I was did not concern you, With fear that if you knew, your heart would change; And with these join that pa.s.sionate zeal of love To be your lover, wholly beautiful, You have the exposition of my soul In its elaborate deceit,--your words."

"Some fifty years ago a man and woman Are talking in a room, say certain things, We were not there! We two are with each other Somewhere, and fifty years from now, we two Will look to after souls who were not there Like figures in a crystal globe; I mean To lift to light the wounds of brooding love, And show you that the world contains events Of which we live in ignorance, if we know They hurt us with their mystery, coming near In our soul's cycle, somehow. But the dead, And what they lived, what are they?--what the things Of our dead selves to selves who are alive, And live the hour that's given us?"

"What's your past To me, beloved, if your soul and body Are mine to-day, not only mine, but made By living more my own, more rich for me, More truly harmonized with me? Believe me You are my highest hope made real at last, The climax of my love life, I accept Whatever pa.s.sed in rooms in years gone by; Whatever contacts, raptures, pains or hopes As schooling of your soul to make it precious, And for my worship, my advancement, kneel And thank the G.o.d of mysteries and wisdom Who made you for me, let me find you, love you!"

"Now of myself a word. In years to come These words I write will seem all truth to you, Their prism colors, violet and red, Will fade away and leave them in the light Arranged and reasonable and wholly true.

Then you will read the words: I found you, dear, After a life of pain; and you will see My spirit like a blossom that you watch From budding to unfolding, knowing thus How it matured from day to day. I say My life has been all pain, I see at first A father and a mother linked in strife.

Am thrown upon my girlhood's strength to teach, Earn money for my schooling, would know French; I studied Greek a little, gave it up, Distractions, duties, came too fast for me.

I longed to sing, took lessons, lack of money Ended the lessons. But above it all My heart was like an altar lit with flame, Aspired to heaven, asked for sacrifice, For incense to be bright, more beautiful For beauty's sake. And in my soul's despair, And just to use this vital flame, I turned To G.o.d, the church. You must be stone to hear Such words as these and not relent, an image Of basalt which I pray to not to see And not to hear! But listen! look at me, Did I become a drifter, wholly fail?

Did I become a common woman, turn To common life and ways? Can you dispute My eyes were fixed upon a lovelier life, Have never gaze withdrawn from loveliness?

Did I give up, or break, turn to the flesh, Pleasures, the solace of the senses--No!

Where some take drink to ease their hurts and dull Their disappointments, I renewed my will To sacrifice and service, work, who saw These things in essence may be drink as well, And bring the end, oblivion while you live, But bring supremacy instead of failure, Collapse, disgust and fears. Think what you will Of me for Gregory Wenner, and imagine The worst you may, I stand here as I am, With my life proven! And to end the pain I went to nurse the soldiers in the war With thoughts that if I died in service, good!

Not that I gladly give up life, I love it.

But life must be surrendered; let it be In service, as some end it up in drink, Or opium or l.u.s.t. Beloved heart, I know my will is stronger than my vision, That pa.s.sion masters judgment; that my love For love and life and beauty are too much For gifts like mine; I know that I am dumb, Songless, without articulate words--but still My very dumbness is a kind of speech Which some day will flood down your deafened rocks, And sweep my meaning over you."

"Well, now Why did I turn to Gregory from you?

I did not love you or I had not done it.

You did not love me or I had not done it.

I loved him once, he had been good to me.

He was an old familiar friend and touch....

Farewell, if it must be, but save me grief, The greatest agony: Be brave and strong, Be all that G.o.d requires your soul to be, O, give me not this cup of poison--this: That I have been your cause of bitterness; Have stopped your growth and introverted you, Given you eyes that see but lies and l.u.s.t In human nature, evil in the world-- Eyes that G.o.d meant to see the good and strive For goodness. If I drove you from the war, Made you distrust its purpose and its faith, Triumphant over selfishness and wrong, Oh, leave me with the hope that peace will come, And vision once again to bless your life.

Behold me as America, taught but half, Wayward and thoughtless, fighting for a chance; Denied its ordered youth, thrown into life But half prepared, so seeking to emerge Out of a tangled blood, and out of the earth A creature of the earth that strives to win A soul, a voice. Behold me thus--forgive!

Take from my life the beauty that you found, Nothing can kill that beauty if you press Its blossom to your heart, and with it rise To n.o.bleness, to duty, give your life To our America."

"The Lord bless you, And make his face to shine upon you, and Be gracious to you. The Lord lift up his countenance Upon you, give you peace, both now and ever More. Amen!"

So Elenor's letters ended The evidence. The afternoon was spent.

The inquest was adjourned till ten o'clock Next morning. They arose and left the room....

And Merival half-ill went home. Next day He lounged with books and had the doctor in, And read his mail, more letters, articles About the inquest, Elenor. And from France A little package came. And here at last Is Elenor Murray's diary! Merival turns And finds the entries true to Barrett Bays; Some word, a letter too from France which says: The sender learned the name by tracing out A number in the diary, heard the news Of Elenor Murray from the paper at home In Illinois. And of the diary this: He got it from a poilu who was struck By this same diary on the cheek. A slap That stung him, since the diary had been thrown By Elenor Murray from the second story.

