Domesday Book Part 20

La Menken fills her purse with gold--she sends Her pugilist away, tries once again And weds a humorist, an Orpheus Kerr-- And plays before the miners out in 'Frisco, And Sacramento, gathers in the eagles.

She goes to Europe then--with husband? No!

James Barkley is her fellow on the voyage.

She lands in London, takes a gorgeous suite In London's grandest hostlery, entertains Charles d.i.c.kens, Prince Baerto and Charles Read, The Duke of Wellington and Swinburne, Sand And Jenny Lind; and has a liveried coachman; And for a crest a horse's head surmounting Four aces, if you please. And plays Mazeppa, And piles the money up.

Then next is Paris.

And there I saw her, 1866, When Louis Napoleon and the King of Greece, The Prince Imperial were in a box.

She wandered to Vienna, there was ill, Came back to Paris, died, a stranger's grave In Pere la Chaise was given, afterwards Exhumed in Mont Parna.s.se was buried, got A little stone with these words carved upon it: "Thou Knowest" meaning G.o.d knew, while herself Knew nothing of herself.

But when in Paris They sold her picture taken with her arms Around Dumas, and photographs made up Of postures ludicrous, obscene as well, Of her and great Dumas, I have them home.

Can show you sometime. Well she loved Dumas, Inscribed a book of poems to Charles d.i.c.kens, By his permission, mark you--don't you see Your Elenor Murray here? This Elenor Murray A miniature imperfect of La Menken?

She loved sensation, all her senses thrilled her; A delicate soul too weighted by the flesh; A coquette, quick of wit, intuitive, Kind, generous, unaffected, mystical, Teased by the divine in life, and melancholy, Of deep emotion sometimes. One has said She had a nature spiritual, religious Which warred upon the flesh and fell in battle; Just as your Elenor Murray joined the church, And did not keep the faith, if truth be told.

Now look, here is a letter in this pamphlet La Menken writes a poet--for she hunts For seers and for poets, lofty souls.

And who does that? A woman wholly bad?

Why no, a woman to be given life Fit for her spirit in another realm By G.o.d who will take notice, I believe.

Now listen if you will! "I know your soul.

It has met mine somewhere in starry s.p.a.ce.

And you must often meet me, vagabond Of fancy without aim, a dweller in tents Disreputable before the just. Just think I am a linguist, write some poems too, Can paint a little, model clay as well.

And yet for all these gropings of my soul I am a vagabond, of little use.

My body and my soul are in a scramble And do not fit each other--let them carve Those words upon my stone, but also these Thou Knowest, for G.o.d knows me, knows I love Whatever is good and beautiful in life; And that my soul has sought them without rest.

Farewell, my friend, my spirit is with you, Vienna is too horrible, but know Paris Then die content."

Now, Coroner Merival, You're not the only man who wants to see, Will work to make America a republic Of splendors, freedoms, happiness, success.

Though I am seventy-six, cannot do much, Save talk, as I am talking now, bring forth Proofs, revelations from the years I've lived.

I care not how you view the lives of people, As pansy beds or what not, lift your faith So high above the pansy bed it sees The streaked and stunted pansies filling in The pattern that the perfect pansies outline, Therefore are smiling, even indifferent To this poor conscious pansy, dying at last Because it could not be the flower it wished.

My heart to Elenor Murray and La Menken Goes out in sorrow, even while I know They shook their leaves in April, laughed and thrilled, And either did not know, or did not care The growing time was precious, and if wasted Could never be regained. Look at La Menken At seven years put in the ballet corps; And look at Elenor Murray getting s.m.u.t Out of experience that made her wise.

What shall we do about it?--let it go?

And say there is no help, or say a republic, Set up a hundred years ago, raised to the helm Of rulers.h.i.+p as president a list Of men more able than the emperors, Kings, rulers of the world, and statesmen too The equal of the greatest, money makers, And domineers of finance and economies Phenomenal in time--say, I repeat A country like this one must let its children Waste as they wasted in the darker years Of Europe. Shall we let these trivial minds Who see salvation, progress in restraint, Pre-empt the field of moulding human life?

Or shall we take a hand, and put our minds Upon the task, as recently we built An army for the war, equipped and fed it, An army better than all other armies, More powerful, more apt of hand and brain, Of thin tall youths, who did stop but said Like poor La Menken, strap me to the horse I'll do it if I die--so giving to peace The skill and genius which we use in war, Though it cost twenty billion, and why not?

