Afterward went to her apartment. First
She told me at the dinner that her niece
Named Elenor Murray died some days ago.
I sensed what she was after--here's the point:--
She followed up the theme when we returned
To her apartment, where we quarreled. You see
I would not do her bidding, left her mad,
In silent wrath after some bitter words.
I managed her divorce as I have said,
Then I stepped in as lover, months had passed.
When Elenor Murray came here to New York,
I met her at the apartment of the aunt
Whose name is Margery Camp. Before, she said
Her niece was here, was happy and in love
But sorrowful for leaving, just the talk
That has no meaning till you see the subject
Or afterwards, perhaps; it passes in
One ear and out the other. Then at last
One afternoon I met this Elenor Murray
When I go up to call on Margery Camp.
The staging of the matter is like this:
The niece looks fagged, is sitting on the couch,
Has loosed her collar for her throat to feel
The air about it, for the day is hot.
And Margery Camp goes out, brings in a pitcher
Of absinthe cocktails, so we drink. I sit,
Begin to study what is done, and look
This Elenor Murray over, get the thought
That somehow Margery Camp has taken Elenor
In her control for something, has begun
To use her, manage her, is coiling her
With dominant will or cunning. Then I look,
See Margery Camp observing Elenor Murray,
Who drinks the absinthe, and in Margery's eyes
I see these parallelograms of light
Just like a vase of crockery, there she stands,
Her face like ivory, and laughs and shows
Her marvelous teeth, smooths with her shapely hands
The skirt upon her hips. Somehow I feel
She is a soul who watches passion work.
Then Elenor Murray rouses, gets her spirits
Out of the absinthe, rises and exclaims:
"I'm better now;" and Margery Camp speaks up,
Poor child, in intonation like a doll
That speaks from reeds of steel, no sympathy
Or meaning in the words. The interview
Seems spooky to me, cold and sinister.
We drink again and then we drink again.
And what with her fatigue and lowered spirits,
This Elenor Murray drifts in talk and mood
With so much drink. At last this Margery Camp
Says suddenly: "You'll have to help my niece,
There is a matter you must manage for her,
We've talked it over; in a day or two
Before she goes away, we'll come to you."
I took them out to dinner, after dinner
Drove Margery Camp to her apartment, then
Went down with Elenor Murray to her place.
Then in a day or two, one afternoon
Margery Camp and Elenor Murray came
Here to my office with a bundle, which
This Margery Camp was carrying, rather large.
And Margery Camp was bright and keen as winter.
But Elenor Murray seemed a little dull,
Abstracted as of drink, or thought perhaps.
After the greeting and preliminaries,
Margery said to Elenor: "Better tell
What we have come for, get it done and go."
Then Elenor Murray said: "Here are some letters,
I've tied them in this package, and I wish
To put them in a safety box, give you
One key and keep the other, leave with you
A sealed instruction, which, in case I die,
While over-seas, you may break open, read
And follow, if you will." She handed me
A writing signed by her which merely read
What I have told you--here it is--you see:
"When legal proof is furnished I am dead,
Break open the sealed letter which will give
Instruction for you." So I took the trust,
Went with these women to a vault and placed
The letters in the box, gave her a key,
Kept one myself. They left. At dinner time
I joined them, saw more evidence of the will
Of Margery Camp controlling Elenor's.
Which seemed in part an older woman's power
Against a younger woman's, and in part
Something less innocent. We ate and drank,
I took them to their places as before,
And didn't see this Elenor again.
But now last night when I see Margery
She says at once, "My niece is dead;" goes on
To say, no other than herself has care
Or interest in her, was estranged from father,
And mother too, herself the closest heart
In all the world, and therefore she must look
After the memory of the niece, and adds:
"She came to you through me, I picked you out
To do this business." So she went along
With this and that, advancing and retreating
To catch me, bind me. Well, I saw her game,
Sat non-committal, sipping wine, but keeping
The wits she hoped I'd lose, as I could see.
After the dinner we went to her place
And there she said these letters might contain
Something to smudge the memory of her niece,
She wished she had insisted on the plan
Of having one of the keys, the sealed instruction
Made out and left with her; being her aunt,
The closest heart in the world to Elenor Murray,
That would have been the right way. But she said
Her niece was willful and secretive, too,
Not over wise, but now that she was dead
It was her duty to reform the plan,
Do what was best, and take control herself.
