Part 12

"Yet if you'll credit me, I had not heard About this Alma Bell affair, or heard About her riding through the public streets With this Roy Green. I think I was away, I never heard it anyway, I know Until my mother told me, and she told me Next morning after I had found your roses. I hadn't told my mother, nor a soul Before, that time that we two were engaged-- I didn't tell her then--I merely asked Would Elenor Murray please you as a daughter? You should have seen my mother--how she gasped, And gestured losing breath, to say at last: 'Why, Carl, my boy, what are you thinking of? You have not promised marriage to that girl? Now tell me, have you?' Then I lied to her; And laughed a little, answered no, and asked, 'What do you know about her?'"

"Here's a joke, With terror in it, John, if you have told The truth to me--my mother tells me there That on a time John Campbell--that is you, And Elenor Murray rode into the country, And that at two o'clock, or so, the girl Is seen beside the gate post holding on, And reeling up the side-walk to her door. The girl was tired, if you have told the truth. My mother warms up to this scoundrel Green, And tops the matter off with Alma Bell. And all the love I had for Elenor Murray Sours in my heart. And then I tell my mother The truth--of our engagement--promise her To break it off. I did so on that day. Got back the solitaire--but Elenor Hung to me, asked my reasons, kept the ring Until I wrote so sternly she gave up Her hope and me."

"But worst of all, John Campbell-- If this be worst--this early episode So nipped my leaves and browned and curled them up To whisper sharply with their bitter edges, No one has seen a bridal wreath in me; Nor have I ever known a woman since That some analysis did not blow cool A rising admiration."

"Now to think This girl lies dead, and while we drink a beer You tell me that the story is a lie, The girl was good, walked ten miles through the dark To save her honor from a ruffian-- That's what you were, as you confess it now. And if she did that, what is all this talk Of such a rat as Green, of Alma Bell?-- It isn't true."

"The only truth is this: I took a lasting poison from a lie, Which built the very cells of me to resist The thought of marriage--poison which remains. I wonder should I tell the coroner? No good in that--you might as well describe A cancer to prevent the malady In people yet to be. Let's have a beer. John Campbell said: I learned from Elenor Murray The kind of woman I should take to wife, I married just the woman made for me."

"If you can say so on your death bed, John, Then Elenor Murray did one man a good, Whatever ill she did to other men. See, I keep rapping for that waiter--I Would like another beer, and so would you."

* * * * *

So now it's clear the story is not true Which Mrs. Eaton told the coroner. And when the coroner told the jurymen What Mrs. Eaton told him, Winthrop Marion Skilled in the work of running down a tale Said: "I can look up Eaton, Campbell too, And verify or contradict this thing. We have departed far afield in this, It has no bearing on the cause of death. But none of us have liked to see, the girl's Good name, integrity of spirit lie In shadow by this story." Merival Was glad to have these two men interviewed By Winthrop Marion; so he found them, talked, And brought their stories back, as told above Which made the soul of Elenor Murray clear....

* * * * *

Paul Roberts was a man of sixty years, Who lived and ran a magazine at LeRoy. _The Dawn_ he called it; financed by a fund Left Roberts by a millionaire, who believed The fund would widen knowledge through the use Of Roberts, student of the Eastern wisdom. This Roberts loathed the war, but kept his peace Because the law compelled it. Took this time To fight the Christian faith, and show the age Submerged in Christian ethics, weak and false. He knew this Elenor Murray from a child, And knew her rearing, schooling, knew the air She breathed in at LeRoy. And in _The Dawn_ Printed this essay:--

"We have seen," he writes, "Astonishing revealments, inventories Taken of souls, all coming from the death Of Elenor Murray, and the inquest held To ascertain her death. Perhaps fantastic This thing may be, but scarcely more fantastic Than rubbing amber, watching frogs' legs twitch, From which the light of cities came, the power That hauls the coaches over mountain tops. We would do well to laugh at nothing, watch With interested eye the capering souls Too moved to walk straight. If a wire grounds And interpenetrates the granite blocks With viewless fire, horses shod with steel, Walking along the granite blocks will leap Like mad things in the air. Well, so we leap Before we know the cause. Let sound minds laugh.

First you agree no man has looked on God; And I contend the souls who found God, told Too little of their triumph. But I hold Man shall find God and know, shall see at last What man's soul is, and where it tends, the use It was made for. And after that? Forever There's progress while there's life, all devolution Returns to progress.

