Part 11

Looking like Raphael's Perugino, eyes So slightly, subtly aquiline, as brown As a buck-eye, amorous, flamed, but lightly dimmed Through thought of self while sitting for the artist; A nose well bridged with bone for will, the nostrils Distended as if sniffing diaphanous fire; A very bow for lips, the under lip Rich, kissable like a woman's; heavy cheeks Propped with a rounded tower of flesh for neck: Thus Perugino looked, says Raphael, And thus looked Father Whimsett at his desk, With vertical creases, where the nose and brow Together come, between the eye-brows slanting Unequally, half clown-wise, half Mephisto, With just a touch of that abandoned humor, And laughter at the world, the race of men, Mephisto had for mischief, which the priest Has for a sense which looks upon the dream And smiles, yet pities those who move in it. And Father Whimsett smokes and reads and smiles. He soon will hold confessional. For days he has heard nothing but complaints of lovers, And searched for nullities, impediments, Through which to give sore stricken hearts relief: There was the youth too drunk to know he married A woman never baptized. Now the youth Has found another--oh this is the one! And comes and says: Oh, holy father, help me, May I be free to marry her I love, And get the church's blessing when a court Dissolves the civil contract? Holy Father, I knew not what I did, cannot remember Where I was married, when, my mind's a blank-- It was the drink, you know.

And so it goes, The will is eyeless through concupiscence, And that absolves the soul that's penitent. And Father Whimsett reads his Latin books, Searches for subtleties for faithful souls, Whereby the faithful souls may have their wish, Yet keep the gospel, too.

These Latin books Leave him fatigued, but not fatigued to turn Plotinus, Xenophon, Boccacio, Ars Amatoria and Remedia Amoris. And just this moment Father Whimsett reads Catullus, killing time, before he hears Confession, gets the music of Catullus Along the light that enters at the eye: Etherial strings plucked by the intellect To vibrate to the inner ear. At times He must re-light his half-forgot cigar. And while the music of the Latin verse, Which is an echo, as he stops to light His half-forgot cigar, is wafted through His meditation, as a tune is heard After the keys are stayed, it blends, becomes The soul, interpretation of these stories, Which lovers tell him in these later days. And now the clock upon the mantel chimes The quarter of the hour. Up goes Catullus By Ovid on the shelf. The dead cigar Is thrown away. He rises from the chair-- When Father Conway enters, just to visit Some idle moments, smoke and have a talk. And Father Whimsett takes his seat again, Waves Father Conway to a comfort chair, Says "Have a smoke," and Father Conway smokes, And sees Catullus, says you read Catullus, And lays the morning _Times_ upon the table, And says to Father Whimsett: "Every day The _Times_ has stories better than Catullus, And episodes which Horace would have used. I wish we had a poet who would take This city of Chicago, write it up, The old Chicago, and the new Chicago, The race track, old cafes and gambling places, The prize fights, wrestling matches, sporting houses, As Horace wrote up Rome. Or if we had A Virgil he would find an epic theme In this American matter, typical Of our America, one phase or more Concerning Elenor Murray. Here to-day There is a story, of some letters found In Arthur Fouche's mansion, under the floor, Sensational, dramatic.

Father Whimsett Looked steadily at Father Conway, blew A funnel of tobacco smoke and said: I scarcely read the _Times_ these days, too busy-- I've had a run of rich confessionals. The war is ended, but they still come on, And most are lovers in the coils of love. I had one yesterday that made me think Of one I had a year ago last spring, The point was this: they say forgive me father, For I have sinned, then as the case proceeds A greater sin comes forth, I mean the sin Of saying sin is good, cannot be sin: I loved the man, or how can love be sin? Well, as a human soul I see the point, But have no option, must lay to and say Acknowledgment, contrition and the promise To sin no more, is necessary to Win absolution. Now to show the matter, Here comes a woman, says I leave for France To serve, to die. I have a premonition That I shall die abroad; or if I live, I have had fears, I shall be taken, wronged, So driven by this honor to destroy Myself, goes on and says, I tell you all These fears of mine that you may search my heart, More gladly may absolve me. Then she says, These fears worked in my soul until I took The step which I confess, before I leave. I wait and she proceeds:

"O, holy father, There is a man whom I have loved for years, These five years past, such hopeless, happy years. I love him and he loves me, holy father. He holds me sacred as his wife, he loves me With the most holy love. It cannot be That any love like ours is guilty love, Can have no other quality than good, If it be love."