So working to the point by devious ways
She said at last: "You must give me the key,
The sealed instruction: I'll go to the box,
And get the letters, do with them as Elenor
Directed in the letter; for I think,
Cannot believe it different, that my niece
Has left these letters with me, so directs
In that sealed letter." "Then if that be true,
Why give the key to me, the letter?--no
This is a trust, a lawyer would betray,
A sacred trust to do what you request."
I saw her growing angry. Then I added:
"I have no proof your niece is dead:" "My word
Is good enough," she answered, "we are friends,
You are my lover, as I thought; my word
Should be sufficient." And she kept at me
Until I said: "I can't give you the key,
And if I did they would not let you in,
You are not registered as a deputy
To use the key." She did not understand,
Did not believe me, but she tacked about,
And said: "You can do this, take me along
When you go to the vault and open the box,
And break the letter open which she gave."
I only answered: "If I find your niece
Has given these letters to you, you shall have
The letters, but I think the letters go
Back to the writer, and if that's the case,
I'll send them to the writer."
Here at last
She lost control, took off her mask and stormed:
"We'll see about it. You will scarcely care
To have the matter aired in court. I'll see
A lawyer, bring a suit and try it out,
And see if I, the aunt, am not entitled
To have my niece's letters and effects,
Whatever's in the package. I am tired
And cannot see you longer. Take five days
To think the matter over. If you come
And do what I request, no suit, but if
You still refuse, the courts can settle it."
And so I left her.
In a day or two
I read of Elenor Murray's death. It seems
The coroner investigates her death.
She died mysteriously. Well, then I break
The sealed instruction, look! I am to send
The package to Jane Fisher, in Chicago.
We know, of course, Jane Fisher did not write
The letters, that the letters are a man's.
What is the inference? Why, that Elenor Murray
Pretended to comply, obey her aunt,
Yet slipped between her fingers, did not wish
The aunt or me to know who wrote the letters.
Feigned full submission, frankness with the aunt,
Yet hid her secret, hid it from the aunt
Beyond her finding out, if I observe
The trust imposed, keep hands of Margery Camp
From getting at the letters.
Now two things:
Suppose the writer of the letters killed
This Elenor Murray, is somehow involved
In Elenor Murray's death? If that's the case,
Should not these letters reach the coroner?
To help enforce the law is higher trust
Than doing what a client has commanded.
And secondly, if Margery Camp should sue,
My wife will learn the secret, bring divorce.
Three days remain before the woman's threat
Is ripe to execute. Think over this.
We'll talk again--I really need advice....
* * * * *
So Hunter told the coroner. Then resumed
The matter was a simple thing: I said
To telegraph the coroner. You are right:
Those letters give a clue perhaps, your trust
Is first to see the law enforced. And yet
I saw he was confused and drinking too,
For fear his wife would learn of Margery Camp.
I added, for that matter open the box,
Take out the letters, find who wrote them, send
A telegram to the coroner giving the name
Of the writer of the letters. Well, he nodded,
Seemed to consent to anything I said.
And Hunter left me, leaving me in doubt
What he would do. And what is next? Next day
He's in the hospital and has pneumonia.
I take a cab to see him, but I find
He is too sick to see, is out of mind.
In three days he is dead. His wife comes in
And tells me worry killed him--knows the truth
About this Margery Camp, oh, so she said.
Had sent a lawyer to her husband asking
For certain letters of an Elenor Murray.
And that her husband stood between the fire
Of some exposure by this Margery Camp,
Or suffering these letters to be used
By Margery Camp against the writer for
A bit of money. This was Mrs. Hunter's
Interpretation. Well, the fact is clear
That Hunter feared this Margery Camp--was scared
About his wife who in some way had learned
just at this time of Margery Camp--I think
Was called up, written to. Between it all
Poor Hunter's worry, far too fast a life,
He broke and died. And now you know it all.
I've learned no client enters at your door
And nothing casual happens in the day
That may not change your life, or bring you death.
And Hunter in a liaison with Margery
Is brought within the scope of Elenor's
Life and takes his mortal hurt and dies.
