Barrett Bays

"I was walking by the river," Barrett said,         "When she arrived. I took her hand, no kiss,         A silence for some minutes as we walked.         Then we began to take up point by point,         For she was concentrated on the hope         Of clearing up all doubtful things that we         Might start anew, clear visioned, perfect friends,         More perfect for mistakes and clouds. Her will         Was passionate beyond all other wills,         And when she set her mind upon a course         She could not be diverted, or if so,         Her failure kept her brooding. What with me         She wanted after what had stunned my faith         I knew not, save she loved me. For in truth         I have no money, and no prospects either         To tempt cupidity."             "Well; first we talked -         You must be patient with me, gentlemen,         You see my nerves - they're weakened - but I'll try         To tell you all - well then - a glass of water -         At first we talked but trifles. Silences         Came on us like great calms between the stir         Of ineffectual breezes, like this day         In August growing sultry as the sun         Rose upward. She was striving to break down         The hard corrosion of my thought, and I         Could not surrender. Till at last, I said:         'That day in Paris when you stood revealed         Can never be forgotten. Once I killed         A love with hatred for a woman who         Betrayed me, as you did. And you can kill         A love with hatred but you kill your soul         While killing love. And so with you I kept         All hatred from my heart, but cannot keep         A poisonous doubt of you from blood and brain.'...         I learned in Paris, (to be clear on this),         That after she had given herself to me         She fell back in the arms of Gregory Wenner.         And here as we were walking I revealed         My agony, my anger, emptied out         My heart of all its bitterness. At last         When she protested it was natural         For her to do what she had done, the act         As natural as breathing, taking food,         Not signifying faithlessness nor love -         Though she admitted had she loved me then         She had not done so - I grew tense with rage,         A serpent which grows stiff and rears its head         To strike its enemy was what I seemed         To myself then, and so I said to her         In voice controlled and low, but deadly clear,         'What are you but a whore - you are a whore!'         Murderous words no doubt, but do you hear         She justified herself with Gregory Wenner;         Yes, justified herself when she had written         And asked forgiveness - yes, brought me out         To meet her by the river. And for what?         I said you whore, she shook from head to heels,         And toppled, but I caught her in my arms,         And held her up, she paled, head rolled around,         Her eyes set, mouth fell open, all at once         I saw that she was dead, or syncope         Profound had come upon her. Elenor,         What is the matter? Love came back to me,         Love there with Death. I laid her on the ground.         I found her dead.         "If I had any thought         There in that awful moment, it was this:         To run away, escape, could I maintain         An innocent presence there, be clear of fault?         And if I had that thought, as I believe,         I had no other; all my mind's a blank         Until I find myself at one o'clock         Disrobing in my room, too full of drink,         And trying to remember.         "With the morning         I lay in bed and thought: Did Irma Leese         Know anything of me, or did she know         That Elenor went out to meet a man?         And if she did not know, who could disclose         That I was with her? No one saw us there.         Could I not wait from day to day and see         What turn the news would take? For at the last         I did not kill her. If the inquest showed         Her death was natural, as it was, for all         Of me, why then my secret might be hidden         In Elenor Murray's grave. And if they found         That I was with her, brought me in the court,         I could make clear my innocence. And thus         I watched the papers, gambled with the chance         Of never being known in this affair.         Does this sound like a coward? Put yourself         In my place in that horror. Think of me         With all these psychic shell shocks - first the war,         Its great emotions, then this Elenor."         And thus he spoke and twisted hands, and twitched,         And ended suddenly. Then David Borrow,         And Winthrop Marion with the coroner         Shot questions at him till he woke, regained         A memory, concentration: Who are you?         What was your youth? Your love life? What your wife?         Where did you meet this Elenor at the first?         Why did you go to France? In Paris what         Happened to break your balance? Tell us all.         For as they eyed him, he looked down, away,         Stirred restless in the chair. And was it truth         He told of meeting Elenor, her death?         Guilt like a guise was on his face. And one -         This Isaac Newfeldt, juryman, whispered, "Look,         That man is guilty, let us fly the questions         Like arrows at him till we bring him down."         And as they flew the arrows he came to         And spoke as follows: -         "First, I am a heart         That from my youth has sought for love and hungered.         And Elenor Murray's heart had hungered too,         Which drew our hearts together, made our love         As it were mystical, more real. I was         A boy who sought for beauty, hope and faith         In woman's love; at fourteen met a girl         Who carried me to ecstasy till I walked         In dreamland, stepping clouds. She loved me too.         I could not cure my heart, have always felt         A dull pain for that girl. She died, you know.         I found another, rather made myself         Discover my ideal in her, until         My heart was sure she was the one. And then         I woke up from this trance, went to another         Still searching; always searching, reaching now         An early cynicism, how to play with hearts,         Extract their beauty, pass to someone else.         