Well, here's a pretty soul To sit in the confessional! So I say, Why do you come to me? Loving your sin, Confessing it, denying it in one breath, Leaves you in sin without forgiveness. Well, then she tacks about and says "I sinned, And I am sorry. Wait a minute, father, And see the flesh and spirit mixed again." She wants to tell me all, I let her go. And so she says: "His wife's an invalid, Has been no wife to him. Besides," she says-- Now watch this thrust to pierce my holy shield-- "She is not in the church's eye his wife, She never was baptized"--I almost laughed, But answered her, You think adultery Is less adultery in a case like this? "Well, no," she says, "but could he be divorced The church would marry us." Go on, I said, And then she paused a little and went on: "I said I loved this man, and it is true, And years ago I gave myself to him, And then his wife found out there was a woman-- But not that I was the woman--years ago At confirmation I confessed it all, Need only say this time I gave him up, And crushed him out with work--was chaste for years. And then I met a man, a different man Who stirred me otherwise, kept after me. At last I weakened, sinned three months ago, And suffered for it. For he took me, left me. As if he wanted body of me alone, And was not pleased with that. And after that, I think that I was mad, a furious passion Was kindled by this second man, and left With nothing to employ its flame. Two weeks Went by, he did not seek me out, none knew The hour of our departure. Then I thought How little I had been to this first lover, And of the years when I denied him--so To recompense his love, to serve him, father, Yes, to allay this passion newly raised By this new lover, whom I thought I loved, I went to my old lover, free of will, And took his lips and said to him, O take me, I am yours to do with as you choose to-night. He turned as pale as snow and shook with fear, His heart beat in his throat. I terrified him With this great will of mine in this small body. I went on while he stood there by the window, His back toward me. Make me wholly yours, Take no precaution, prudence throw away As mean, unworthy. Let your life precede, Forestall the intruder's, if one be. And if A child must be, yours shall it be."

"He turned, And took me in his arms...."

"And so to make As nearly as might be a marriage, father, I took--but let me tell you: I had thought His wife might die at any time, so thinking During these years I had bought bridal things; A veil, embroideries, silk lingerie. And I took to our room my negligee, Boudoir cap, satin slippers, so to make All beautiful as we were married, father. How have I sinned? I cannot deem it wrong. Do I not soil my soul with penitence, And smut this loveliness with penitence? Can I regret my work, nor take a hurt Upon my very soul? How keep it clean Confessing what I did (if I thought so) As evil and unclean?"

The devil again Entered with casuistry, as you perceive. And so to make an end, I said to her, You must bring to this sacrament a heart Contrite and humble, promise me beside To sin no more. The case is in your hands, You can confess with lips, deny with heart, God only knows, I don't, it's on your soul To speak the truth or lie to me. Confess And I'll absolve you.--For in truth my heart Was touched by what she said, her lovely voice.

But now the story deepened. For she said, I have not told you all. And she renewed: "Suppose you pack your trunk and have your lunch, Go to the station, but no train arrives, And there you wait and wait, until you're hungry, And nothing to do but wait, no place to lunch, You cannot leave the station, lest the train Should come while you are gone. Well, so it was, The weeks went by, and still we were not called. And I had closed my old life, sat and waited The time of leaving to begin new life. And after I had sinned with my first lover, Parted from him, said farewell, ended it, Could not go back to him, at least could think Of no way to return that would not dull The hour we lived together, look, this man, This second lover looks me up again And overwhelms me with a flaming passion. It seemed he had thought over what I was, Become all fire for me. He came to me, And said, I love you, love you, looked at me, And I could see the love-light in his eyes, The light that woman knows. Well, I was weak, Lonely and bored. He stirred my love besides; And then a curious thought came in my brain: The spirit is not found save through the flesh, O holy father, and I thought to self, Bring, as you may, these trials close together In point of time and see where spirit is, Where flesh directs to spirit most. And so I went with him again, and found in truth I loved him, he was mine and I was his, We two were for each other, my old lover Was just my love's beginning, not my love Fully and wholly, rapturously, this man Body and spirit harmonized with me. I found him through the love of my old lover, And knew by contrast, memory of the two And this immediate comparison Of spirits and of bodies, that this man Who left me, whom I turned from to the first, As I have tried to tell you, was the one. O holy father, he is married, too. And as I leave for France this ends as well; No child in me from either. I confess That I have sinned most grievously, I repent And promise I shall sin no more."

