Part 8

For some said: "He married fortunate." And others said: "We know through Jacob Bangs he has investments In wheat lands, what's the truth? In any case What avarice is this that made him anxious About the comfort of his wife and family? The thing won't work. He's only middle way In solving his soul's problem. This confession Is just a poor beginning." Others said: "He drove out Alma Bell, let's drive him out." And others said: "you note we never heard About this speculation till it failed, And he was brought to grief. If it had prospered The man had never told, what do you think?" But in a year as health failed, Ferguson Took leave of absence, and the silence of life Which closes over men, however noisy With sermons, lectures, covered him. His riffle Died out in distant waters.

There was a Doctor Burke lived at LeRoy, Neurologist and student. On a night When Merival had the jury at his house, Llewellyn George was telling of his travels In China and Japan, had mutual friends With Franklin Hollister, the cousin of Elenor, And son of dead Corinne, who hid her letters Under the eaves. The talk went wide and far. For David Borrow, sunny pessimist, Thrust logic words at Maiworm, the juryman; And said our life was bad, and must be so, While Maiworm trusted God, said life was good. And Winthrop Marion let play his wit, The riches of his reading over all. Thus as they talked this Doctor Burke came in. "You'll pardon this intrusion, I'll go on If this is secret business. Let me say This inquest holds my interest and I've come To tell of Elenor's ancestry." Thus he spoke. "There'll be another time if I must go." And Merival spoke up and said: "why stay And tell us what you know, or think," and so The coroner and jury sat and heard:--

DR. BURKE

You've heard of potters' wheels and potters' hands. I had a dream that told the human tale As well as potters' wheels or potters' hands. I saw a great hand slopping plasmic jelly Around the low sides of a giant bowl. A drop would fly upon the giant table, And quick the drop would twist up into form, Become homonculus and wave its hands, Brandish a little pistol, shoot a creature, Upspringing from another drop of plasm, Slopped on the giant table. Other drops, Flying as water from a grinding stone, Out of the giant bowl, took little crowns And put them on their heads and mounted thrones, And lorded little armies. Some became Half-drooped and sickly things, like poisoned flies. And others stood on lighted faggots, others Fed and commanded, others served and starved, But many joined the throng of animate drops, And hurried on the phantom quest.

You see, Whether you call it potter's hand or hand That stirs, to no end, jelly in the bowl, You have the force outside and not inside. Invest it with a malice, wanton humor, Which likes to see the plasmic jelly slop, And rain in drops upon the giant table, And does not care what happens in the world, That giant table.

All such dreams are wrong, My dream is wrong, my waking thought is right. Man can subdue the giant hand that stirs, Or turns the wheel, and so these visions err. For as this farmer, lately come to town, Picks out the finest corn seeds, and so crops A finer corn, let's look to human seed, And raise a purer stock; let's learn of him, Who does not put defective grains aside For planting in the spring, but puts aside The best for planting. For I'd like to see As much care taken with the human stock As men now take of corn, race-horses, hogs. You, Coroner Merival are right, I think. If we conserve our forests, waterways, Why not the stream of human life, which wastes Because its source is wasted, fouled.

Perhaps Our coroner has started something good, And brought to public mind what might result If every man kept record of the traits Known in his family for the future use Of those to come in choosing mates.

Behold, Your moralists and churchmen with your rules Brought down from Palestine, which says that life Though tainted, maddened, must not be controlled, Diverted, headed off, while life in corn, And life in hogs, that feed the life of man Should be made better for the life of man-- Behold, I say, some hundred millions spent On paupers, epileptics, deaf and blind; On feeble minded, invalids, the insane-- Behold, I say, this cost in gold alone, Leave for the time the tragedy of souls, Who suffer or must see such suffering, And then turn back to what? The hand that stirs, The potter's hand? Why, no--the marriage counter Where this same state in Christian charity Spending its millions, lets the fault begin, And says to epileptics and what not:-- "Go breed your kind, for Jesus came to earth, And we will house and feed your progeny, Or hang, incarcerate your murderous spawn, As it may happen."

And all the time we know As small grains fruit in small grains, even man In fifty matters of pathology Transmits what's in him, blindness, imbecility, Hysteria, susceptibilities To cancer and tuberculosis. Also The soil that sprouts the giant weed of madness-- There's soil which will not sprout them, occupied Too full by blossoms, healthy trees.

