Domesday Book Part 3

A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me.

She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. G.o.d has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire."

I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor.

Death is not far off, and that makes us think.

We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life.

And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother.

So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, pa.s.sing her husband, The two in silence pa.s.sing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke:

MRS. MURRAY

I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence.

It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy.

Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France.

I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer.

She held my hands so lovingly when we met.

She kissed me with such silent, speaking love.

But then she laughed and told me funny stories.

She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again.

And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly.

For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that?

Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life?

Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before?

The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself.

And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live.

Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go.

If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it.

Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look.

And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that.

But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts.

This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed.

It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting.

Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too.

They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school.

For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing.

I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men.

But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call.

He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate!

They let him call upon me twice a month.

He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness.

I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm.

And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came.

But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life.

How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face?

Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life.

Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first.

He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books.

These were the early tangles of our yarn.

And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That pa.s.sed my lips was desert water, poisoned By a.r.s.enic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again.

My life lay raving on the desert sands.

To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me.

I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day.

At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked.

You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go.

Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who pa.s.sed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power.

You may be called neurotic, what is that?

Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body.

But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around.

There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word!

There's something in the soul that says escape!

Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep!

And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept.

So I possessed myself.

But for these years sleep but two hours or so.

Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep.

Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping.

Oh, that child!

When I first felt her lips that sucked my b.r.e.a.s.t.s My heart went m.u.f.fled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my pa.s.sion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture G.o.d had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips!

Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child!

I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again.

G.o.d will be good and give you to me, or G.o.d will bring sleep to me, a sleep so still I shall not miss you, Elenor.

I go on.

I see her when she first began to walk.

She ran at first, just like a baby quail.

She never walked. She danced into this life.

She used to dance for minutes on her toes.

My starved heart bore her vital in some way.

My hope which would not die had made her gay, And unafraid and venturesome and hopeful.

She did not know what sadness was, or fear, Or anything but laughter, play and fun.

Not till she grew to ten years and could see The place in life that G.o.d had given her Between my life and his; and then I saw A thoughtfulness come over her, as a cloud Pa.s.ses across the sun, and makes one place A shadow while the landscape lies in light: So quietness would come over her, with smiles Around her quietness and sunniest laughter Fast following on her quietness.

Well, you know She went to school here as the others did.

But who knew that I grieved to see her lose A schooling at St. Mary's, have no chance?

No chance save what she earned herself? What girl Has earned the money for two years in college Beside my Elenor in this neighborhood?

There is not one! But then if books and schooling Be things prerequisite for success in life, Why should we have a social scheme that clings To marriage and the home, when such a soul Is turned into the world from such a home, With schooling so inadequate? If the state May take our sons and daughters for its use In war, in peace, why let the state raise up And school these sons and daughters, let the home Go to full ruin from half ruin now, And let us who have failed in choosing mates Re-choose, without that fear of children's fate Which haunts us now.