I was a little tired now, seemed to know         There is no wonder woman, just a woman         Somewhere to be a wife. And then I met         The woman whom I married, thought to solve         My problem with the average things of life;         The satisfaction of insistent sex,         A home, a regular program, turn to work,         Forget the dream, the quest. What did I find?         A woman who exhausted me and bored me,         Stirred never a thought, a fancy, brought no friends,         No pleasures or diversions, took from me         All that I had to give of mind and heart,         Purse, or what not. And she was barren too,         And restless; by that restlessness relieved         The boredom of our life; it took her off         In travels here and there. And I was glad         To have her absent, but it still is true         There is a hell in marriage, when it keeps         Delights of freedom off, all other women         Not willing to intrigue, pass distantly         Your married man; but on the other hand         What was my marriage with a wife away         Six months or more of every year? And when         I said to her, divorce me, she would say,         You want your freedom to get married - well,         The other woman shall not have you, if         There is another woman, as I think.         And so the years went by. I'm thirty-five         And meet a woman, play light heartedly,         She is past thirty, understands nor asks         A serious love. It's summer and we jaunt         About the country, for my wife's away.         As usual, in the fall returns, and then         My woman says, the holiday is over,         Go back to work, and I'll go back to work.         I cannot give her up, would still go on         For this delight so sweet to me. By will         I hold her, stir the fire up to inflame         Her hands for me, make love to her in short         And find myself in love, beholding in her         All beauties and all virtues. Well, at first         What did I care what she had been before,         Whose mistress, sweetheart? Now I cared and asked         Fidelity from her, and this she pledged.         And so a settled life seemed come to us,         We had found happiness. But on a day         I caught her in unfaithfulness. A man         She knew before she knew me crossed her path.         Why do they do this, even while their lips         Are wet with kisses given you? I think         A woman may be true in marriage, never         In any free relationship. And then         I left her, killed the love I had with hate.         Hate is an energy with which to save         A heart knocked over by a blow like this.         To forgive this wrong is never to forget,         But always to remember, with increasing         Sorrow and dreams invest the ruined love.         And so I turned to hate, came from the flames         As hard and glittering as crockery ware,         And went my way with gallant gestures, winning         An hour of rapture where it came to me.         And all the time my wife was much away,         Yet left me in this state where I was kept         From serious love if I had found the woman.         A pterodactyl in my life and soul:         Had wings, could fly, but slumbered in the mud.         Was neither bird nor beast; as social being         Was neither bachelor nor married man.         The years went on with work, day after day         Arising to the task, night after night         Returning for the rest with which to rise,         Forever following the mad illusion,         The dream, the expected friend, the great event         Which should change life, and never finding it.         And all the while I see myself consumed,         Sapped somehow by this wife and hating her;         Then fearful for myself for hating her,         Then melting into generosities         For hating her. And so tossed back and forth         Between such passions, also never at peace         From the dream of love, the woman and the mate         I stagger, amble, hurtle through the years,         And reach that summer of two years ago         When life began to change. It was this way:         My wife is home, for a wonder, and my friend,         Most sympathetic, nearest, comes to dine.         He casts his comprehending eyes about,         Takes all things in. As we go down to town,         And afterward at luncheon, when alone         He says to me: she is a worthy woman,         Beautiful, too, there is no other woman         To make you happier, the fault is yours,         At least in part, remove your part of the fault,         To woo her, give yourself, find good in her.         Go take a trip. For neither man nor woman         Yields everything till wooed, tried out, beloved.         Bring all your energies to the trial of her.         She will respond, unfold, repay your work.         He won me with his words. I said to her,         Let's summer at Lake Placid - so we went.         I tried his plan, did all I could, no use.         The woman is not mine, was never mine,         Was meant for someone else. And in despair,         In wrath as well, I left her and came back         And telephoned a woman that I knew         To dine with me. She came, was glad and gay,         But as she drew her gloves off let me see         A solitaire. What, you? I said to her,         You leave me too? She smiled and answered me;         Marriage may be the horror that you think,         And yet we all must try it once, and Charles         Is nearest my ideal of any man.         I have been very ill since last we met,         Had not survived except for skillful hands,         And Charles was good to me, with heart and purse.         My illness took my savings. I repay         His goodness with my hand. I love him too.         You do not care to lose me. As for that         I know one who will more than take my place;         She is the nurse who nursed me back to health,         I'll have you meet her, I can get her now.         She rose and telephoned. In half an hour         Elenor Murray joined us, dined with us.         I watched her as she entered, did not see         A single wonder in her, cannot now         Remember how she looked, what dress she wore,         What hat in point of color, anything.         