We know Such things as these--Well, I would sterilize, Or segregate these shriveled seeds and keep The soil of life for seeds select, and take The church and Jesus, if he's in the way, And say: "You stand aside, and let me raise A better and a better breed of men." Quit, shut your sniveling charities; have mercy Not on these paupers, imbeciles, diseased ones, But on the progeny you let them breed. And thereby sponge the greatest waste away, And source of life's immeasurable tragedies. Avaunt you potter hands and potter wheels! God is within us, not without us, we Are given souls to know and see and guide Ourselves and those to come, souls that compute The calculus of beauties, talents, traits, And show us that the good in seed strives on To master stocks; that even poisoned blood, And minds in chemic turmoils, mixed with blood And minds in harmony, work clean at last-- Else how may normal man to-day be such With some eight billion ancestors behind, And something in him of the blood of all Who lived five hundred years ago or so, Who were diseased with alcohol and pork, And poverty? But oh these centuries Of agony and waste! Let's stop it now! And since this God within us gives us choice To let the dirty plasma flow or dam it, To give the channel to the silver stream Of starry power, which shall we do? Now choose Between your race of drunkards, imbeciles, Lunatics and neurotics, or the race Of those who sing and write, or measure space, Build temples, bridges, calculate the stars, Live long and sanely.

Well, I take my son, I could have prophesied his eyes, through knowing The color of my mother's, father's eyes, The color of his mother's parent's eyes. I could have told his hair.

There's subtler things. My father died before this son was born; Why does this son smack lips and turn his hand Just like my father did? Not imitation-- He never saw him, and I do not do so. Refine the matter where you will, how far You choose to go, it is not eyes and hair, Chins, shape of head, of limbs, or shape of hands, Nor even features, look of eyes, nor sound Of voice that we inherit, but the traits Of inner senses, spiritual gifts, and secret Beauties and powers of spirit; which result Not solely by the compound of the souls Through conjugating cells, but in the fusion Something arises like an unknown X And starts another wonder in the soul, That comes from souls compounded.

Coroner You have done well to study Elenor Murray. How do I view the matter? To begin Here is a man who looks upon a woman, Desires her, so they marry, up they step Before the marriage counter, buy a license To live together, propagate their kind. No questions asked. I'll later come to that. This couple has four children, Elenor Is second to be born. I knew this girl, I cared for her at times when she was young-- Well, for the picture general, she matures Goes teaching school, leaves home, goes far away, Has restlessness and longings, ups and downs Of ecstasy and depression, has a will Which drives her onward, dreams that call to her. Goes to the war at last to sacrifice Her life in duty, and the root of this Is masochistic (though I love the flower), Comes back and dies. I call her not a drop Slopped from the giant bowl; she is a growth Proceeding on clear lines, if we could know, From cells that joined, and had within themselves The quality of the stream whose source I see As far as grandparents. And now to this:

We all know what her father, mother are. No doubt the marriage counter could have seen-- Or asked what was not visible. But who knows About the father's parents, or the mother's? I chance to know.

The father drinks, you say? Well, he drank little when this child was born, Had he drunk much, it is the nerves which crave The solace of the cup, and not the cup Which passes from the parent to the child. His father and his mother were good blood, Steady, industrious; and just because His father and his mother had the will To fight privation, and the lonely days Of pioneering, so this son had will To fight, aspire, but at the last to growl, And darken in that drug store prison, take To drink at times in anger for a will That was so balked.

Well, then your marriage counter Could scarcely ask: What is your aim in life? You clerk now in a drug store, you aspire To be a lawyer, if you find yourself Stopped on your way by poverty, the work Of clerking to earn bread, you will break down, And so affect your progeny. So, you see, For all of that the daughter Elenor Was born when this ambition had its hope, Not when it tangled up in hopelessness; And therefore is thrown out of the account. The father must be passed and given license To wed this woman. How about the mother? You never knew the mother of the mother. She had great power of life and power of soul, Lived to be eighty-seven, to the last Was tense, high voiced, excitable, ecstatic, Top full of visions, dreams, and plans for life. But worse than that at fifty lost her mind, Was two years kept at Kankakee, quite mad, Grieving for fancied wrongs against her husband Some five years dead, and praying to keep down Desire for men. Her malady was sensed When she began to wander here and there, In shops and public places, in the church, Wherever she could meet with men, one man

## Particularly to whom she made advances

Unwomanly and strange. And so at last She turned her whole mind to the church, became Religion mad, grew mystical, believed That Jesus Christ had taken her to spouse. They kept her in confinement for two years. The rage died down at last, and she came home. But to the last was nervous, tense, high keyed. And then her mind failed totally, she died At eighty-seven here.