And so, I gave her absolution. Well, you see The church was dark, but I knew who it was, I knew the voice. She left. Another penitent Entered with a story. What is this? Here is a woman who's promiscuous. Tried number one and then tries number two, And comes and tells me, she has taken proof, Weighed evidence of spirit and of body, And thinks she knows at last, affirms as much. Such conduct will not do, that's plain enough, Not even if the truth of love is known This way, no other way.

Then Father Conway Began as follows: "I've a case like that, A woman married, but she found her husband Was just the cup of Tantulus and so...."

But Father Whimsett said, "Why, look at that, I'm over-due a quarter of an hour. Come in to-morrow, father, tell me then." The two priests rose and left the room together.

JOHN CAMPBELL AND CARL EATON

Carl Eaton and John Campbell both were raised With Elenor Murray in LeRoy. The mother Of Eaton lived there; but these boys had gone, Now grown to manhood to Chicago, where They kept the old days of companionship. And Mrs. Eaton saw the coroner, And told him how she saved her son from Elenor, And broke their troth--because upon a time Elenor Murray, though betrothed, to Carl Went riding with John Campbell, and returned At two o'clock in the morning, drunk, and stood Helpless and weary, holding to the gate. For which she broke the engagement of her son To Elenor Murray. That was truth to her, And truth to Merival, for the time, at least. But this John Campbell and Carl Eaton meet One evening at a table drinking beer, And talk about the inquest, Elenor; Since much is published in the _Times_ to stir Their memories of her. And John speaks up: "Well, Carl, now Elenor Murray is no more, And we are friends so long, I'd like to know What do you think of her?"

"About the time, That May before she finished High School, Elenor Broke loose, ran wild, do you remember, Carl? She had some trouble in her home, I heard-- She told me so. That Alma Bell affair Made all the fellows wonder, as you know, What kind of game she was, if she was game For me, or you, or anyone. Besides She had flirting eye, a winning laugh, And she was eighteen, and a cherry ripe. This Alma Bell affair and ills at home Made her spurt up and dart out like a fuse Which burns to powder wet and powder heated Until it burns; she burned, you see, and stopped When principles or something quenched the flame. I walked with her from school a time or two, When she was hinting, flirting with her eyes, I know it now, but what a dunce I was, As most men when they're twenty."

"Well, now listen! A little later on an evening, I see her buggy riding with Roy Green, That rake, do you remember him, deadbeat, Half drunkard then, corrupted piece of flesh? She sat up in defiance by his side, Her chin stuck out to tell the staring ones: Go talk or censure to your heart's content. And people stood and stared to see her pass And shook their heads and wondered."

"Afterward I learned from her this was the night at home Her father and her mother had a quarrel. Her mother asked her father to buy Elenor A new dress for commencement, and the father Was drinking and rebuffed her, so they quarreled. And rode with him to shame her father, coming After a long ride in the country home At ten o'clock or so."

"Well, then I thought, If she will ride with Roy Green, I go back To hinting and to flirting eyes and guess The girl will ride with me, or something more. So I begin to circle round the girl, And walk with her, and take her riding too. She drops Roy Green for me--what does he care? He's had enough of her or never cared-- Which is it? there's the secret for a man As long as women interest him--who knows What the precedent fellow was to her? Roy Green takes to another and another. He died a year ago, as you'll remember, What were his secrets, agony? he seemed A man to me who lived and never thought."

"So Elenor Murray went with me. Oh, well, She gave me kisses, let me hold her tight, We used to stop along the country ways And kiss as long as we had breath to kiss, And she would gasp and tremble."

