| 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. BC’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 passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic 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 passed 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 breasts My heart went muffled 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 passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God 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. God will be good and give you to me, or God 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 God had given her Between my life and his; and then I saw A thoughtfulness come over her, as a cloud Passes 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. For look at Elenor! Why did she never marry? Any man Had made his life rich had he married her. But in this present scheme of things such women Move in a life where men are mostly less In mind and heart than they are—and the men Who are their equals never come to them, Or come to them too seldom, or if they come Are blind and do not know these Elenors. And she had character enough to live In single life, refuse the lesser chance, Since she found not the great one, as I think. But let it pass—I’m sure she was beloved, And more than once, I’m sure. But I am sure She was too wise for errors crude and common. And if she had a love that stopped her heart, She knew beforehand all, and met her fate Bravely, and wrote that “To be brave and not To flinch,” to keep before her soul her faith Deep down within it, lest she might forget it Among her crowded thoughts. She went to the war. She came to see me before she went, and said She owed her courage and her restless spirit To me, her will to live, her love of life, Her power to sacrifice and serve, to me. She put her arms about my neck and kissed me, Said I had been a mother to her, being A mother if no more; wished she had brought More happiness to me, material things, Delight in life. Of course her work took strength. Her life was sapped by service in the war, She died for country, for America, As much as any soldier. So I say If her life came to any waste, what waste May her heroic life and death prevent? The world has spent two hundred billion dollars To put an egotist and strutting despot Out of the power he used to tyrannize Over his people with a tyranny Political in chief, to take away The glittering dominion of a crown. I want some good to us out of this war, And some emancipation. Let me tell you: I know a worse thing than a German king: It is the social scourge of poverty, Which cripples, slays the husband and the wife, And sends the children forth in life half formed. I know a tyranny more insidious Than any William had, it is the tyranny Of superstition, customs, laws and rules; The tyranny of the church, the tyranny Of marriage, and the tyranny of beliefs Concerning right and wrong, of good and evil; The tyranny of taboos, the despotism That rules our spirits with commands and threats: Ghosts of dead faiths and creeds, ghosts of the past. The tyranny, in short, that starves and chains Imprisons, scourges, crucifies the soul, Which only asks the chance to live and love, Freely as it wishes, which will live so If you take Poverty and chuck him out. Then make the main thing inner growth, take rules, Conventions and religion (save it be The worship of God in spirit without hands And without temples sacraments) the babble Of moralists, the rant and flummery Of preachers and of priests, and chuck them out. These things produce your waste and suffering. You tell a soul it sins and make it suffer, Spend years in impotence and twilight thought. You punish where no punishment should be, Weaken and break the soul. You weight the soul With idols and with symbols meaningless, When God gave but three things: the earth and air And mind to know them, live in freedom by them. Well, I would have America become As free as any soul has ever dreamed her, And if America does not get strength To free herself, now that the war is over. Then Elenor Murray’s spirit has not won The thing she died for. So I go my way, Back to get supper, I who live, shall die In America as it is—Rise up and change it For mothers of the future Elenors. By now the press was full of Elenor Murray. And far and near, wherever she was known, Had lived, or taught, or studied, tongues were loosed In episodes or stories of the girl. The coroner on the street was button-holed, Received marked articles and letters, some Anonymous, some crazy. David Borrow Who helped this Alma Bell as lawyer, friend, Found in his mail a note from Alma Bell, Enclosed with one much longer, written for The coroner to read. When Merival Had read it, then he said to Borrow: “Read This letter to the other jurors.” So He read it to them, as they sat one night, Invited to the home of Merival To drink a little wine and have a smoke, And talk about the case. |