Now I could take Some certain symbols A and a, and show Out of the laws that Mendel found for us, What chances Elenor Murray had to live Free of the madness, clear or in dilute, Diminished or made over, which came down From this old woman to her. It's enough To see in Elenor Murray certain traits, Passions and powers, ecstasies and sorrows. And from them life's misfortunes, and to see They tally, take the color of the soul Of this old woman, back of her. Even to see In Elenor Murray's mother states of soul, And states of nerves, passed on to Elenor Murray Directly by her mother.

But you say, Since many say so, here's a woman's soul Most beautiful and serviceable in the world And she confutes you, in your logic chopping, Materialistic program, who would give The marriage counter power to pick the corn seed For future planting:

No, I say to this. What does it come to? She had will enough, And aspiration, struck out for herself, Learned for herself, did service in the war, As many did, and died--all very good. But not so good that we could quite afford To take the chances on some other things Which might have come from her. Well, to begin Putting aside an autopsy, she died Because this neural weakness, so derived, Caught in such stress of life proved far too much For one so organized; a stress of life Which others could live through, and have lived through. The world had Elenor Murray, and she died Before she was a cost.--But just suppose No war had been to aureole her life-- And she had lived here and gone mad at last Become a charge upon the state? Or yet, As she was love-mad, by the common word, And as she had neurotic tendencies, Would seek neurotic types therefore, suppose She had with some neurotic made a marriage, And brought upon us types worse than themselves; Given us the symbol double A instead Of big and little a, where are you then? You have some suicides, or murders maybe, Some crimes in sex, some madness on your hands, For which to tax the strong to raise, and raise Some millions every year.

Are we so mad For beauty, sacrifice and heroism, So hungry for the stimulus of these That we cannot discern and fairly appraise What Elenor Murray was, what to the world She brought, for which we overlook the harm She might have done the world? Not if we think! And if we think, she will not seem God's flower Made spotted, pale or streaked by cross of breed, A wonder and a richness in the world; But she will seem a blossom which to these Added a novel poison with the power To spread her poison! And we may dispense With what she did and what she tried to do, No longer sentimentalists, to keep The chances growing in the world to bring A better race of men.

Then Doctor Burke Left off philosophy and asked: "How many Of you who hear me, know that Elenor Murray Was distant cousin to this necrophile, This Taylor boy, I call him boy, though twenty, Who got the rope for that detested murder Of a young girl--Oh yes, let's save the seed Of stock like this!"

But only David Borrow Knew Elenor was cousin to this boy. And Merival spoke up: "What is to-day? It's Thursday, it's to-morrow that he hangs. I'll go now to the jail to see this boy." "He hangs at nine o'clock," said Dr. Burke. And Merival got up to go. The party Broke up, departed. At the jail he saw The wretched creature doomed to die. And turned Half sick from seeing how he tossed and looked With glassy eyes. The sheriff had gone out. And Merival could see him, get the case. Next afternoon they met, the sheriff told This story to the coroner.

CHARLES WARREN, THE SHERIFF

I have seen twenty men hanged, hung myself Two in this jail, with whom I talked the night Before they had the rope, knotted behind The ear to break the neck. These two I hanged, One guilty and defiant, taking chops, Four cups of coffee just an hour before We swung him off; the other trembling, pale, Protesting innocence, but guilty too-- Both wore the same look in the middle watch. I tell you what it is: You take a steer, And windlass him to where the butcher stands With hammer ready for the blow and knife To slit the throat after the hammer falls, Well, there's a moment when the steer is standing Head, neck strained side-ways, eyes rolled side-ways too, Fixed, bright seen this way, but another way A film seems spreading on them. That's the look. They wear a corpse-like pallor, and their tongues Are loose, sprawl in their mouths, lie paralyzed Against their teeth, or fall back in their throats Which make them cough and stop for words and close Dry lips with little pops.

