Domesday Book Part 2

And because They were the friends of Merival, and admired His life and work, they dropped their several tasks To serve as jurymen.

The hunter came And told his story: how he found the body, What hour it was, and how the body lay; About the banner in the woman's pocket, Which Coroner Merival had taken, seen, And wondered over. For if Elenor Was not a Joan too, why treasure this?

Did she take Joan's spirit for her guide?

And write these words: "To be brave and not to flinch"?

She wrote them; for her father said: "It's true That is her writing," when he saw the girl First brought to Merival's office.

Merival Amid this business gets a telegram: Tom Norman drowned, one of the men with whom He planned this trip to Michigan. Later word Tom Norman and the other, Wilbur Horne Are in a motor-boat. Tom rises up To get the can of bait and pitches out, His friend leaps out to help him. But the boat Goes on, the engine going, there they fight For life amid the waves. Tom has been hurt, Somehow in falling, cannot save himself, And tells his friend to leave him, swim away.

His friend is forced at last to swim away, And makes the mile to sh.o.r.e by hardest work.

Tom Norman, dead, leaves wife and children caught In business tangles which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip.

The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters.

Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray.

And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story:

HENRY MURRAY

Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college.

Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science.

Had vague ambitions, a.n.a.lyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise.

Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers.

And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did.

Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine.

But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me!

I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else.

But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire.

Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil.

When she was fourteen I could see in her The pa.s.sionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and l.u.s.ty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter.

He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night."

But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness.

But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school princ.i.p.al took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man!

And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no grat.i.tude In daughter or in mother for my deed.

The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves.

And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there?

But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last.

And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men.

Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter.

Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life.

You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man?

She has him daily, has him fast for years.

A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how?

You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich.

And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer.

What happened? Why they helped me not at all.

The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye.

Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute!

What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain.

And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with G.o.d, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canva.s.s her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came.

Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else.

So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life.

Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home.

She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home.

I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me.

And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell.

The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out.

And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school.

Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?"

The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor s.h.i.+nes forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if G.o.d Had meant her for a better youth, then G.o.d Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place.

The meal was over.

We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain.

She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street.

The girl was gone! How could I follow them?

They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried.

They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes.

She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak.

Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French.

When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to p.r.o.nounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt!

I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French,"

And went off to my store.

But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed?

And what if our home was not home to her?

She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry.

Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad?

Well, what is more to tell?

She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe.

And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting.

She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war.

You must rejoice that I can serve--you must!

But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of G.o.d, at least that riches And cla.s.ses formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work.

This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country."

Pardon me!