After the dinner I rode home with them,         Saw Elenor at luncheon next day. So         The intimacy began."          "She was alone,         Unsettled and unhappy, pressed for funds.         She had, it seemed, nursed Janet without pay         Till Charles made good at last the weekly wage;         Since Janet's illness had no work to do.         I was alone and bored, she came to me         Almost at first as woman never came         To me before, so radiant, sympathetic,         Admiring, so devoted with a heart         That soothed and strove to help me. Strange to say         These manifests of spirit, ministrations         Bespoke the woman who has found a man,         And never knew a man before. She seemed         An old maid jubilant for a man at last,         And truth to tell I took her rapturous ways         With just a little reticence, and shrinking         Of spirit lest her hands would touch too close         My spirit which misvalued hers, withdraw         Itself from hers with hidden smiles that she         Could find so much in me. She did not change,         Retreat, draw in; advanced, poured out, gave more         And wooed me, till I feared if I should take         Her body she would follow me, grow mad         And shameless for her love."         "But as for that         That next day while at luncheon, frank and bold,         I spoke right out to her and then she shook         From head to foot, and made her knife in hand         Rattle the plate for trembling, turned as pale         As the table linen. Afterward as we met,         Having begun so, I renewed the word,         Half smiling to behold her so perturbed,         And serious, and gradually toning down         Pursuit of her this way, as I perceived         Her interest growing and her clinging ways,         Her ardor, huddling to me, great devotion;         Rapt words of friendship, offers of herself         For me or mine for nothing were we ill         And needed her."         "These currents flowed along.         Hers plunged and sparkled, mine was slow for thought.         A doubt of her, or fear, till on a night         When nothing had been said of this before,         Quite suddenly when nearing home she shrank,         Involved herself in shrinking in the corner         Of the cab's seat, and spoke up: 'Take me now,         I'm yours to-night, will do what you desire,         Whatever you desire.' I acted then,         Seemed overjoyed, was puzzled just the same,         And almost feared her. As I said before,         I feared she might pursue me, trouble me         After a hold like this, - and yet I said:         'Go get your satchel, meet me in an hour.'         I let her out, drove to the club, and thought;         Then telephoned her, business had come up,         I could not meet her, but would telephone         To-morrow."             "And to-morrow when it came         Brought ridicule and taunting from myself:         To have pursued this woman, for two months,         And if half-heartedly, you've made her think         Your heart was wholly in it, now she yields,         Bestows herself. You fly, you are a fool;         A village pastor playing Don Juan,         A booby costumed as a gallant - pooh!         Go take your chance. I telephoned her then,         That night she met me."             "Here was my surprise:         All semblance of the old maid fell away,         Like robes as she disrobed. She brought with her         Accoutrements of slippers, caps of lace,         And oriental perfumes languorous.         The hour had been all heaven had I sensed,         Sensed without thinking consciously a play,         Dramatics, acting, like an old maid who         Resorts to tricks of dress she fancies wins         A gallant of experience, fancies only         And knows not, being fancied so appears         Half ludicrous."          "But so our woe began.         That morning we had breakfast in our room,         And I was thinking, in an absent way         Responded to her laughter, joyous ways.         For I was thinking of my life again,         Of love that still eluded me, was bored         Because I sat there, did not have the spirit         To share her buoyancy - or was it such?         Did she not ripple merriment to hide         Her disappointment, wake me if she could?         And spite of what I thought of her before         That she had known another man or men,         I thought now I was first. And to let down,         Slope off the event, our parting for the day         Have no abruptness, I invited her         To luncheon, when I left her 'twas to meet         Again at noon. We met and parted then.         So now it seemed a thing achieved. Two weeks         Elapsed before I telephoned her. Then         The story we repeated as before,         Same room and all. But meantime we had sat         Some moments over tea, the orchestra         Played Chopin for her."         "Then she handed me         A little box, I opened it and found         A locket too ornate, her picture in it,         A little flag."          "So in that moment there         Love came to me for Elenor Murray. Music,         That poor pathetic locket, and her way         So humble, so devoted, and the thought         Of those months past, wherein she never swerved         From ways of love, in spite of all my moods,         Half-hearted, distant - these combined at once,         And with a flame that rose up silently         Consumed my heart with love."         "She went away,         And left me hungering, lonely. She returned,         And saw at last dubieties no more,         The answering light for her within my eyes."         "I must recur a little here to say         That at the first, first meeting it may be,         With Janet, there at tea, she said to me         She had signed for the war, would go to France,         To nurse the soldiers. You cannot remember         What people say at first, before you know,         Have interest in them. Also at that time         I had no interest in the war, believed         The war would end before we took a hand.         The war lay out of me, objectified         Like news of earthquakes in Japan. And then         As time went on she said: 'I do not know         What day I shall be called, the time's at hand.'         