There's something else: Their minds are out of them, like a rubber band Stretched from the place it's pinned, about to break. And all the time they try to draw it back, And give it utterance with that sprawling tongue, And lips too dry for words. They hold it tight As a woman giving birth holds to the sheet Tied to the bed's head, pulls the sheet to end The agony and the reluctance of the child That pauses, dreads to enter in this world.

So was it with Fred Taylor. But before The high Court shook his hope, he talked to me Freely and fully, saying many times What could the world expect of him beside Some violence or murder? He had borrowed The books his lawyers used to fight for him, And read for hours and days about heredity. And in our talks he said: mix red and violet, You have the color purple. Strike two notes, You have a certain chord, and nature made me By rules as mathematical as they use In mixing drugs or gases. Then he'd say: Look at this table, and he'd show to me A diagram of chickens, how blue fowls Come from a cross of black with one of white With black splashed feathers. Look at the blues, he'd say. They mate, and of four chickens, two are blue, And one is black and one is white. These blues Produce in that proportion. But the black And white have chickens white and black, you see In equal numbers. Don't you see that I Was caught in mathematics, jotted down Upon a slate before I came to earth? They could have picked my forbears; on a slate Forecast my soul, its tendencies, if they Had been that devilish. And so he talked.

Well, then he heard that Elenor Murray died, And told me that her grandmother, that woman Known for her queerness and her lively soul To eighty years and more, was grandmother To his father, and this Elenor Murray cousin To his father. There you have it, he exclaimed, She killed herself, and I know why, he said She loved someone. This love is in our blood, And overflows, or spurts between the logs You dam it with, or fully stayed grows green With summer scum, breeds frogs and spotted snakes.

He was a study and I studied him. I'd sit beside his cell and read some words From his confession, ask why did you this? His crime was monstrous, but he won me over. I wished to help the boy, for boy he was Just nineteen, and I pitied him. At last His story seemed as clear as when you see The truth behind poor words that say as much As words can say--you see, you get the truth And know it, even if you never pass The truth to others.

Lord! This girl he killed Knew not the power she played with. Why she sat Like a child upon the asp's nest picking flowers. Or as a child will pet a mad dog. Look You come into my life, what do you bring? Why, everything that made your life, all pains, All raptures, disappointments, wisdom learned You bring to me. But do you show them, no! You hide them maybe, some of them, and leave Myself to learn you by the hardest means, And bing! A something in you, or in me, Out of a past explodes, or better still Extends a claw from out the buttoned coat And rips a face.

So this poor girl was killed, And by an innocent coquetry evoked The claw that tore her breast away.

One day As I passed by his cell I stopped and sat. What was the first thing entering in your mind From which you trace your act? And he said: "Well Almost from the beginning all my mind Was on her from the moment I awaked Until I slept, and often I awoke At two or three o'clock with thoughts of her. And through the day I thought of nothing else; Sometimes I could not eat. At school my thought Stretched out of me to her, could not be pulled Back to the lesson. I could read a page As it were Greek, not understand a word. But just the moment I was with her then My soul re-entered me, I was at peace, And happy, oh so happy! In the days When we were separated my unrest Took this form: that I must be with her, or If that could not be, then some other place Was better than the place I was--I strained, Lived in a constant strain, found no content With anything or place, could find no peace Except with her."

"Right from the first I had Two minds, two hearts concerning her, and one Was confidence, and one was doubt, one love, One hatred. And one purpose was to serve her, Guard her and care for her, one said destroy, Ruin or kill her. Sitting by her side, Except as I shall say I loved her, trusted her, Away from her, I doubted her and hated her. But at the dances when I saw her smile Up at another man, the storming blood Roared in my brain for wondering about The words they said. He might be holding her Too close to him; or as I watched I saw His knee indent her skirt between her knees, That might be when she smiled. Then going home I'd ask her what he said. She'd only smile And keep a silence that I could not open With any pry of questions."

"Well, we quarreled, About this boy she danced with. So I said: I'll leave her, never see her, I'll go find Another girl, forget her. Sunday next I saw her driving with this fellow. I Was walking in the road, they passed me laughing, She turned about and waved her hand at me. That night I lay awake and tossed and thought: Where are they now? What are they doing now? He's kissing her upon the lips I've kissed, Or worse, perhaps, I have been fooled, she lies Within his arms and gives him what for love I never asked her, never dared to ask." This brought Fred Taylor's story to the murder, In point of madness, anyway. Some business Broke in our visit here. Another time I sat with him and questioned him again About the night he killed her.