This poilu, being tipsy, raved and thought Some challenger had struck him. Roaring so He's taken in. Some weeks elapse, he meets Our soldiers from the States, and shows the diary, And tells the story, has the diary read By this American, gives up the diary For certain drinks. And this American Has sent it to the coroner.

A letter To Merival from an old maiden aunt, Who's given her life to teaching, pensioned now And visiting at Madison, Wisconsin.

Aunt Cynthia writes to Merival and says: "I know you are fatigued, a little tired With troubles of the lower plane of life.

Quit thinking of the war and Elenor Murray.

Each soul should use its own divinity By mastering nature outward and within.

Do this by work or worship, Soul's control, Philosophy, by one or more or all.

Above them all be free. This is religion, And all of it. Books, temples, dogmas, rituals Or forms are details only. By these means Find G.o.d within you, prove that you and G.o.d Are one, not several, justify the ways Of G.o.d to man, to speak the western way.

I wish you could be here while I am here With Arielle, she is a soul, a woman.

You need a woman in your life, my dear-- I met her in Calcutta five years since, She and her husband toured the world--and now She is a widow these two years. I started Arielle in the wisdom of the East.

That avid mind of hers devours all things.

She is an adept, but she thinks her sense Of fun and human nature as the source Of laughter and of tears keep her from being A mystic, though she uses Hindu thought And practice for her soul."

"I'd like to send Some pictures of her, if she'd let me do it: Arielle with her dogs upon the lawn, Her arms about their necks. Or Arielle About her flowers. I've another one, Arielle on her favorite horse: another, Arielle by her window, hand extended, The very soul of rhythm; and another, Arielle laughing like a rising sun, No one can laugh as she does. For you see Her outward soul is love, her inward soul Is wisdom and that makes her what she is: A Robin Goodfellow, a Puck, a girl, A prankish wit, a spirit of bright tears, A queenly woman, clothed in majesty, A rapture and a solace, comrade, friend, A lover of old women such as I; A mother to young children, for she keeps A brood of orphans in her little town.

She is a will as disciplined as steel, Has suffered and grown wise. Her tenderness Is hidden under words so brief and pure You cannot sense the tenderness in all Until you read them over many times.

She is a lady bountiful, who gives As prodigally as nature, and she asks No gifts from you, but gets them anyway, Because all spirits pour themselves to her.

If I were taking for America A symbol, it would be my Arielle And not your Elenor Murray."

"Here's her life!

Her father died when she was just a child, Leaving a modest fortune to a widow, Arielle's mother, also other children.

After a time the mother went to England And settled down in Suss.e.x. There the mother Was married to a scoundrel, mad-man, genius, Who tyrannized the household, whipped the children.

So Arielle at fourteen ran away.

She pined for her Wisconsin and America.

She went to Madison, or near the place, And taught school in the country, much the same As Elenor Murray did.

"Now here is something: Behold our world, humanity, the groups Of people into states, communities, Full up of powers and virtues, aid and light-- Friends, helpers, understanders of the soul.

It may be just the status of enlightment, But I think there are brothers of the light, And powers around us; for if Elenor Murray Half-fails, is broken, here is Arielle Who with the surer instinct finds the springs Of health and life. And so, I say, if I Had daughters, and were dying, leaving them, I should not fear; for I should know the world Would care for them and give them everything They had the strength to take."

"Here's Arielle.

She teaches school and studies--O that wag-- She posts herself in Shakespeare, forms a cla.s.s Of women thrice her age and teaches them, Adds that way to her earnings. Just in time-- Such things are always opportune, a man Comes by and sees her spirit, says to her You may read Plato, and she reads and pa.s.ses To Kant and Schopenhauer. So it goes Until by twenty all her brain is seething With knowledge and with dreams. She is beloved By all the people of the country-side, Besought and honored--yet she keeps to self, Has hardly means enough, since now she sends Some help to mother who has been despoiled, Abandoned by the mad-man."

"Then one spring A paper in Milwaukee gives a prize, A trip to Europe, to the one who gets The most subscriptions in a given time-- And Arielle who has so many friends-- Achievement brings achievement, friends bring friends-- Finds rallying support and wins the prize.

Is off to Europe where she meets the man She married when returned."

"He is a youth Of beauty and of promise, yet a soul Who riots in the sunlight, honey of life.

And gets his wings gummed in the poisonous sweet.

And Arielle one morning wakes to find A horror on her hands: her husband's found Dead in a house of ill-fame. She is calm Out of that rhythm, sense of beauty which Makes her a power, all her deeds a song.

She lays the body under the dancing muses There in the wondrous library and flings A purple robe across it, kneels and lays Her sunny head against it, says a prayer.

She had been constant, loyal even to dreams, To this wild youth, whose errant ways she knew.