* * * * *
So much for riffles in New York. We turn
Back to LeRoy and see the riffles there,
See all of them together. Loveridge Chase
Receives a letter from a New York friend,
A secret service man who trails and spies
On Henry Baker, knows about the letters,
And writes to Loveridge Chase and says to him:
"That Elenor Murray dying near LeRoy
Left letters in New York. I trailed the aunt
Of Elenor Murray, Margery Camp. Also
A lawyer, Henry Baker, who controls
A box with letters left by Elenor Murray--
So for the story. Why not join with me
And get these letters? There is money in it,
Perhaps, who knows? I work for Mrs. Hunter--
She wants the letters placed where they belong,
And wants the man who killed this Elenor Murray
Punished as he should be. Go see the coroner
And get the work of bringing back the letters."
And Chase came to the coroner and spoke:
LOVERIDGE CHASE
Here is the secret of the death of Elenor,
From what I learn of her, from what I know
In living, knowing women, I am clear
About this Elenor Murray. Give me power
To get the letters, power to give a bond
To indemnify the company, for you know
Letters belong to him who writes the letters;
And if the company is given bond
It will surrender them, and then you'll know
What man she loved, this Gregory Wenner or
Some other man, and if some other man,
Whether he caused her death.
The coroner
And Loveridge Chase sat in the coroner's office
And talked the matter over. And the coroner,
Who knew this Loveridge Chase, was wondering
Why Loveridge Chase had taken up the work
Of secret service, followed it, and asked,
"How did you come to give your brains to this,
Who could do other things?" And Loveridge said:
"A woman made me, I went round the world
As jackie once, was brought into this world
By a mother good and wise, but took from her,
My father, someone, sense of chivalry
Too noble for this world, a pity too,
Abused too much by women. I came back,
Was hired in a bank; had I gone on
By this time had been up in banking circles,
But something happened. You can guess, I think
It was a woman, was my wife Leone.
It matters nothing here, except I knew
This Elenor Murray through my wife. These two
Were schoolmates, even chums. I'll get these letters
If you commission me. The fact is this:
I think this Elenor Murray and Leone
Were kindred spirits, and it does me good
Now that I'm living thus without a wife
To ferret out this matter of Elenor Murray,
Perhaps this way, or somewhere on the way,
Find news of my Leone; what life she lives,
And where she is. I'm curious still, you see."
Then Coroner Merival, who had not heard
Of Elenor Murray's letters in New York
Before this talk of Loveridge Chase, who heard
This story and analysis of Leone
Mixed in with other talk, and got a light
On Elenor Murray, said: "I know your work,
Know you as well, have confidence in you,
Make ready to go, and bring the letters back."
And on the day that Loveridge Chase departs
To get the letters in New York, Bernard,
A veteran of Belleau, married that day
To Amy Whidden, on a lofty dune
At Millers, Indiana, with his bride--
Long quiet, tells her something of the war.
These soldiers cannot speak what they have lived.
But Elenor Murray helps him; for the talk
Of Elenor Murray runs the rounds, so many
Stations whence the talk is sent:--the men
Or women who had known her, came in touch
Somehow with her. These newly wedded two
Go out to see blue water, yellow sand,
And watch the white caps pat the sky, and hear
The intermittent whispers of the waves.
And here Bernard, the soldier, tells his bride
Of Elenor Murray and their days at Nice:
AT NICE
Dear, let me tell you, safe beside you now,
Your hand in mine, here from this peak of sand,
Under this pine tree, where the wild grapes spill
Their fragrance on the lake breeze, from that oak
Half buried in the sand, devoured by sand--
The water of the lake is just as blue
As the sea is there at Nice, the caps as white
As foam around Mont Boron, Cap Ferrat.
Here let me tell you things you do not know,
I could not write, repeat what well you know,
How love of you sustained me, never changed,
But through a love was brighter, flame of the torch
I bore for you in battle, as an incense
Cast in a flame awakes the deeper essence
Of fire and makes it mount.
And I am here--
Here now with you at last--the war is over--
I have this aching side, these languid mornings,
And pray for that old strength which never knew
Fatigue or pain--but I am here with you,
You are my bride now, I have earned you, dear.
I fought the fight, endured the endless days
When rain fell, days of absence, and the days
Of danger when my only prayer was this:
Give me, O God, to see you once again.
This is the deepest rapture, tragedy
Of this our life, beyond our minds to fathom,
A thing to stand in awe of, touch in reverence,
That we--we mortals, find in one another
Such source of ecstasy, of pain. My love,
I lay there in the hospital so weak,
Flopping my hands upon the coverlet,
And praying God to live. In such an hour
To be away from you! There are no words
To speak the weary hours of fear and thought,
In such an absence, facing death, perhaps,
A burial in France, with thoughts of you,
Mourning some years, perhaps, healed partly then
And wedded to another; then at last
Myself forgot, or nearly so, and life
Taking you on with duties, house and children;
And my poor self forgotten, gone to dust,
Wasted along the soil of France.