Why every dollar, every drop of blood For war like this to guard democracy, And not so much or more to build the land, Improve our blood, make individual America and her race? And first to rout Poverty and disease, give youth its chance, And therapeutic guidance. Soldier boys Have huts for recreation, clergymen, And is it more, less worth to furnish hands Intimate, hearts intimate for the use Of your La Menkens, Elenor Murrays, youths Who feel such vigor in their restless wings They tumble out of crowded nests and fly To fall in thickets, dash themselves against Walls, trees?

I have a vision, Coroner, Of a new Republic, brighter than the sun, A new race, loftier faith, this land of ours Made over as to people, boys and girls, Conserved like forests, water power or mines; Watched, tested, put to best use, keen economies Practiced in spirits, waste of human life, Hope, aspiration, talent, virtues, powers, Avoided by a science, science of life, Of spirit, what you will. Enough of war, And billions for the flag--all well enough!

Some billions now to make democracy Democracy in truth with us, and life Not helter-skelter, hitting as it may, And missing much, as this La Menken did.

I'm not convinced we must have stunted pansies, That have no use but just to piece the pattern.

Let's try, and if we try and fail, why then Our human duty ends, the G.o.d in us Will have it just this way, no other way.

And then we may accept so poor a world, A republic so unfinished.

Will Paget is another writer of letters To Coroner Merival. The coroner Spends evenings reading letters, keeps a file Where he preserves them. And the blasphemy Of Paget makes him laugh. He has an evening And reads this letter to the jurymen:

WILL PAGET ON DEMOS AND HOGOS

To Coroner Merival, greetings, but a voice Dissentient from much that goes the rounds, Concerning Elenor Murray. Here's my word: Give men and women freedom, save the land From dull theocracy--the theo, what?

A blend of Demos and Jehovah! Say, Bring back your despots, bring your Louis Fourteenths, And give them thrones of gold and ivory From where with leaded sceptres they may whack King Demos driven forth. You know the face?

The temples are like sea sh.e.l.ls, hollows out, Which narrow close the s.p.a.ce for cortex cells.

There would be little brow if hair remained; But hair is gone, because the dandruff came.

The eyes are close together like a weasel's; The jaws are heavy, that is character; The mouth is thin and wide to gobble chicken; The paunch is heavy for the chickens eaten.

Throned high upon a soap box Demos rules, And mumbles decalogues: Thou shalt not read, Save what I tell you, never books that tell Of men and women as they live and are.

Thou shalt not see the dramas which portray The evil pa.s.sions and satiric moods Which mock this Christian nation and its hope.

Thou shalt not drink, not even wine or beer.

Thou shalt not play at cards, or see the races.

Thou shalt not be divorced! Thou shalt not play.

Thou shalt not bow to graven images Of beauty cut in marble, fused in bronze.

Behold my name is Demos, King of Kings, My name is legion, I am many, come Out of the sea where many hogs were drowned, And now the ruler of hogocracy, Where in the name of freedom hungry snouts Root up the truffles in your great republic, And crunch with heavy jaws the legs and arms Of people who fall over in the pen.

Hierarchies in my name are planted under Your states political to sprout and take The new world's soil,--religious freedom this!-- Thought must be free--unless your thought objects To such dominion, and to literal faith In an old book that never had a place Except beside the Koran, Zarathustra.

So here is your theocracy and here The land of Boredom. Do you wonder now That people cry for war? You see that G.o.d Frowns on all games but war. You shall not play Or kindle spirit with a rapture save A moral end's in view. All joy is sin, Where joy stands for itself alone, nor asks Consent to be, save for itself. But war Waged to put down the wrong, it's always that; To vindicate G.o.d's truths, all wars are such, Is game that lets the spirit play, is backed By G.o.d and moral reasons, therefore war, A game disguised as business, cosmic work For great millenniums, no less relieves The boredom of theocracies. But if Your men and women had the chance to play, Be free and spend superfluous energies, In what I call the greatest game, that's Life, Have life more freely, deeply, and you say How would you like a war and lose a leg, Or come from battle sick for all your years?

You would say no, unless you saw an issue, Stripped clean of Christian twaddle, as we'll say The Greeks beheld the Persians. Well, behold All honest paganism in such things discarded For G.o.d who comes in glory, trampling presses Filled up with grapes of wrath.

