Archibald Lowell

Archibald Lowell, owner of the Times         Lived six months of the year at Sunnyside,         His Gothic castle near LeRoy, so named         Because no sun was in him, it may be.         His wife was much away when on this earth         At cures, in travel, fighting psychic ills,         Approaching madness, dying nerves. They said         Her heart was starved for living with a man         So cold and silent. Thirty years she lived         Bound to this man, in restless agony,         And as she could not free her life from his,         Nor keep it living with him, on a day         She stuck a gas hose in her mouth and drank         Her lungs full of the lethal stuff and died.         That was the very day the hunter found         Elenor Murray's body near the river.         A servant saw this Mrs. Lowell lying         A copy of the Times clutched in her hand,         Which published that a slip of paper found         In Elenor Murray's pocket had these words         "To be brave and not to flinch." And was she brave,         And nerved to end it by these words of Elenor?         But Archibald, the husband, could not bear         To have the death by suicide made known.         He laid the body out, as if his wife         Had gone to bed as usual, turned a jet         And left it, just as if his wife had failed         To fully turn it, then went in the room;         Then called the servants, did not know that one         Had seen her with the Times clutched in her hand.         He thought the matter hidden. Merival,         All occupied with Elenor Murray's death         Gave to a deputy the Lowell inquest.         But later what this servant saw was told         To Merival.             And now no more alone         Than when his wife lived, Lowell passed the days         At Sunnyside, as he had done for years.         He sat alone, and paced the rooms alone,         With hands behind him clasped, in fear and wonder         Of life and what life is. He rode about,         And viewed his blooded cattle on the hills.         But what were all these rooms and acres to him         With no face near him but the servants, gardeners?         Sometimes he wished he had a child to draw         Upon his fabulous income, growing more         Since all his life was centered in the Times         To swell its revenues, and in the process         His spirit was more fully in the Times         Than in his body. There were eyes who saw         How deftly was his spirit woven in it         Until it was a scarf to bind and choke         The public throat, or stifle honest thought         Like a soft pillow offered for the head,         But used to smother. There were eyes who saw         The working of its ways emasculate,         Its tones of gray, where flame had been the thing,         Its timorous steps, while spying on the public,         To learn the public's thought. Its cautious pauses,         With foot uplifted, ears pricked up to hear         A step fall, twig break. Platitudes in progress -         With sugar coat of righteousness and order,         Respectability.          Did the public make it?         Or did it make the public, that it fitted         With such exactness in the communal life?         Some thousands thought it fair - what should they think         When it played neutral in the matter of news         To both sides of the question, though at last         It turned the judge, and chose the better side,         Determined from the first, a secret plan,         And cunning way to turn the public scale?         Some thousands liked the kind of news it printed         Where no sensation flourished - smallest type         That fixed attention for the staring eyes         Needed for type so small. But others knew         It led the people by its fair pretensions,         And used them in the end. In any case         This editor played hand-ball in this way:         The advertisers tossed the ball, the readers         Caught it and tossed it to the advertisers:         And as the readers multiplied, the columns         Of advertising grew, and Lowell's thought         Was how to play the one against the other,         And fill his purse.             It was an ingrown mind,         And growing more ingrown with time. Afraid         Of crowds and streets, uncomfortable in clubs,         No warmth in hands to touch his fellows' hands,         Keeping aloof from politicians, loathing         The human alderman who bails the thief;         The little scamp who pares a little profit,         And grafts upon a branch that takes no harm.         He loved the active spirit, if it worked,         And feared the active spirit, if it played.         This Lowell hid himself from favor seekers,         Such letters filtered to him through a sieve         Of secretaries. If he had a friend,         Who was a mind to him as well, perhaps         It was a certain lawyer, but who knew?         And cursed with monophobia, none the less         This Lowell lived alone there near LeRoy,         Surrounded by his servants, at his desk         A secretary named McGill, who took         Such letters, editorials as he spoke.         His life was nearly waste. A peanut stand         Should be as much remembered as the Times,         When fifty years are passed.         And every month         The circulation manager came down         To tell the great man of the gain or loss         The paper made that month in circulation,         In advertising, chiefly. Lowell took         The audit sheets and studied them, and gave         Steel bullet words of order this or that.         He took the dividends, and put them - where?         God knew alone.         He went to church sometimes,         On certain Sundays, for a pious mother         Had reared him so, and sat there like a corpse,         A desiccated soul, so dry the moss         Upon his teeth was dry.         And on a day,         His wife now in the earth a week or so,         Himself not well, the doctor there to quiet         His fears of sudden death, pains in the chest,         His manager had come - was made to wait         Until the doctor finished - brought the sheets         Which showed the advertising, circulation.         