Part 10

Elenor began: "If you can help me, grandpa, just a little I can go through the university. I can teach school in summer and can save A little money by denying self. If you can let me have two hundred dollars, When school begins each year, divide it up, If you prefer, and give me half in the fall, And half in March, perhaps, I can get through. And when I finish I shall go to work And pay you back, I want it as a loan, And do not ask it for a gift." She sat, And fingered at her dress while asking him, And Arthur Fouche looked at her. Come to think He was toward eighty then. At last he said: "I wish I could do what you ask me, Elenor, But there are several things. You see, my child, I have been through this thing of educating A family of children, lived my life In that regard, and so have done my part. I sent your mother to St. Mary's, sent The rest of them wherever they desired. And that's what every father owes his children. And when he does it, he has done his duty. I'm sorry that your father cannot help you, And I would help you, though I've done my duty By those to whom I owed it; but you see Your uncle and myself are partners buying And selling cattle, and the business lags. We do not profit much, and all the money I have in bank is needed for this business. We buy the cattle, and we buy the corn, Then we run short of corn; and now and then I have to ask the bank to lend us money, And give my note. Last month I borrowed money!" And so the old man talked. And as I looked I saw the tears run down her cheeks. She sat And looked as if she didn't believe him.

No, Why should she? For I do not understand Why in a case like this, a man who's worth, Say fifty thousand dollars couldn't spare Two hundred dollars by the year. Let's see: He might have bought less corn or cattle, gambled On lucky sales of cattle--there's a way To do a big thing when you have the eyes To see how big it is; and as for me, If money must be lost, I'd rather lose it On Elenor Murray than on cattle. In fact, That's where the money went, as I have said. And Elenor Murray went away and earned Two terms at college, and this worthless son Ate up and spent the money. All of them, The son and Arthur Fouche and Elenor Murray Are gone to dust, now, like the garden things That sprout up, fall and rot.

At times it seems All waste to me, no matter what you do For self or others, unless you think of turnips Which can't be much to turnips, but are good For us who raise them. Here's my story then, Good wishes to you, Coroner Merival.

* * * * *

Coroner Merival heard that Gottlieb Gerald Knew Elenor Murray and her family life; And knew her love for music, how she tried To play on the piano. On an evening He went with Winthrop Marion to the place,-- Llewellyn George dropped in to hear, as well-- Where Gottlieb Gerald sold pianos--dreamed, Read Kant at times, a scholar, but a failure, His life a waste in business. Gottlieb Gerald Spoke to them in these words:--

GOTTLIEB GERALD

I knew her, why of course. And you want me? What can I say? I don't know how she died. I know what people say. But if you want To hear about her, as I knew the girl, Sit down a minute. Wait, a customer!... It was a fellow with a bill, these fellows Who come for money make me smile. Good God! Where shall I get the money, when pianos, Such as I make, are devilish hard to sell? Now listen to this tune! Dumm, dumm, dumm, dumm, How's that for quality, sweet clear and pure? Now listen to these chords I take from Bach! Oh no, I never played much, just for self. Well, you might say my passion for this work Is due to this: I pick the wire strings, The spruce boards and all that for instruments That suit my ear at last. When I have built A piano, then I sit and play upon it, And find forgetfulness and rapture through it. And well I need forgetfulness, for the bills Are never paid, collectors always come. I keep a little lawyer almost busy, Lest some one get a judgment, levy a writ Upon my prizes here, this one in chief. Oh, well, I pay at last, I always pay, But I must have my time. And in the days When these collectors swarm too much I find Oblivion in music, run my hands Over the keys I've tuned. I wish I had Some life of Cristofori, just to see If he was dodging bills when tuning strings. Perhaps that Silberman who made pianos For Frederick the Great had money enough, And needed no oblivion from bills. You see I'm getting old now, sixty-eight; And this I say, that life is far too short For man to use his conquests and his wisdoms. This spirit, mind, is a machine, piano, And has its laws of harmony and use. Well, it seems funny that a man just learns The secrets of his being, how to love, How to forget, what to select, what life Is natural to him, and only living According to one's nature is increase-- All else is waste--when wind blows on your back, Just as I sit sometimes when these collectors Come in on me--and so you find it's Death, Who levies on your life; no little lawyer Can keep him off with stays of execution, Or supersedeas, I think it is. Well, as I said, a man must live his nature, And dump the rules; this Christianity Makes people wear steel corsets to grow straight, And they don't grow so, for they scarcely breathe, They're laced so tight; and all their vital organs Are piled up and repressed until they groan. Then what? They lace up tighter, till the blood Stops in the veins and numbness comes upon them. Oblivion it may be--but give me music!

Oh yes, this girl, Elenor Murray, well This talk about her home is half and half, Part true, part false. Her daddy nips a little, Has always done so. Like myself, the bills Have always deviled him. But just the same That home was not so bad. Some years ago, She was a little girl of thirteen maybe, Her father rented one of my pianos For Elenor to learn on, and of course The rent was always back, I didn't care, Except for my collectors, and besides She was so nice. So music hungry, practiced So hard to learn, I used to let the rent Run just as long as I could let it run. And even then I used to feel ashamed To ask her father for it.

As I said She was thirteen, and one Thanksgiving day They asked me there to dinner, and I went, Brushed off my other coat and shaved myself, I looked all right, my shoes were polished too. You'd never think I polished them to look At these to-day. And now I tell you what I saw myself: nice linen on the table, And pretty silver, plated, I suppose; Good glass-ware, and a dinner that was splendid, Wine made from wild grapes spiced with cinnamon, It had a kick, too. And the home was furnished Like what you'd think: good carpets, chairs, a lounge, Some pictures on the wall--all good enough. And this girl was as lively as a cricket, She was the liveliest thing I ever saw; And that's what ailed her, if you want my word. She had more life than she knew how to use, And had not learned her own machine.

And after We had the dinner we came in the parlor. And then her mother asked her to play something, And she sat down and played tra-la; tra-la, One of these waltzes, I remember now As pretty as these verses in the paper On love, or something sentimental. Yes, She played it well. For I had rented them One of my pets. They asked me then to play And I tried out some Bach and other things, And improvised. And Elenor stood by, And asked what's that when I was improvising. I laughed and said, Sonata of Starved Rock, Or Deer Park Glen in Winter, anything-- She looked at me with eyes as big as that.

Well, as I said, the home was good enough. Still like myself with these collectors, Elenor Was bothered, drawn aside, and scratched no doubt From walking through the briars. Just the same The trouble with her life, if it was trouble, And no musician would regard it trouble, The trouble was her nature strove to be All fire, and subtilize to the essence of fire, Which was her nature's law, and Nature's law, The only normal law, as I have found; For so Canudo says, as I read lately, Who gave me words for what I knew from life.

Now if you want my theories I go on. You do? All right. What was this Elenor Murray? She was the lover, do you understand? She had her lovers maybe, I don't know, That's not the point with lovers, any more, Than it's the point to have pianos--no! Lovers, pianos are the self-same thing; Instruments for the soul, the source of fire, The crucible for flames that turn from red To blue, then white, then fierce transparencies. Then if the lover be not known by lovers How is she known? Why think of Elenor Murray, Who tries all things and educates herself, Goes traveling, would sing and play, becomes A member of a church with ritual, music, Incense and color, things that steal the senses, And bring oblivion. Don't you see the girl Moving her soul to find her soul, and passing Through loves and hatreds, seeking everywhere Herself she loved, in others, agonizing For hate of father, so they tell me now? But first because she hated in herself What lineaments of her father she saw in self. And all the while, I think, she strove to conquer This hatred, every hatred, sensing freedom For her own soul through liberating self From hatreds. So, you see how someone near, Repugnant, disesteemed, may furnish strength And vision, too, by gazing on that one From day to day, not to be like that one: And so our hatreds help us, those we hate Become our saviors.

Here's the problem now In finding self, the soul--it's with ourselves, Within ourselves throughout the ticklish quest From first to last, and lovers and pianos Are instruments of salvation, yet they take The self but to the self, and say now find, Explore and know. And then, as all before, The problem is how much of mind to use, How much of instinct, phototropic sense, That turns instinctively to light--green worms More plant than animal are eyes all over Because their bodies know the light, no eyes Where sight is centralized. I've found it now: What is the intellect but eyes, where sight Is gathered in two spheres? The more they're used The darker is the body of the soul. Now to digress, that's why the Germans lost, They used the intellect too much; they took The sea of life and tried to dam it in, Or use it for canals or water power, Or make a card-case system of it, maybe, To keep collectors off, have all run smoothly, And make a sure thing of it.