I loathed the Germans then; but loathed the war,         The hatred, lying, which it bred, the filth         Spewed over Europe, from the war, on us         At last. I loathed it all, and saw         The spirit of the world debauched and fouled         With blood and falsehood."          "Elenor found in me         Cold water for her zeal, and even asked:         'Are you pro-German? - no!' I tried to say         What stirred in me, she did not comprehend,         And went her way with saying: 'I shall serve,         O, glorious privilege to serve, to give,         And since this love of ours is tragedy,         Cannot be blessed with children, or with home,         It will be better if I die, am swept         Under the tide of war with work.' This girl         Exhausted me with ardors, spoken faiths,         And zeal which never tired, until at last         I longed for her to go and make an end.         What better way to end it?"          "April came,         One day she telephoned me that to-morrow         She left for France. We met that night and walked         A wind swept boulevard by the lake, and she         Was luminous, a spirit; tucked herself         Under my coat, adored me, said to me:         'If I survive I shall return to you,         To serve you, help you, be your friend for life,         And sacrifice my womanhood for you.         You cannot marry me, in spite of that         If I can be your comfort, give you peace,         That will be marriage, all that God intends         As marriage for me. You have blessed me, dear,         With hope and happiness. And oh at last         You did behold the war as good, you give me,         You send me to the war. I serve for you,         I serve the country in your name, your love,         So blessed for you, your love.'"          "That night at two         I woke somehow as if an angel stood         Beside the bed in light, beneficence,         And found her head close to my heart - she woke         At once with me, spoke dreamily 'Dear heart,'         Then turned to sleep again. I loved her then."         "She left next day. An olden mood came back         Which said, the end has come, and it is best.         I left the city too, breathed freer then,         Sought new companionships. But in three days         My heart was sinking, sickness of the heart,         Nostalgia took me. How to fight it off         Became the daily problem; work, diversions         Seemed best for cures. The malady progressed         Beyond the remedies. My wife came back,         Divined my trouble, laughed. And every day         The papers pounded nerves with battle news;         The bands were playing, soldiers marched the streets.         And taggers on the corner every day         Reminded you of suffering and of want.         And orators were talking where you ate:         Bonds must be bought - war - war was everywhere.         There was no place remote to hide from it,         And rest from its insistence. Then began         Elenor Murray's letters sent from France,         Which told of what she did, and always said:         'Would you were with me, serving in the war.         If you could come and serve; they need you, dear;         You could do much.' Until at last the war         Which had lain out of me, objectified,         Became a part of me, I saw the war,         And felt the war through her, and every tune         And every marching soldier, every word         Spoken by orators said Elenor Murray.         At dining places, theatres, pursued         By this one thought of war and Elenor Murray;         In every drawing room pursued, pursued         In quiet places by the memories.         I had no rest. The war and love of her         Had taken body of me, soul of me,         With madness, ecstasy, and nameless longing,         Hunger and hope, fear and despair - but love         For Elenor Murray with intenser flame         Ran round it all."         "At last all other things:         Place in the world, my business, and my home,         My wife if she be counted, sunk away         To nothingness. I stood stripped of the past,         Saw nothing but the war and Elenor,         Saw nothing but the day of finding her         In France, and serving there to be with her,         Or near where I could see her, go to her,         Perhaps if she was ill or needed me.         And so I went to France, began to serve,         Went in the ordnance. In that ecstasy         Of war, religion, love, found happiness;         Became a part of the event, and cured         My languors, boredom, longing, in the work;         And saw the war as greatest good, the hand         Of God through all of it to bring the world         Beauty and Freedom, a millennium         Of Peace and Justice."          "So the days went by         With work and waiting, waiting for the hour         When Elenor should have a furlough, come         To Paris, see me. And she came at last."         "Before she came she wrote me, told me where         To meet her first. 'At two o'clock,' she wrote,         'Be on the landing back of the piano'         Of a hotel she named. An ominous thought         Passed through my brain, as through a room a bat         Flits in and out. I read the letter over:         How could this letter pass the censor? Escape         The censor's eye? But eagerness of passion,         And longing, love, submerged such thoughts as these.         I walked the streets and waited, loitered through         The Garden of the Tuilleries, watched the clocks,         The lagging minutes, counted with their strokes.         And then at last the longed for hour arrived.         I reached the landing - what a meeting place!         With pillars, curtains hiding us, a nook         No one could see us in, unless he spied.         And she was here, was standing by the corner         Of the piano, very pale and worn,         Looked down, not at me, pathos over her         Like autumn light. I took her in my arms,         She could not speak, it seemed. I could not speak.         