As to worship, God They had their amber days, days of frogs' legs. And yet before I trace the Christian growth From seed to blossom, let me prophesy: The light upon the lotus blossom pauses, Has paused these centuries and waits to move Westward and mingle with the light that shines Upon the Occident. What did Christ do But carry the Hebraic thrift and prudence Of matter and of spirit, half-corrupted By wisdom of the market to these races That crowd in Europe, in the Western World? Now you have seen such things as chemistry, And mongering in steel, the use of fire Made perfect in swift wheels, and swifter wings, Until the realm of matter seems subdued, Thought with her foot upon the dragon's head, And using him to serve. This western world Massing its powers these centuries to bring Comfort and happiness and length of days, And pushing commerce, trade to pile up gold, Knows not its soul as yet, nor God. But here I prophesy: Suppose the Hindu lore, Which has gone farther with the soul of man Than we have gone with business, has card cased The soul's addresses, introduced a system In the soul's business, just suppose this lore And great perfection in things spiritual Should by some process wed the great perfection Of this our western world, and we should have Mastery of spirit and of matter, too? Might not that progress start as one result Of this great war?

Let's see from whence we came. I take the Hebrew faith, the very frog legs Of our theology--no use to say It has no place with us. Your ministers Preach from the Pentateuch, its decalogue Is all our ethic nearly; and our life Is suckled by the Hebrews; don't the Jews Control our business, while our business rules Our spirits far too much?

Now let us see What food our spirits feed on. Palestine Is just a little country, fights for life Against a greater prowess, skill in arms. So as the will does not give up, but hopes For vengeance and for wiping out of wrongs The Jews conceive a God who will dry up His people's tears and let them laugh again! Hence in Jehovah's mouth they put these words: My word shall stand forever, you shall eat The riches of the Gentiles, suck their milk. Your ploughman shall the alien be, the stranger Shall feed your flock, and I will make you fat With milk and honey. I will give you power, Dominion, leadership, glory forever. My wrath is on all nations to avenge Israel's sorrow and humiliation. My sword is bathed in heaven, filled with blood To come upon Idumea, to stretch out Upon it stones of emptiness, confusion. Her fortresses shall be the habitation Of dragons and a court for owls. I smite The proud Assyrian and make them dead. In fury, and in anger do I tread On Zion's enemies, their worm shall die not, Nor shall their fire be quenched. I shall stir up Jealousy like a man of war, put on The garments of my vengeance, and repay To adversaries fury. For my word Shall stand to preach good tidings to the meek, And liberty to captives, and to chains The opening of prisons.

Don't you see Our western culture in such words as these? Your proselytes, and business man, reformer Nourished upon them, using them in life? But then you say Christ came with final truth, And put away Jehovah. Let us see. What shall become of those who turn from Christ, Not that their souls failed, only that they turned, Did not believe, accept, found in him little To live by, grow by? This is what Christ said: Ye vipers in the last day ye shall see The sun turned dark, the moon made blood. Behold! I come in clouds of glory and of power To judge the quick and judge the dead. Mine own Shall enter into blessedness. But to those Evil who scorned me, I shall say, depart Accursed into everlasting fire. And quick the gates of heaven shall be shut, And I shall reign in heaven with mine own And let my fire of wrath consume the world.

But then you say, what of his love and doctrine? Not the old decalogue by him renewed, But new wine to the Jews, if not in the world Unknown before. Look close and you shall see A book of double entries, balanced columns, Business in matters spiritual, prudential Rules for life's conduct. Yes, be merciful But to obtain your mercy; yes, forgive That you may be forgiven; honor your parents That your days may be long. Blest are the meek For they shall inherit the earth. Rejoice, for great Is your reward in heaven if they say All manner of evil of you, persecute you. Do you not see the rule of compensation Shot through it all? And if you love your neighbor, And all men do so, then you have the state Composed to such a level of peace, no man Need fear the breaker in, unless you keep This mood of love for preaching, for a rule While business in the Occident goes on Under Jehovah's Hebrew manual. What is it all? The meek inherit the earth For being meek; you turn the other cheek And fill your enemy with shame to strike A cheek that does not harden to return The blow received. But too much in our life The cheek is turned, the hand not made a fist, But opened out to pick a pocket with, While the other cheek is turned. Now, at the last Has not this war put by resist not evil? Which was the way of Jesus to the end, Even to buffetings and the crown of thorns; Even the cross and death?--we put it by: We would not let protagonists thereof So much as hint the doctrine, which is to say, Though it be written over Jesus' life, And be his spirit's essence, we see through The fallacy of that preachment, cannot live In this world by it.

Well, let me be plain. Races like men find truth in living life, Find thereby what is food and what is poison. These are the phylogenetics spiritual. But meanwhile there's the light upon the lotus Which waits to mingle with the light that shines Upon the Occident, take Jesus' light Where it is bright enough to mix with it And show no duller splendor?