To return How much did Elenor Murray use her mind, How much her instincts, leave herself alone Let nature have its way? I think I know: But first you have the artist soul; and next The soul half artist, prisoned usually In limitations where the soul, half artist Between depressions and discouragements Rises in hope and knocks. Why, I can tell them The moment they touch keys or talk to me. I hear their knuckles knocking on the walls, Insuperable partitions made of wood, When seeking tones or words; they have the hint, But cannot open, manifest themselves. So was it with this girl, she was all lover, Half artist, what a torture for a soul, And what escape for her! She could not play, Had never played, no matter what the chance. I think there is no curse like being dumb When every waking moment, every dream Keeps crying to speak out. This is her case: The girl was dumb, like that dumb woman here Whose dress caught fire, and in the dining room Was burned to death while all her family Were in the house, to whom she could not cry!

You asked about her going to the war, Her sacrifice in that, and if I think She found expression there--yes, of a kind, But not the kind she hungered for, not music. She found adventure there, excitement too. That uses up the soul's power, takes the place Of better self-expression. But you see I do not think self-immolation life, I know it to be death. Now, look a minute: Why did she join the church? why to forget! Why did she go to war? why to forget. And at the last, this thing called sacrifice Rose up with meaning in her eyes. You see They tell around here now she often said: "I'm going to the war to be swept under." Now comes your Christian idea: Let me die, But die in service of the race, in giving I waste myself for others, give myself! Let God take notice, and reward the gift! This is the failure's recourse often-times, A prodigal flinging of the self--let God Find what He can of good, or find all good. I have abandoned all control, all thought Of finding my soul otherwise, if here I find my soul, a doubt that makes the gift Not less abandoned.

This is foolish talk I know you think, I think it is myself, At least in part. I know I'm right, however, In guessing off the reason of her failure, If failure it is. But pshaw, why talk of failure About a woman born to live the life She lived, which could not have been different, Much different under any circumstance? She might have married, had a home and children, What of it? As it is she makes a story, A flute sound in our symphony--all right! And I confess, in spite of all I've said, The profit, the success, may not be known To any but one's self. Now look at me, By all accounts I am a failure--look! For forty years just making poor ends meet, My love all spent in making good pianos. I thrill all over picking spruce and wires, And putting them together--all my love Gone into this, no head at all for business. I keep no books, they cheat me out of rent. I don't know how to sell pianos, when I sell one I have trouble oftentimes In getting pay for it. But just the same I sit here with myself, I know myself, I've found myself, and when collectors come I can say come to-morrow, turn about, And run the scale, or improvise, and smile, Forget the world!

* * * * *

The three arose and left. Llewellyn George said: "That's a rarity, That man is like a precious flower you find Way off among the weeds and rocky soil, Grown from a seed blown out of paradise; I want to call again."

So thus they knew This much of Elenor Murray's music life. But on a day a party talk at tea, Of Elenor Murray and her singing voice And how she tried to train it--just a riffle Which passed unknown of Merival. For you know Your name may come up in a thousand places At earth's ends, though you live, and do not die And make a great sensation for a day. And all unknown to Merival for good This talk of Lilli Alm and Ludwig Haibt:

LILLI ALM

In Lola Schaefer's studio in the Tower, Tea being served to painters, poets, singers, Herr Ludwig Haibt, a none too welcome guest, Of vital body, brisk, too loud of voice, And Lilli Alm crossed swords.

It came about When Ludwig Haibt said: "Have you read the papers About this Elenor Murray?" And then said: "I tried to train her voice--she was a failure." And Lilli Alm who taught the art of song Looked at him half contemptuous and said: "Why did she fail?" To which Herr Ludwig answered "She tried too hard. She made her throat too tense, And made its muscles stiff by too much thought, Anxiety for song, the vocal triumph."