"Then, at last A chum I had began to laugh at me, For, I was now in love with Elenor Murray. Don't let her make a fool of you, he said, No girl who ever traveled with Roy Green Was not what he desired her, nor, before The kind of girl he wanted. Don't you know Roy Green is laughing at you in his sleeve, And boasts that Elenor Murray was all his? You see that stung me, for I thought at twenty Girls do not go so far, that only women Who sell themselves do so, or now and then A girl who is betrayed by hopes of marriage. And here was thrust upon me something devilish: The fair girl that I loved was wise already, And fooling me, and drinking in my love In mockery of me. This was my first Heart sickness, jaundice of the soul--dear me! And how I suffered, lay awake of nights, And wondered, doubted, hoped, or cursed myself, And cursed the girl as well. And I would think Of flirting eyes and hints and how she came To me before she went with this Roy Green. And I would hear the older men give hints About their conquests, speak of ways and signs From which to tell a woman. On the train Hear drummers boast and drop apothogems; The woman who drinks with you will be yours; Or she who gives herself to you will give To someone else; you know the kind of talk? Where wisdom of the sort is averaged up, But misses finer instances, the beauties Among the million phases of the thing. And, so at last I thought the girl was game. And had been snared, already. Why should I Be just a cooing dove, why not a hawk? We were out riding on a summer's night, A moon and all the rest, the scent of flowers, And many kisses, as on other times. At last with this sole object in my mind Long concentrated, purposed, all at once I found myself turned violent, with hands At grapple, twisting, forcing, and this girl In terror pleading with me. In a moment When I took time for breath, she said to me: 'I will not ride with you--you let me out.' To which I said: 'You'll do what I desire Or you can walk ten miles back to LeRoy, And find Roy Green, you like him better, maybe.' And she said: 'Let me out,' and she jumped out, And would not ride with me another step, Though I repented saying, come and ride. I think it was a mile or more I drove The horse slowed up to keep her company, And then I cracked the whip and hurried on, And left her walking, looked from time to time To see her in the roadway, then drove on And reached LeRoy, which Elenor reached that morning At one or two."

"Well, then what was the riddle? Was she in love with Roy Green yet, was she But playing with me, was I crude, left handed, Had she changed over, was she trying me To fasten in the hook of matrimony, Or was she good, and all this corner talk Of Roy Green just the dirt of dirty minds? You know the speculations, and you know How they befuddle one at twenty years. And sometimes I would grieve for what I did; Then harden and laugh down my softness. But At last I wrote a note to Elenor Murray And sent it with a bouquet--but no word Came back from Elenor Murray. Then I thought: Here is a girl who rides with that Roy Green And what would he be with her for, I ask? And if she wants to make a cause of war Out of an attitude she half provoked, Why let her--and moreover let her go. And so I dropped the matter, since she dropped My friendship from that night."

"But later on, Two years ago, when she came back to town From somewhere, I don't know, gone many months, Grown prettier, more desirable, I sent Some roses to her in a tender mood As if to say: We're grown up since that night, Have you forgotten it, as I remember How womanly you were, have grown to be? She wrote me just a little note of thanks, And what is strange that very day I learned About your interest in her, learned besides It prospered for some months before. I turned My heart away for good, as a man might Who plunges and beholds the woman smile And take another's arm and walk away." "So, that's your story, is it?" said Carl Eaton. "Well, I had married her except for you! That bunch of roses spoiled the girl for me. You had Roy Green, dog-fennel, I had roses, And I am glad you sent them, otherwise I might have married her, to find at last A wife just like her mother is, myself Living her father's life, for something missed Or hated in me--not the want of money. She liked me as the banker's son, be sure, And let me go unwillingly."

"But listen: I called on her the night you sent the roses, And there she had them on the center table, And twinkled with her eyes, and spoke of them, And said, I can remember it, you sent Such lovely roses to her, you and she Had been good friends for years--and now it seems You were not friends--I didn't know it then. But think about it, John! What was this woman? It's clear her fate, found dead there by the river, Is just the outward mirror of herself, And had to be. There's not a thing in life That is not first enacted in the heart. Our fate is the reflection of the life Which goes on in the heart. That girl was doomed, Lived in her heart a life that found a birth, Grew up, committed matricide at last, Not that my love had saved her. But explain Why would she over-stress the roses, give Me understandings foreign to the truth? For truth to tell, we were affianced then, There were your roses! But above it all Something she said pricked like a rose's thorn, Something that grew to thought she cherished you, Kept memories sweet of you. If that were true, What was the past? What was I after all? A second choice, as if I bought a car, But thought about a car I wanted more. So I retired that night in serious thought."