Dumb sobs filled heart and throat of us. And then         I held her from me, looked at her, re-clasped         Her head against my breast, with choking breath         That was half whisper, half a cry, I said,         'I love you, love you, now at last we're here         Together, oh, my love!' She put her lips         Against my throat and kissed it: 'Oh, my love,         You really love me, now I know and see,         My soul, my dear one,' Elenor breathed up         The words against my throat."             "We took a suite:         Soft rugs upon the floor, a bed built up,         And canopied with satin, on the wall         Some battle pictures, one of Bonaparte,         A bottle of crystal water on a stand         And roses in a bowl - the room was sweet         With odors, and so comfortable. Here we stood.         'It's Paris, dear,' she said, 'we are together;         You're serving in the war, how glorious!         We love each other, life is good - so good!'         That afternoon we saw the city a little,         So many things occurred to prophesy,         Interpret."         "And that night we saw the moon,         One star above the Arc de Triomphe, over         The chariot of bronze and leaping horses.         Dined merrily and slept and woke together         Beneath that satin canopy."          "In brief,         The days went by with laughter and with love.         We watched the Seine from bridges, in a spell         There at Versailles in the Temple of Love         Sat in the fading day."         "Upon the lawn         She took her diary from her bag and read         What she had done in France; years past as well.         Began to tell me of a Simeon Strong         Whom she was pledged to marry years before.         How jealousy of Simeon Strong destroyed         His love, and all because in innocence         She had received some roses from a friend.         That led to other men that she had known         Who wished to marry her, as she said. But most         She talked of Simeon Strong; then of a man         Who had absorbed her life until she went         In training as a nurse, a married man,         Whom she had put away, himself forgetting         A hopeless love he crushed. Until at last         I said, no more, my dear - The past is dead,         What is the past to me? It could not be         That you could live and never meet a man         To love you, whom you loved. And then at last         She put the diary in her bag, we walked         And scanned the village from the heights; the train         Took back for Paris, went to dine, be gay.         This afternoon was the last, this night the last.         To-morrow she was going back to work,         And I was to resume my duties too,         Both hopeful for another meeting soon,         The war's end, a re-union, some solution         Of what was now a problem hard to bear."         "We left our dinner early, she was tired,         There in our room again we clung together,         Grieved for the morrow. Sadness fell upon us,         Her eyes were veiled, her voice was low, her speech         Was brief and nebulous. She soon disrobed,         Lay with her hair spread out upon the pillow,         One hand above the coverlet."         "And soon         Was lying with head turned from me. I sat         And read to man my grief. You see the war         Blew to intenser flame all moods, all love,         All grief at parting, fear, or doubt. At last         As I looked up to see her I could see         Her breast with sleep arise and fall. The silence         Of night was on the city, even her breath         I heard as she was sleeping - for myself         I wondered what I was and why I was,         What world is this and why, and if there be         God who creates us to this life, then why         This agony of living, peace or war;         This agony which grows greater, never less,         And multiplies its sources with the days,         Increases its perplexities with time,         And gives the soul no rest. And why this love,         This woman in my life. The mystery         Of my own torture asked to be explained.         And why I married whom I married, why         She was content to stand far off and watch         My crucifixion. Why?"         "And with these thoughts         Came thought of changing them. A wonder slipped         About her diary in my brain. I paused,         Said to myself, you have no right to spy         Upon such secret records, yet indeed         A devilish sense of curiosity         Came as relaxment to my graver mood,         As one will fetch up laughter to dispel         Thoughts that cannot be quelled or made to take         The form of action, clarity. I arose         Took from her bag the diary, turned to see         What entry she had made when first she came         And gave herself to me. And look! The page         Just opposite from this had words to show         She gave herself to Gregory Wenner just         The week that followed on the week in which         She gave herself to me."         "A glass of water,         Before I can proceed!"...          "I reeled and struck         The bed post. She awoke. I thought that death         Had come with apoplexy, could not see,         And in a spell vertiginous, with hands         That shook and could not find the post, stood there         Palsied from head to foot. Quick, she divined         The event, the horror anyway, sprang out,         And saw the diary lying at my feet.         Before I gained control of self, could catch         Or hold her hands, she seized it, threw it out         The window on the street, and flung herself         Face down upon the bed."         "Oh awful hell!         What other entries did I miss, what shames         Recorded since she left me, here in France?         What was she then? A woman of one sin,         Or many sins, her life filled up with treason,         Since I had left her?"          "And now think of me:         This monstrous war had entered me through her,         Its passion, beauty, promise came through her         Into my blood and spirit, swept me forth         From country, life I knew, all settled things.         I had gone mad through her, and from her lips         Had caught the poison of the war, its hate,         Its yellow sentiment, its sickly dreams,         Its lying ideals, and its gilded filth.         And here she lay before me, like a snake         That having struck, by instinct now is limp;         By instinct knows its fangs have done their work,         And merely lies and rests."          "I went to her,         Pulled down her hands from eyes and shook her hard:         What is this? Tell me all?"         "She only said:         'You have seen all, know all.'"          "'You do not mean         That was the first and last with him?' She said,         'That is the truth.' 'You lie,' I answered her.         'You lie and all your course has been a lie:         Your words that asked me to be true to you,         That I could break your heart. The breasts you showed         Flowering because of me, as you declared;         Our intimacy of bodies in the dance         Now first permitted you because of love;         Your plaints for truth and for fidelity,         Your fears, a practiced veteran in the game,         All simulated. And your prayer to God         For me, our love, your protests for the war,         For service, sacrifice, your mother hunger,         Are all elaborate lies, hypocrisies,         Studied in coolest cruelty, and mockery         Of every lovely thing, if there can be         A holy thing in life, as there cannot,         As you have proven it. The diary's gone -         And let it go - you kept it from my eyes         Which shows that there was more. What are you then,         A whore, that's all, a masquerading whore,         Not worthy of the hand that plies her trade         In openness, without deceit. For if         This was the first and only time with him         Here is dissimulation month by month         By word of mouth, in letters by the score;         And here your willingness to take my soul         And feed upon it. Knowing that my soul         Through what I thought was love was caught and whirled         To faith in the war, and faith in you as one         Who symbolized the war as good, as means         Of goodness for the world - and this deceit,         Insane, remorseless, conscienceless, is worse         Than what you did with him. I could forgive         Disloyalty like that, but this deceit         Is unforgivable. I go,' I said.         I turned to leave. She rose up from the bed,         'Forgive! Forgive!' she pleaded, 'I was mad,         Be fair! Be fair! You took me, turned from me,         Seemed not to want me, so I went to him.         I cried the whole day long when first I gave         Myself to you, for thinking you had found         All that you wanted, left me, did not care         To see me any more. I swear to you         I have been faithful to you since that day         When we heard Chopin played, and I could see         You loved me, and I loved you. O be fair!'"...         Then Barrett Bays shook like an animal         That starves and freezes. And the jury looked         And waited till he got control of self         And spoke again his horror and his grief: -         "I left her, went upon the silent streets,         And walked the night through half insane, I think.         Cannot remember what I saw that night,         Have only blurs of buildings, arches, towers,         Remember dawn at last, returning strength,         And taking rolls and coffee, all my spirit         Grown clear and hard as crystal, with a will         As sharp as steel to find reality:         To see life as it is and face its terrors,         And never feel a tremor, bat an eye.         Drink any cup to find the truth, and be         A pioneer in a world made new again,         Stripped of the husks, bring new faith to the world,         Of souls devoted to themselves to make         Souls truer, more developed, wise and fair!         Write down the creed of service, and write in         Self-culture, self-dependence, throw away         The testaments of Jesus, old and new,         Save as they speak and help the river life         To mould our truer beings; the rest discard         Which teaches compensation, to forgive         That you may be forgiven, mercy show         That mercy may be yours, and love your neighbor,         Love so to gain - all balances like this         Of doctrine for the spirit false and vile,         Corrupted with such calculating filth;         And if you'd be the greatest, be the servant -         When one to be the greatest must be great         In self, a light, a harmony in self,         Perfected by the inner law, the works         Done for the sake of beauty, for the self         Without the hope of gain except the soul,         Your one possession, grows a perfect thing         If tended, studied, disciplined. While all         This ethic of the war, the sickly creed         Which Elenor Murray mouthed, but hides the will         Which struggles still, would live, lies to itself,         Lies to its neighbor and the world, and leaves         Our life upon a wall of rotting rock         Of village mortals, patriotism, lies!"         "And as for that, what did I see in Paris         But human nature working in the war         As everywhere it works in peace? Cabals,         And jealousies and hatreds, greed alert;         Ambition, cruelty, strife piled on strife;         No peace in labor that was done for peace;         Hypocrisy elaborate and rampant.         Saw at first hand what coiled about the breast         Of Florence Nightingale when she suffered, strove         In the Crimean War, struck down by envy,         Or nearly so. Oh, is it human nature,         That fights like maggots in the rotting carcass?         Or is it human nature tortured, bound         By artificial doctrines, creeds which all         Pretend belief in, really doubt, resist         And cannot live by?"          "If I had a thought         Of charity toward this woman then         It was that she, a little mind, had tried         To live the faith against her nature, used         A woman's cunning to get on in life.         For as I said it was her lies that hurt.         And had she lied, had she been living free,         Unshackled of our system, faith and cult,         American or Christian, what you will?         "She was a woman free or bound, but women         Enslave and rule by sex. The female tigers         Howl in the jungle when their dugs are dry         For meat to suckle cubs. And Germany         Of bullet heads and bristling pompadours,         And wives made humble, cowed by basso brutes,         Had women to enslave the brutes with sex,         And make them seek possessions, land and food         For breeding women and for broods."          "And now         If women make the wars, yet nurse the sick,         The wounded in the wars, when peace results,         What peace will be, except a peace that fools         The gaping idealist, all souls in truth         But souls like mine? A peace that leaves the world         Just where it was with women in command         Who, weak but cunning, clinging to the faith         Of Christ, therefore as organized and made         A part, if not the whole of western culture.         Away with all of this! Blow down the mists,         The rainbows, give us air and cloudless skies.         Give water to our fevered eyes, give strength         To see what is and live it, tear away         These clumsy scaffoldings, by which the mystics,         Ascetics, mad-men all St. Stylites         Would rise above the world of body, brain,         Thirst, hunger, living, nature! Let us free         The soul of man from sophists, logic spinners,         The mad-magicians who would conjure death,         Yet fear him most themselves, the coward hearts         Who mouth eternal bliss, yet cling to earth         And keep away from heaven."         "For it's true         Nature, or God, gives birth and also death.         And power has never come to draw the sting         Of death or make it pleasant, creed nor faith         Prevents disease, old age and death at last.         This truth is here and we must face it, or         Lie to ourselves and cloud our brains with lies,         Postponements and illusions, childish hopes!         But lie most childish is the Christian myth         Of Adam's fall, by which disease and death         Entered the world, until the Savior came         And conquered death. He did? But people die,         Some millions slaughtered in the war! They live         In heaven, say your Elenor Murrays, well,         Who knows this? If you know it, why drop tears         For people better off? How ludicrous         The patch-work is! I leave it, turn again         To what man in this world can do with life         Made free of superstition, rules and faiths,         That make him lie to self and to his fellows."...         And Barrett Bays, now warmed up to his work,         Grown calmer, stronger, mind returned, that found         Full courage for the thought, the word to say it         Recurred to Elenor Murray, analyzed: -         And now a final word: "This Elenor Murray,         What was she, just a woman, a little life         Swept in the war and broken? If no more,         She is not worth these words: She is the symbol         Of our America, perhaps this world         This side of India, of America         At least she is the symbol. What was she?         A restlessness, a hunger, and a zeal;         A hope for goodness, and a tenderness;         A love, a sorrow, and a venturing will;         A dreamer fooled but dreaming still, a vision         That followed lures that fled her, generous, loving,         But also avid and insatiable;         An egoism chained and starved too long         That breaks away and runs; a cruelty,         A wilfulness, a dealer in false weights,         And measures of herself, her duty, others,         A lust, a slick hypocrisy and a faith         Faithless and hollow. But at last I say         She taught me, saved me for myself, and turned         My steps upon the path of making self         As much as I can make myself - my thanks         To Elenor Murray!"          "For that day I saw         The war for what it was, and saw myself         An artificial factor, working there         Because of Elenor Murray - what a fool!         I was not really needed, like too many         Was just pretending, though I did not know         That I was just pretending, saw myself         Swept in this mad procession by a woman;         And through myself I saw the howling mob         Back in America that shouted hate,         In God's name, all the carriers of flags,         The superheated patriots who did nothing,         Gave nothing but the clapping of their hands,         And shouts for freedom of the seas. The souls         Who hated freedom on the sea or earth,         Had, as the vile majority, set up         Intolerable tyrannies in America,         America that launched herself without         A God or faith, but in the name of man         And for humanity, so long accursed         By Gods and priests - the vile majority!         Which in the war, and through the war went on         With other tyrannies as to meat and drink,         Thought, speech, the mind in living - here was I         One of the vile majority through a woman -         And serving in the war because of her,         And meretricious sentiments of her.         You see I had the madness of the world,         Was just as crazy as America.         And like America must wake from madness         And suffer, and regret, and build again.         My soul was soiled, you see. And now I saw         How she had pressed her lips against my soul         And sapped my spirit in the name of beauty         She simulated; for a loyalty         Her lips averred; how as a courtesan         She had made soft my tissues, like an apple         Handled too much; how vision of me went         Into her life sucked forth; how never a word         Which ever came from her interpreted         In terms of worth the war; how she had coiled         Her serpent loins about me; how she draped         Herself in ardors borrowed; how my arms         Were mottled from the needle's scar where she         Had shot the opiates of her lying soul;         How asking truth, she was herself untrue;         How she, adventuress in the war, had sought         From lust grown stale, renewal of herself.         And then at last I saw her scullery brows         Fail out and fade beside the Republic's face,         And leave me free upon the hills, who saw,         Strong, seeking cleanliness in truth, her hand         Which sought the cup worn smooth by leper lips         Dipped in the fountain where the thirst of many         Passionate pilgrims had been quenched,         Not lifted up by me, nor yet befriended         By the cleaner cup I offered. Now you think         That I am hard. Philosophy is hard,         And I philosophize, admit as well         That I have failed, am full of faults myself,         All faults, we'll say, but one, I trust and pray         The fault of falsehood and hypocrisy."