I look back Upon the Jew and Jesus, on the Thora The gospel, dogmatism, poetry, The Messianic hope and will and grace, Jesus the Son of God, and one with God. The outer theocracy, the Kingdom of God within you, St. Paul with metaphysics, St. Augustine Babbling of sin in Cicero's rhetoric, The popes with their intrigues and millions slain O ghastly waste, if not O ghastly failure, Beside which all the tragedies of time To set up doctrines, rulerships, and say: Are not a finger scratched. O monstrous hate Born of enfolding love! O martyrdom Of our poor world for ages, incurable madness Bred in the blood, and mixed in the forms of thought, Still maddening, maiming, crucifying, killing The fast appearing sons of men. Go ask What man you will who has lived up to forty And see if you find not the Christian creed Has not in some way gyved his life and bolted Body or spirit to a wall, to make The man live not by nature, but a doctrine Evolved from thought that disregards man's life. But oh this hunger of the mind for answers And hunger of the heart for life, the heart Thrown to the dogs of thought. What shall we do? I see a way, have hope.

The blessed Lord Says, ye deluded by unwisdom say: This day is won, this purpose gained, this wealth Made mine, to-morrow safe--behold My enemy is slain, I am well-born-- O ye deluded ones, slaves of desire, Self-satisfied and stubborn, filled with pride, Power, lust and wrath--haters of me, the gate Of hell is triple, bitter is the womb In which ye sink deluded, birth on birth, These not renouncing. But O soul attend, Yield not to impotence, shake off your fears, Be steadfast, balanced, free from hate and anger, Balanced in pleasure and pain, and active, Yet disregarding action's fruits--be friendly, Compassionate, forgiving, self-controlled, Resolute, not shrinking from the world, But mixing in its toils as fate may say; Pure, expert, passionless, desire in leash, Renouncing good and evil, to friend and foe, In fame and ignominy destitute Of that attachment which disturbs the vision And labor of the soul. By these to fix Eyes undistracted on me, the supreme And Sole Reality. And O remember Thou soul, thou shalt not sin who workest through Thy Karma as its nature may command. Strive with thy sin and it shall make the muscles, And strength to take thee to another height. But cleave to the practice of thy soul forever, Also to wisdom better still than practice, To meditation, better still than wisdom, To renunciation, better than meditation, Beholding Me in all things, in all things Me who would have you peace of soul attain, And soul's perfection.

Well, I say here lies Profounder truth and purer than the words That Jesus spoke. Let's take forgiveness: Forgive your enemies, he said, and bless Them even that hate you. What did Jesus do? Did he forgive the thief upon the cross, Who railed at him? He did forgive the hands Who crucified him, but he had a reason: They knew not what they did; well, as for that Who knows the thing he does? Did he forgive Judas Iscariot? Did he forgive Poor Peter by specific words? You see In instances like these the idealist, Passionate and inexorable who sets up His soul against the world, but do you see The esoteric wisdom which takes note Of the soul's health, just for the sake of health, And leaves the outward recompense alone?

Yes, what has Jesus done but make a realm Of outward law and force to strain and bind The sons of men to this thing and to that, Bring the fanatic and the dogmatist In every neighborhood in America. And radical with axes after trees, And clergymen with curses on the fig trees? And even bring this Kaiser and his dream Of God's will in him to destroy his foes, And launch the war therefor, to make his realm And Christian culture paramount in time. When all the while 'tis clear life does not yield Proof positive of exoteric things. Why the great truth of life is this, I think: The soul has freedom to create its world Of beauty, truth, to make the world as truth Or beauty, build philosophies, religions, And live by them, through them. It does not matter Whether they're true, the significant thing is this: The soul has freedom to create, to take The void of unintelligible air, or thought The world at large, and of it make the food, Impulse and meaning for its life. I say Life is for nothing else, truth is not ours; That only ours which we create, by which We live and grow, and so we come again By this path of my own to India.

What shall we do, you ask, if business dies, If the western world, the world for socialism Lops off its leaves and branches, and the sap Is thrown back in the trunk unused, or if This light upon the lotus quiets us And makes us mind entirely? Well, I say, Men have not lived, enjoyed enough before. Our strength has gone to get the means for strength. We roll the rock of business up, and see The rock roll down, and roll it up again. And if the new day does not give us work In finding what our minds are, how to use them, And how to live more beautifully, I miss A guess I often make.