"O, yes, I understand," said Lilli Aim. Then stabbing him she added, "since you dropped The Perfect Institute, and dropped the idea Which stresses training muscles of the tongue, And all that thing, be fair and shoulder half The failure of poor Elenor Murray on Your system's failure. For I chanced to know The girl myself. She started work with me, And I am sure that if I had been able-- With time enough I could have done it too-- To rid her mind of muscles and to fix The thought alone of music in her mind, She would have sung. Now listen, Ludwig Haibt, You've come around to see that song's the thing. I take a pupil and I say to her: The mind must fix itself on music, say I would make song, pure tones and beautiful; That comes from spirit, from the Plato rapture, Which gets the idea. It is well to know Some physiology, I grant, to know When, how to move the vocal organs, feel How they are moving, through the ear to place These organs in relation, and to know The soft palate is drawn against the hard; The tongue can take positions numerous, Can be used at the root, a throaty voice; Or with the tip, produce expressiveness. But what must we avoid?--rigidity. And if that girl was over-zealous, then So much the more her teaching should have kept Mind off the larynx and the tongue, and fixed Upon the spiritual matters, so to give The snake-like power of loosening, contracting The muscles used for singing. Ludwig Haibt, I can forgive your system, since abandoned, I can't forgive your words to-day who say This woman failed for trying over much, When I know that your system made her throw An energy truly wonderful on muscles; And when I think of your book where you said: The singing voice is the result, observe Of physical conditions, like the strings Or tubes of brass. While granting that it's well To know the art of tuning up the strings, And how to place them; after all the art Of tuning and of placing comes from mind, The idea, and the art of making song Is just the breathing of the perfect spirit Upon the strings. The throat is but the leaves, Let them be flexible, the mouth's the flower, The tone the perfume. And your olden way Of harping on the larynx--well, since you Turned from it, I'm ungenerous perhaps To scold you thus to-day.

But this I say, Let us be frank as teachers: Take the fetich Of breathing and see how you cripple talent, Or take that matter of the laryngyscope, Whereby you photograph a singer's throat, Caruso's, Galli Curci's at the moment Of greatest beauty in song, and thus preserve In photographs before you how the muscles Looked and were placed that moment. Then attempt To get the like effect by placing them In similar fashion. Oh, you know, Herr Ludwig, These fetiches go by. One thing remains: The idea in the soul of beauty, music, The hope to give it forth.

Alas! to think So many souls are wasted while we teach This thing or that. The strong survive, of course. But take this Elenor Murray--why, that girl Was just a flame, I never saw such hunger For self-development, and beauty, richness, In all experience in life--I knew her, That's why I say so--take her as I say, And put her to a practice--yours we'll say-- Where this great zeal she had is turned and pressed Upon the physical, just the very thing To make her throat constrict, and fill her up With over anxiety and make her fail. When had she come to me at first this passion Directed to the beauty, the idea Had put her soul at ease to ease her body, Which gradually and beautifully had answered That flame of hers.

Well, Ludwig Haibt, you're punished For wasting several years upon a system Since put away as half erroneous, If not quite worthless. But I must confess, Since I have censured you, to my own sin. This girl ran out of money, came to me And told me so. To which I said: "Too bad, You will have money later, when you do, Come back to me." She stood a silent moment, Her hand upon the knob, I saw her tears, Just little dim tears, then she said good-bye And vanished from me.

Well, I now repent. I who have thought of beauty all my life, And taught the art of sound made beautiful, Let slip a chance for beauty--why, I think, A beauty just as great as song! You see I had a chance to serve a hungering soul-- I could have said just let the money go, Or let it go until you get the money. I let that chance for beauty slip. Even now I see poor Elenor Murray at the door, Who paused, no doubt, in hope that I would say What I thought not to say.

So, Ludwig Haibt, We are a poor lot--let us have some tea! "We are a poor lot," Ludwig Haibt replied. "But since this is confessional, I absolve you, If you'll permit me, from your sin. Will you Absolve me, if I say I'm sorry too? I'll tell you something, it is really true:-- I changed my system more I think because Of what I learned from teaching Elenor Murray Than on account of any other person. She demonstrated better where my system Was lacking than all pupils that I had. And so I changed it; and of course I say The thing is music, just as poets say The thing is beauty, not the rhyme and words, With which they bring it, instruments that's all, And not the thing--but beauty."

So they talked, Forgave each other. And that very day Two priests were talking of confessionals A mile or so from the Tower, where Lilli Alm And Ludwig Haibt were having tea. You say The coroner was ignorant of this! What is the part it plays with Elenor Murray? Or with the inquest? Wait a little yet And see if Merival has told to him What thing of value touching Elenor Murray Is lodged in Father Whimsett's heart or words.

FATHER WHIMSETT