And Lowell studied them and said at last:         "That new reporter makes the Murray inquest         A thing of interest, does the public like it?"         To which the manager: "It sells the paper."         And then the great man: "It has served its use.         Now being nearly over, print these words:         The Murray inquest shows to what a length         Fantastic wit can go, it should be stopped."         An editorial later might be well:         Comment upon a father and a mother         Invaded in their privacy, and life         In intimate relations dragged to view         To sate the curious eye.         Next day the Times         Rebuked the coroner in these words. And then         Merival sent word: "I come to see you,         Or else you come to see me, or by process         If you refuse." And so the editor         Invited Merival to Sunnyside         To talk the matter out. This was the talk:         First Merival went over all the ground         In mild locution, what he sought to do.         How as departments in the war had studied         Disease and what not, tabulated facts,         He wished to make a start for knowing lives,         And finding remedies for lives. It's true         Not much might be accomplished, also true         The poet and the novelist gave thought,         Analysis to lives, yet who could tell         What system might grow up to find the fault         In marriage as it is, in rearing children         In motherhood, in homes; for Merival         By way of wit said to this dullest man:         "I know of mother and of home, of heaven         I've yet to learn." Whereat the great man winced,         To hear the home and motherhood so slurred,         And briefly said the Times would go its way         To serve the public interests, and to foster         American ideals as he conceived them.         Then Merival who knew the great man's nature,         How small it was and barren, cold and dull,         And wedded to small things, to gold, and fear         Of change, and knew the life the woman lived, -         These seven days in the earth - with such a man,         Just by a zephyr of intangible thought         Veered round the talk to her, to voice a wonder         About the jet left turned, his deputy         Had overlooked a hose which she could drink         Gas from a jet. "You needn't touch the jet.         Just leave it as she left it - hide the hose,         And leave the gas on, put the woman in bed."         "This deputy," said Merival, "was slack         And let a verdict pass of accident."         "Oh yes" said Merival, "your servant told         About the hose, the Times clutched in her hand.         And may I test this jet, while I am here?         Go up to see and test it?"             Whereupon         The great man with wide eyes stared in the eyes         Of Merival, was speechless for a moment,         Not knowing what to say, while Merival         Read something in his eyes, saw in his eyes         The secret beat to cover, saw the man         Turn head away which shook a little, saw         His chest expand for breath, and heard at last         The editor in four steel bullet words,         "It is not necessary."         Merival         Had trapped the solitary fox - arose         And going said: "If it was suicide         The inquest must be changed."         The editor         Looked through the window at the coroner         Walking the gravel walk, and saw his hand         Unlatch the iron gate, and saw him pass         From view behind the trees.         Then horror rose         Within his brain, a nameless horror took         The heart of him, for fear this coroner         Would dig this secret up, and show the world         The dead face of the woman self-destroyed,         And of the talk, which would not come to him,         To poison air he breathed no less, of why         This woman took her life; if for ill health         Then why ill health? O, well he knew at heart         What he had done to break her, starve her life.         And now accused himself too much for words,         Ways, temperament of him that murdered her,         For lovelessness, and for deliberate hands         That pushed her off and down.         He rode that day         To see his cattle, overlook the work,         But when night came with silence and the cry         Of night-hawks, and the elegy of leaves         Beneath the stars that looked so cold at him         As he turned seeking sleep, the dreaded pain         Grew stronger in his breast. Dawn came at last         And then the stir and voices of the maids.         And after breakfast in the carven room         Archibald Lowell standing by the mantel         In his great library, felt sudden pain;         Saw sudden darkness, nothing saw at once,         Lying upon the marble of the hearth;         His great head cut which struck the post of brass         In the hearth's railing - only a little blood!         Archibald Lowell being dead at last;         The Times left to the holders of the stock         Who kept his policy, and kept the Times         As if the great man lived.             And Merival         Taking the doctor's word that death was caused         By angina pectoris, let it drop.         And went his way with Elenor Murray's case.         *        *        *        *        *         So Lowell's dead and buried; had to die,         But not through Elenor Murray. That's the Fate         That laughs at greatness, little things that sneak         From alien neighborhoods of life and kill.         And Lowell leaves a will, to which a boy -         Who sold the Times once, afterward the Star -         Is alien as this Elenor to the man         Who owned the Times. But still is brought in touch         With Lowell's will, because this Lowell died         Before he died. And Merival learns the facts         And brings them to the jury in these words: -