But now to close: Only the blind have failed to see how truly This Elenor Murray worked her Karma out. And how she put forth strength to cure her weakness, And went her vital way, and toiled and died. Peace to all worlds, and peace to Elenor Murray.

* * * * *

The coroner had heard that Elenor Murray Once crossed the Arctic Circle. What of that? She traveled, it was proved. What happened there? What hunter after secrets could find out? But on a day the name of Elenor Murray Is handled by two men who sit and talk In Fairbanks, and the talk is in these words:

AT FAIRBANKS

Bill, look here! Here's the _Times_. You see this picture, Read if you like a little later. You never Heard how I came to Fairbanks, chanced to stay. It's eight years now. You see in nineteen eleven I lived in Hammond, Indiana, thought I'd like a trip, see mountains, see Alaska, Perhaps find fortune or a woman--well You know from your experience how it is. It was July and from the train I saw The Canadian Rockies, stopped at Banff a day, At Lake Louise, and so forth. At Vancouver Found travelers feasting, Englishmen in drink, Flirtations budding, coming into flower; And eager spirits waiting for the boat. Up to this time I hadn't made a friend, Stalked silently about along the streets, Drank Scotch like all the rest, as much besides.

Well, then we took the steamship _Princess Alice_ And started up the Inland Channel--great! Got on our cheeks the breezes from the crystal Cradles of the north, began at once To find the mystery, silence, see clear stars, The whites and blacks and greens along the shores. And still I had no friend, was quite alone. Just as I came on deck I saw a face, Looked, stared perhaps. Her eyes went over me, Would not look at me. At the dinner table She sat far down from me, I could not see her, But made a point to rise when she arose, Did all I could to catch her eye--no use. So things went and I gave up--still I wondered Why she had no companion. Was she married? Was husband waiting her, at Skagway?--well I fancied something of the sort, at last, And as I said, gave up.

But on a morning I rose to see the sun rise, all the sky First as a giant pansy, petals flung In violet toward the zenith streaked with fire; The silver of the snows change under light, Mottled with shadows of the mountain tops Like leaves that shadow, flutter on a lawn. At last the topaz splendors shoot to heaven, The sun just peeks and gilds the porcelain Of snow with purest gold. And in the valleys Darkness remains, Orician ebony Is not more black. You've seen this too, I know, And recognize my picture. There I stood, Believed I was alone, then heard a voice, "Is it not beautiful?" and looked around, And saw my girl, who had avoided me, Would not make friends before. This is her picture, Name, Elenor Murray. So the matter started. I had my seat at table changed and sat Next to my girl to talk with her. We walked The deck together. Then she said to me Her home was in Chicago, so it is Travelers abroad discover they are neighbors When they are home. She had been teaching school, And saved her money for this trip, had planned To go as far as Fairbanks. As for me, I thought I'd stop with Skagway--Oh this life! Your hat blows off, you chase it, bump a woman, Then beg her pardon, laugh and get acquainted, And marry later.

As we steamed along She was the happiest spirit on the deck. The Wrangell Narrows almost drove her wild, There where the mountains are like circus tents, Big show, menagerie and all the rest, But white as cotton with perennial snow. We swum past aisles of pine trees where a stream Rushed down in terraces of hoary foam. The nights were glorious. We drank and ate And danced when there was dancing.

Well, at first, She seemed a little school ma'am, quaint, demure, Meticulous and puritanical. And then she seemed a school ma'am out to have A time, so far away, where none would know, And like a woman who had heard of life And had a teasing interest in its wonder, Too long caged up. At last my vision blurred: I did not know her, lost my first impressions Amid succeeding phases which she showed.

But when we came to Skagway, then I saw Another Elenor Murray. How she danced And tripped from place to place--such energy! She almost wore me out with seeing sights. But now behold! The White Pass she must see Upon the principle of missing nothing-- But oh the grave of "Soapy" Smith, the outlaw, The gambler and the heeler, that for her! We went four miles and found the cemetery, The grave of "Soapy" Smith.--Came back to town Where she would see the buildings where they played Stud poker, Keno, in the riotous days. Time came for her to go. She looked at me And said "Come on to Fairbanks." As for that, I'd had enough, was ready to return, But sensed an honorarium, so I said, "You might induce me," with a pregnant tone. That moment we were walking 'cross the street, She stopped a moment, shook from head to heels, And said, "No man has talked to me that way." I dropped the matter. She renewed it--said, "Why do you hurry back? What calls you back? Come on to Fairbanks, see the gardens there, That tag the blizzards with their rosy hands And romp amid the snows." She smiled at me. Well, then I thought--why not? And smiled her back, And on we went to Fairbanks, where my hat Blows off, as I shall tell you.