...         "I gave my work in Paris up - that day         Made ready to return, but with this thought         To use my wisdom for the war, do work         For America that had no touch of her,         No flavor of her nature, far removed         From the symphony of sex, be masculine,         Alone, and self-sufficient, needing nothing,         No hand, no kiss, no mate, pure thought alone         Directed to this work. I found the work         And gave it all my energy."          "From then         I wrote her nothing, though she wrote to me         These more than hundred letters - here they are!         Since you have mine brought to you from New York         All written before she went to France, I think         You should have hers to make the woman out         And read her as she wrote herself to me.         The rest is brief. She cabled when she sailed,         And wrote me from New York. While at LeRoy         With Irma Leese she wrote me. Then that day         She telephoned me when she motored here         With Irma Leese, and said: 'Forgive, forgive,         O see me, come to me, or let me come         To you, you cannot crush me out. These months         Of silence, what are they? Eternity         Makes nothing of these months. I love you, never         In all eternity shall cease to love you,         Love makes you mine, and you must come to me         Now or hereafter.'"             "And you see at last         My soul was clear again, as clean and cold         As our March days, as clear too, and the war         Stood off envisioned for the thing it was.         Peace now had come, which helped our eyes to see         What dread event the war was. So to see         This woman with these eyes of mine, made true         And unpersuadable of her plaints and ways         I gave consent and went."          "Arriving first,         I walked along the river till she came.         And as I saw her, I looked through the tricks         Of dress she played to win me, I could see         How she arrayed herself before the mirror,         Adjusting this or that to make herself         Victorious in the meeting. But my eyes         Were wizard eyes for her, and this she knew,         Began at first to writhe, change color, flap         Her nervous hands in gestures half controlled.         I only said, 'Good morning,' took her hand,         She tried to kiss me, but I drew away.         'I have been true,' she said, 'I love you, dear,         If I was false and did not love you, why         Would I pursue you, write you, all against         Your coldness and your silence? O believe me,         The war and you have changed me. I have served,         Served hard among the sufferers in the war,         Sustained by love for you. I come to you         And give my life to you, take it and use,         Keep me your secret joy. I do not dream         Of winning you in marriage. Here and now         I humble self to you, ask nothing of you,         Except your kindness, love again, if love         Can come again to you - O this must be!         It is my due who love you, with my soul,         My body.'"             "'No,' I said, 'I can forgive         All things but lying and hypocrisy.'...         How could I trust her? She had kept from me         The diary, threw it from the window, what         Was life of her in France? Should I expunge         This Gregory Wenner, what was life of her         In France, I ask. And so I said to her:         'I have no confidence in you' - O well         I told the jury all. But quick at once         She showed to me, that if I could forgive         Her course of lying, she was changed to me,         The war had changed her, she was hard and wild,         Schooled in the ways of soldiers, and in war.         That beauty of her womanhood was gone,         Transmuted into waywardness, distaste         For simple ways, for quiet, loveliness.         The adventuress in her was magnified,         Cleared up and set, she had become a shrike,         A spar hawk, and I loathed her for these ways         Which she revealed, dropping her gentleness         When it had failed her. Yes, I saw in her         The war at last; its lying and its hate,         Its special pleading, and its double dealing,         Its lust, its greed, its covert purposes,         Its passion out of hell which obelised         Such noble things in man. Its crooked uses         Of lofty spirits, flaming fires of youth,         Young dreamers, lovers. And at last she said,         As I have told the jury, what she did         Was natural, and I cursed her. Then she shook,         Turned pale, and reeled, I caught her, held her up,         She died right in my arms! And this is all;         Except that had I killed her and should spend         My days in prison for it, I am free,         My spirit being free."          "Who was this woman?         This Elenor Murray was America;         Corrupt, deceived, deceiving, self-deceived,         Half-disciplined, half-lettered, crude and smart,         Enslaved yet wanting freedom, brave and coarse,         Cowardly, shabby, hypocritical,         Generous, loving, noble, full of prayer,         Scorning, embracing rituals, recreant         To Christ so much professed; adventuresome;         Curious, mediocre, venal, hungry         For money, place, experience, restless, no         Repose, restraint; before the world made up         To act and sport ideals, go abroad         To bring the world its freedom, having choked         Freedom at home - the girl was this because         These things were bred in her, she breathed them in         Here where she lived and grew."          Then Barrett Bays stepped down         And said, "If this is all, I'd like to go."         Then David Borrow whispered in the ear         Of Merival, and Merival conferred         With Ritter and Llewellyn George and said:         "We may need you again, a deputy         Will take you to my house, and for the time         Keep you in custody."          The deputy         Came in and led him from the jury room.