Thank God,
I'm here with you--it's real, all this is true:
The roar of the water, sand-hills, infinite sky,
The gulls, the distant smoke, the smell of grapes,
The haze of amethyst behind us there,
In those ravines of stunted oak and pine.
All this is real. This is America.
The very air we find from coast to coast,
The sensible air for lungs seems freer here.
I had no sooner landed in New York
Than my arms said stretch out, there's room to stretch.
I walked along the streets so happy, light
Of heart and heard the newsboys, shop-girls talk:
"O, what a cheese he is," or "beat it now"--
I can't describe the thrill I had to hear
This loose abandoned slang spilled all around,
Like coppers soiled from handling, but so real,
And having power to purchase memories
Of what I loved and lost awhile, my land!
Well, then I wanted roast-beef, corn on cob,
And had them in an hour at early lunch.
I telegraphed you, gave New York a day,
And came to you. We are together now,
We do not dream, do we? We are together
After the war, to live our lives and grow
And make of love, experience, life more rich.
That's what you say to me--it shall be so.
Now I will tell you what I promised to tell
About my illness and the battle--well,
I wrote you of my illness, only hinted
About the care I had, that is the point;
'Twas care alone that saved me, I was ill
Beyond all words to tell. And all the while
I suffered, fearing I would die; but then
I could not bear to think I should not rise
To join my fellows, battle once again,
And charge across the trenches, take no part
In crushing down the Prussian. For I knew
He would be crushed at last. I could not bear
To think I should not take a hand in that,
Be there when he lay fallen, victory
From voice to voice should pass along the lines.
Well, for some weeks I lay there, and at last
Words dropped around me that the time was near
For blows to count--would I be there to strike?
Could I get well in time? And every day
A sweet voice said: "You're better, oh it's great
How you are growing stronger; yesterday
Your fever was but one degree, to-day
It is a little higher. You must rest,
Not think so much! It may be normal perhaps
To-morrow or the next day. In a week
You will be up and gaining, and the battle
Will not be fought before then, I am sure,
And not until you're well and strong again."
And thus it went from day to day. Such hands
Washed my hot face and bathed me, tucked me in,
And fed me too. And once I said to her:
"I love a girl, I must get well to fight,
I must get well to go to her." And she,
It was the nurse I spoke to, took my hand,
And turned away with tears. You see it's there
We see the big things, nothing else, the things
That stand out like the mountains, lesser things
Are lost like little hillocks under the shadows
Of great emotions, hopes, realities.
Well, so it went. And on a day she leaned
Above my face to smooth the pillow out.
And from her heart a golden locket fell,
And dangled by the silver chain. The locket
Flew open and I saw a face within it,
That is I saw there was a face, but saw
No eyes or hair, saw nothing to limn out
The face so I would know it.
Then I said:
"You have a lover, nurse." She straightened up
And questioned me: "Have you been ill before?
Do you know of the care a nurse can give,
And what she can withhold?" I answered "Yes."
And then she asked: "Have you felt in my hands
Great tenderness, solicitude, even prayer?"--
Here, sweetheart, do not let your eyes get moist,
I'll tell you everything, for you must see
How spirits work together, love to love
Passes and does its work.
Well, it was true,
I felt her tenderness, which was like prayer,
And so I answered her: "If I get well,
You will have cured me with your human love."
And then she said: "Our unit reached this place
When there was neither stoves nor lights. At night
We went to bed by candles. Stumbled around
Amid the trunks and beds by candle light.
Well, one of us would light a candle, then
Each, one by one, the others lighted theirs
From this one down the room. And so we passed
The light along. And as a candle died,
The others burned, to which the light was passed.
Well, now," she said, "that is a figure of love:
We get the flame from someone, light another,
Make brighter light by holding flame to flame--
Sometimes we searched for something, held two candles
Together for a greater light. And so,
My soldier, I have given you the care
That comes from love--of country and the cause,
But brightened, warmed by one from whom the flame
Was passed to me, a love that took my hand
And warmed it, made it tender for that love,
Which said pour out and serve, take love for him
And use it in the cause, by using hands
To bathe, to soothe, to smooth a pillow down,
To heal, sustain."
The truth is, dearest heart,
I had not lived, I think, except for her.
And there we were: I filled with love for you,
And therefore praying to get well and fight,
Be worthy of your love, and there she was
With love for someone, striving with that love
To nurse me through and give me well and strong
To battle in the cause.
Then I got well
And joined my company. She took my hand
As I departed, closed her eyes and said:
"May God be with you."
Well, it was Belleau,
That jungle of machine guns, like a thicket
Of rattle snakes. And there was just one thing
To clean that thicket out--we had to charge,
And so we yelled and charged. No soldier knows
How one survives in such a charge as that.
You simply yell and charge; the bullets fall
Like drops of rain around you pitter-pat;
And on you go and think: where will it get me,
The stomach or the heart or through the head?
What will it be like, sudden blackness, pain,
No pain at all? And so you charge the nests.
The fellows fell around us like tenpins,
Dropped guns, or flung them up, fell on their faces,
Or toppled backward, pitched ahead and flung
Their helmets off in pitching. And at last
I found myself half-dazed, as in a dream,
Right in a nest, two Boches facing me,
And then I saw this locket, as I saw it
Fall from her breast, it might have been a glint
Of metal, flash of firing, I don't know.
I only know I ran my bayonet
Through one of them; he fell, I stuck the other,
Then something stung my side. When I awoke
I lay upon a cot, and heard the nurses
Discuss the peace, the armistice was signed,
The war was over. Well, and in a way
We won the war, I won the war, as one
Who did his part, at least.
Then I got up,
But I was weak and dazed. They said to me
I should not cross the ocean in the winter,
My lungs might get infected; anyway,
The flu was raging. So they sent me down
To Nice upon a furlough, as I wrote.
I could not write you all I saw and heard,
It was all lovely and all memorable.
But first before I picture Nice to you,
My days at Nice, lest you have doubts and fears
When I reveal to you I saw this nurse
First on the Promenade des Anglais there,
Saw much of her in Nice, I saw at once
She was that Elenor Murray whom they found
Along the river dead; and for the rest
To make all clear, I'll tell you everything.
You see I didn't write you of this girl
And what we did there, lest you might suspect
Some vagrant mood in me concealed or glossed,
Which ended in betrayal of our love.
Eyes should look into eyes to supplement
The words of truth with light of truth, where nothing
Of thoughts that hide have chance to slip and crawl
Through eyes averted, twinklings, change of light,
Or if they do, reveal themselves, as snakes
Are seen when winding into coverts of grass.
Well, then we met upon the promenade.
She ran toward me, kissed me--oh so glad.
I told her of the battle, of my wound.
And for herself it seemed she had been ill,
Off duty for a month before she came
To Nice for health; she said as much to me.
I think she had been ill, yet I could sense,
Or seemed to sense a mystery, I don't know,
Behind her illness. Yet you understand
How it was natural we should be happy
To meet again, in Nice, too. For you see
The army life develops comradeship.
And when we meet the old life rises up
And wakes its thrills and memories. It seemed
She had been there some days when I arrived
And knew the place, and said, "I'll show you Nice."
There was a major she was waiting for,
As it turned out. He came there in a week,
We had some walks together, all the three,
And then I lost them.
But before he came
We did the bright cafes and Monte Carlo,
And here my little nurse showed something else
Besides the tender hands, the prayerful soul.
She had been taking egg-nogs, so she said,
But now she took to wine, and drink she could
Beyond all men I know. I had to stop
Or fall beneath the table, leaving her
To order more. And she would sit and weave
From right to left hip in a rhythmic way,
And cast her eyes obliquely right and left.
It was this way: The music set her thrilling,
And keeping time this way. She loved to go
Where we could see cocotes, adventurers;
Where red vitality was feasting, drinking,
And dropping gold upon the gaming table.
We sunned ourselves within the Jardin Public,
And walked the beach between the bathing places
Where they dry orange peel to make perfumes.
And in that golden sunshine by the sea
Caught whiffs of lemon blossoms, and each day
I bought her at the stands acacia,
Or red anemones--I tell you all--
There was no moment that my thought betrayed
Your heart, dear one. She had been good to me.
I saw that she was hungry for these things,
For rapture, so I gave them--you don't mind,
It came to nothing, dearest.