Now hear me out: I knew we'd have a war, it wasn't only That your hogocracy was grunting war We'd fight j.a.pan, take Mexico--remember How dancing flourished madly in the land; Then think of savages who dance the Ghost Dance, And cattle lowing, rus.h.i.+ng in a panic, There's psychic secrets here. But then at last What can you do with life? You're well and strong, Flushed with desire, mad with appet.i.tes, You turn this way and find a sign forbidden, You turn that way and find the door is closed.

Hogocracy, King Demos say, go back, Find work, develop character, restrain, Draw up your belt a little tighter, hunger And thirst diminish with a tighter belt.

And none to say, take off the belt and eat, Here's water for you.

Well, you have a war.

We used to say in foot ball kick their s.h.i.+ns, And gouge their eyes out--when our s.h.i.+ns were kicked We hollered foul and ouch. There was the south Who called us mud-sills in this freer north, And mouthed democracy; and as for that Their churches made of G.o.d a battle leader, An idea come from Palestine; oh, yes, They soon would wipe us up, they were the people.

But when we slaughtered them they hollered ouch.

And why not? For a gun and uniform, And bands that play are rapturous enough.

But when you get a bullet through the heart, The game is not so funny as it was.

That's why I hated Germany and hate her, And feel we could not let this German culture Spread over earth. That culture was but this: Life must have an expression and a game, And war's the game, besides the prize is great In land and treasure, commerce, let us play, It lets the people's pa.s.sions have a vent When fires of life burn hot and hotter under The kettle and the lid is clamped by work, Dull duty, daily routine, inhibitions.

Before this Elenor Murray woke to life LeRoy was stirring, but the stir was play.

It was a Gretna Green, and pleasure boats Ran up and down the river--on the streets You heard the cry of barkers, in the park The band was playing, and you heard the ring Of registers at fountains and buffets.

All this was shabby maybe, but observe There are those souls who see the wrath of G.o.d As blackest background to the light of soul: And when the thunder rumbles and the storm Comes up with lightning then they say to men Who laugh in bar-rooms, "Have a care, blasphemers, You may be struck by lightning"--here's the root From which this mood ascetic comes to leaf In all theocracies, and throws a shadow Upon all freedom.

Look at us to-day.

They say to me, see what a town we have: The men at work, smoke coming from the chimneys, The banks full up of money, business good, The workmen sober, going home at night, No rowdy barkers and no bands a-playing, No drinking and no gaming and no vice.

No marriages contracted to be broken.

Look how LeRoy is quiet, sane and clean!

And I reply, you like the stir of work, But not the stir of play; your chimneys smoke, Your banks have money. Let me look behind The door that closes on your man at home, The wife and children there, what shall I find?

A sick man looks to health as it were all, But when the fever leaves him and he feels The store of strength in muscles slumbering And waiting to be used, then something else Than health is needful, he must have a way To voice the life within him, and he wonders Why health seemed so desirable before, And all sufficient to him.

Take this girl: Why do you marvel that she rode at night With any man who came along? Good G.o.d, If I were born a woman and they put me In a theocracy, hogocracy, I'd do the first thing that came in my mind To give my soul expression. Don't you think You're something of a bully and a coward To ask such model living from this girl When you, my grunting hogos, run the land And bring us scandals like the times of Grant, And poisoned beef sold to the soldier boys, When we were warring Spain, and all this stuff Concerning loot and plunder, malversation, That riots in your cities, printed daily?

I roll the panoramic story out To Was.h.i.+ngton the great--what do I see?

It's tangle foot, the sticky smear is dry; But I can find wings, legs and heads, remember How little flies and big were buzzing once Of G.o.d and duty, country, virtue, faith; And beating wings, already gummed with sweet, Until their little bellies touched the glue, They sought to fill their bellies with--at last Long silence, which is history, scroll rolled up And spoken of in sacred whispers.

Well, I'm glad that Elenor Murray had her fling, If that be really true. I understand What drove her to the war. I think she knew Too much to marry, settle down and live Under the rule of Demos or of Hogos.

I wish we had a dozen Elenor Murrays In every village in this land of Demos To down Theocracy, which is just as bad As Prussianism, is no different From Prussianism. And I fear but this As fruitage of the war: that men and women Will have burnt on their souls the words ceramic That war's the thing, and this theocracy, Where generous outlets for the soul are stopped Will keep the words in mind. When boredom comes, And grows intolerable, you'll see the land Go forth to war to get a thrill and live-- Unless we work for freedom, for delight And self-expression.

Dwight Henry is another writer of letters, Stirred by the Murray inquest; writes a screed "The House that Jack Built," read by Merival To entertain his jury, in these words: