The Fate of the Jury

Front matter

THE FATE OF THE JURY

EDGAR LEE MASTERS

THE FATE OF THE JURY

Part 1

I always think of flying kites in April, And sailing little boats upon a pond, Where frogs are singing, as I used to do In boyhood at Peru—what happy days! Now I am back at work since we are done With Elenor Murray and her tragedy; And you seem traveling on pleasure bent."

"A trip planned long ago, and taken now. I think we lived the life of Elenor Murray, And lived the lives of those who touched her life In all these weeks of probing to the cause Of Elenor Murray's death; and I am glad To rest from all of it, and have a change."

"Some one has said that one is less a man For opening his heart to let the world Look in. But is it so? And if it be How is it fair to open other hearts, And keep your own, as if a sanctity Surrounded it, because it is your own? Last night I thought of this: We seven men, Yourself as coroner, and we as jurymen Should tell in some appropriate form the thing Most critical in our lives, and out of which As root our lives shot into stems or leaves And blossoms, if they blossomed; or what rust,

Rot or decay assailed them to the death." The coroner paused a moment, said, "How strange. I had a dream about this very thing, Last night it was. I dreamed I took you all To Cuba, to Matanzas, to the cave A few miles from Matanzas; and we walked Down, down a thousand feet, until we stood Beneath the ocean's floor, which dripped the clay Of ceilings and of walls with shuddering sweat. But on we went, each lighted by a candle Of brownish wax, exploring, till we felt The ventricles of the earth, how warm and still, Not beating, or we did not feel the beat, Being at center of the heart of earth. Now here's the terror. As we started back We faced a sunken ceiling, we were trapped; Stood there before the fresh earth of collapse, Whole tons of cruel, senseless, monstrous clay Which barred escape, made hopeless the outer air; While what remained in this hermetic grave Was scant already, and fed our desperate hearts To faster beats. I knocked upon the clay. What use? Through yards of putty stuff like this What knock could vibrate to the other side? No sound was on our side, although I beat The clay with fists, and all of you did so. So we who knew the fate of Elenor Murray

And George, who will be truthfulness itself. Two things obstruct: the diffidence that balks, And so distorts; the eye which does not see, Or gets the wrong perspective, and so makes Too much of details till the central thing Fades in a weak portrayal, almost lost. Well, let us do our best. This neighborhood Knows men no deeper lived than us, nor men Who played a richer part than us who weighed The life and death of Elenor Murray, while In weighing them we tried to take a spiritual Census of America; and set forth America as it is, its good and bad, Its failures and successes, and venturing Directions for its future. You may be sure That I shall not withhold a single word Which makes my story understandable. But it will be some days before I write, Or weeks perhaps, since I shall take a rest; And, who knows, bring to issue in my life What is a massed confusion until now."

Marign smiled and nodded with his eyes, Half guessing the allusion of Merival. At last, they reached Chicago, parted there. And Marion hurried to his unwelcome task, While Merival changed trains for Madison.

That evening at LeRoy the others heard From Marion this plan of setting down, And sealing until death their: secret lives, Which being approved each man began at once To study out and grasp his central clew, For all were fifty and their lives were made. There might be further growth, but out of flesh And spirit fashioned now by what had made That flesh and spirit as they were to-day. If richer mellowness was yet to come, So were the days of rot not far away. To tell what stung the bud, or carked the fruit No more to redden, but only to hang and fall When Fate should shake the tree, would be enough.

Part 2

And that she wrote of Arielle at all. His thought was that whatever a woman says, However she hides it under Hindu fudge, Her thought, which burns from unexhausted oil, Is love, is mating, is about the child; And when she ages, as his Cynthia had, She substitutes by using an Arielle To live what life no longer lets her live. So acting had she written of Arielle, And moved the hand of Arielle to write him. Twas plain enough these two had weighed his life, These two together; he could fancy it: At night together talking when they read The evening paper with the latest news Of Elenor Murray's inquest. As this aunt Had written him of Arielle's widowhood, And all her history from a little girl, True was it she had told to Arielle What he had lived. For Arielle wrote him: "Most everything about you, of your youth, Your schooling, shall I say your sorrow too, I know—and I admire your life." He wondered How Arielle felt about this. If at first Her sympathy was stirred because he lost A woman twenty years before, what now Stood in her thought as final mind result, As judgment, feeling that this early love

Had run away to France, and broken faith; And there had met disaster of some sort With a heartless maestro in a lawless bond? For this and for his years of sorrowing Did she admire him more? How would he feel If she had been discarded in such wise? Would he be prone to love her more? Would love Breed pity, and then fool itself as love? But when the flesh of love had shrunk away Around the bones of grief which flesh concealed What, saving pity, or perchance contempt Would enter at the eye? So he was sure Such knowledge in the hand of Arielle Fortuned him nothing. And if Arielle Were a wag, a laugher, as his aunt had said, Would she be serious about his grief? Rather his secret known to her would give Her mood a certain mastery over him, And place him on a level with her eyes, Not looking up to eyes which never knew Defeat. But then such subtleties of life Would wither in the actual, hardy days Of married interests—surely. For himself If Arielle became his wife, and rode About those great three thousand acres near Starved Rock, amid his cattle; if she sat With him at night among his treasured shelves

Of books; if they shared duties, joys, and hopes; If they had guests, or traveled; if the days Won them together, bound them in a health Of clear eyes for the real, and steady wills For stuff of flesh and blood—if all of this How should he care about her husband dying Suddenly in a brothel, and who left This spirit beautiful, this Arielle, As Cynthia described her, this young wife For ways like these? Yet Merival reflected The caring might depend on why he left, And whether Arielle was such a woman Who in some manner hurled him into shame, And shameful death; or whether she was song Out of a rhythm, sense of beauty, soul All beautiful, who knew the errant ways Of her young husband, and forgave them, gave Her constancy no less. Then did his body Lie in her wondrous library, beneath The dancing muses (all this Cynthia wrote him), A purple robe thrown over it, where she laid Her sunny head? Did Cynthia fancy this? What picture was the truth for Merival To care or not to care about the past Of Arielle? But surely it was true That Cynthia had run to sentiment; And was she even judgment clear to say

That Arielle was beautiful as a spirit And Elenor was not, whom Merival Saw beautiful in part with all her faults? This Arielle had faults, for him to find; That must be so, thought Merival. And thus He canvassed all the matter on the train, And with such knowledge sped to Arielle, Who waited him, half knowing Merival.

She looked in closets at the snowy piles Of linen, napery, at her shoes in stocks, Her furs in bags, her dresses hung with care, Her hats in boxes, all the ordered thrift In which she kept her cherished ownerships; She walked her rooms half smiling to herself For thinking of this Merival; through her hall She loitered where the April wind was tilting The picture frames upon the wall; she took The vine in hand with delicate delight, Which last year like a hope had almost come Over the window sill and entered in Her room of books; she strayed upon the lawn To scatter crumbs among the lively fowl, And where the robins and the thrushes came; She frolicked with her dogs, and hugged Arno The great police dog, whispering in his ear That company was coming; and she clipped

The dead tips of the box along the walks, Or wandered to the kitchen where her maids Were busy baking cakes, and dressing fowls; And from the kitchen to the cellar going She took her flash light better to see the age And brands of precious wine; she draped with cloth Of gold the grand piano, the cloth she bought In China, and she laid her music out Selected from Liszt, Schubert, and Chopin To be in readiness for her friend Helena Whom she had asked to come and play for her— For Merival rather; and all this sunny day Of long lived hours she sat and stood and walked, And rounded her inspections, straightened spreads, Changed pictures, emptied vases of dead stems, Put books upon the stands, then changed her mind, Replacing them with others; then returned To the kitchen once again to overlook The dinner being cooked, and glanced the clock Whose hands were moving to the hour of six Which brought the train and Merival, for whom This day was spent in waiting. When she heard The whistle sound she hurried up the stairs Better to look across the vacant space Where Cynthia lived, and see this Merival Walking to Cynthia's door; or pass across The lawn and leave the taxi at the gate.

So standing at her window where the vine Was stretching green to grow across the sill She stood and waited; and after hours it seemed A taxi sped the gravel to the porch Of Cynthia's house. She saw a man alight, Help Cynthia from the taxi, pay the man, And carrying his satchel walk with her, Enter and disappear. But she had seen Something, a pause, a tangle of missing hands, It seemed he dropped his satchel, or it seemed That Cynthia tripped, or lacked the helping hand Of Merival, and swayed until he caught Her arm—'twas something brief and swift and gone. Then Arielle turned and dressed for dinner, while Aunt Cynthia and her nephew across the way Talked of a thousand things in eager haste; Until at last Aunt Cynthia took his lapels And gazing in his eyes importunate Said, "You are weary and your face betrays Anxiety and labor. You must stay These many days with me and rest yourself, Walk in this lovely country with Arielle, Throw off old care and be a boy again— Oh, what a chance for happiness is here! Now dress for dinner, served at seven o'clock; And do you wake your mood of humorous words, And brighten Arielle's dinner which she gives

To honor you and bring you happiness." So Merival promised; and soon upon the porch Of Arielle's mansion Cynthia rang the bell.

Now Arielle watching from an upper window Saw them approaching. Well she marked the breadth Of Merival's shoulders, all his height and brawn; And how he strode, how with a rhythmic swing He lifted feet; and she was wondering What frost or snow along his temples lay, She knew his age from Cynthia. Then she thought How often at the first a face had seemed Almost perfection, like a Byron face, But in the true analysis of eyes Which tried to keep the Byron face, became By just the dreamed similitudes so less The face imagined, as they stood against What was not Byron's, and even made them less The resemblances. How would his face emerge After the first impression? Then the bell Rang and she stood until the maid should come Announcing them; while Merival and his aunt Entered the drawing-room and awaited her. Now Merival was sitting full in view Of the spacious stair, and watched for Arielle. Soon he beheld her stepping gracefully, And caught a glimpse of sunny hair; and then

Reaching the last step Arielle hurried in, And amid the words of introduction gave Her friend a hand, and Merival a hand, And laughed her welcome with a voice which shook The heart of Merival, and with her eyes All laughing-light and gentleness she said, "So you are here at last—we are so glad."

Now at the dinner Merival by the wine Keyed to discussion said to Arielle: "What made you write me that I needed lifting, A spiritual uplifting, when those days Were given while I canvassed Elenor Murray's Life, and so doing probed America, To find what ailed it and what could be done? Is that not spiritual? Or did you mean It had no flavor of the spirit in it? For I confess that any little Atlas Who holds the world upon his shoulders may Groan, curse the task, and lose his spirit so; And you can say that inquest for the time Was holding up the world. One thing I loved In your letter: it was that frank and sweet confession That you leap over social rules to write And speak your mind, and that by doing so You have made many friends upon the way. I quote your words, 'So many friends I've made

By searching out and asking. Why delay? Time slips away like moving clouds, but Life Says to the wise make haste. Is there a soul You'd like to know? Then signal it. I light From every peak a beacon fire,' and so on— My verbal memory is very good For what I prize, or choose to memorize. Oh yes, you wrote that I could teach you—what Do you now say that I can teach you?" Then Laughing she said, "We cannot map a course Of study while you're jesting, drinking wine; To-morrow or the next day or the next We'll give it thought, when Cynthia can spare Your presence for a walk, a drive, or tea." And saying this she studied out his face, How large and luminous his eyes were, how Shapely and strong his nose, how full his brow, How generous his mouth. And what was here To weaken or submerge with lesser grace The whole, magnanimous and beautiful? Would not this first impression gather proof That it must be the last impression too, Tested in many lights, and by what turns Of head, of profiles, by what change of mood? So thinking Arielle said, "I understand That in this inquest witnesses deposed, For I have read their testimony. But

Of the hour, this tumbled backwash of the war. So I am here as one of the effects Of Elenor Murray, the little nurse who died, The poor, starved, passionate ruin of LeRoy; And being here, there are other things to be, And what, who knows? But save for Elenor Murray I might not be in life. For when the word Came that her body had been found, I stood In the very act of starting for the lake, With chums who went, and one did not return: The boat capsized and one of them was drowned; That might have been myself, or all of us, Who knows? It's clear that my escape was made By staying in LeRoy to hold this inquest. But of one sequence there's no doubt at all: This inquest roused such animosity That I shall be the coroner no more. I have been served with notice that I'm out; And also that my hope to go to Congress Is blasted by some bosses, newspapers Who say this inquest proved that I am not The stuff whereof good Congressmen are made. So barred from Congress which will lead to what? God only knows, and being here instead, Which will lead where God only knows as well, All flows from Elenor Murray. As to what We men who held the inquest said apart

From witnesses and the public, it would take A room of books to hold it. Much was trash, Just as some jurymen were given at times To utter rant or empty platitudes." Then Arielle said, "That was ingenious For you to try to take a spiritual census Through Elenor's inquest, of America. Did you succeed, and if you did, what is The final word, what is America, And what is needful for America To do in order to perform her part, Achieve her rightful destiny and go on?" And Merival replied, "Perhaps I'll give A lecture sometime, try to predicate What is the matter with America, And what remains for us to do for her. Just now it seems enough to say that waste, Waste of life force, of men and women, halts A faster progress, just as Elenor Was so much waste, no matter how she strove. As I said to my fellows of the inquest We need to work a science out with which To use, not waste all human energies; A science which will handle wonder, love, And curb or well direct hate, fear and strength. For I could see, and all of us could see That Elenor if fortuned at the first

In love, had grown to happiness, success; And being luckless in her first attempt Went straying, struggling, trying all her life. So do we all, perhaps. And few of us Have any one, or any book to guide Our way when we are headed toward results, This good, that bad. But then I must confess I felt at times that Elenor lived a life As good as many, or as any maybe. Her case so much increased my skepticism, And made me resurrect old speculations On proofs of immortality, to illustrate, Where, as you know, the proofs are paralleled By just as many proofs that death's the end; Or God of whose existence there's as much Evidence and no more that He is not; Or to come down to nearer things, to man: Looked at one way he is a flat defeat, And at another quite a fine success; Or life which can be argued as an evil, Or argued just as well as something good; Or there's America, so materialistic, So heedless, vulgar, cruel, selfish, savage; But seen another way with her inventions, Philanthropies, and comforts, beauty too, Seems half divine and climbing to the light. It looks as though a devil soul has caught

Our minds between these rich antitheses, Which neutralize each other and prevent Belief from taking us who canvass both. We can shut eyes to those we wish to doubt, And thereby have conviction based upon The column with the figures that we choose. We can be optimists, to make the point, By blotting out the column written red. But if we scan both columns we confess We can't arrive at any truth with minds So impotent and baffled by the proofs. Faced by this double entry bigot souls Deny the double entry, see their truth, And by denying thus and seeing thus Grow fiercer in conviction, and become Great haters, great fanatics for the good, For progress of the world. Meanwhile the eyes Which see both columns, cannot be so sure, And being doubtful cannot map a course With wills and hopes unnerved by seeing both The thesis and antithesis. Why should the world Be ordered thus, which gives the lesser minds Advantage for the time, and being piled, Perhaps for all time, lauds the triumph too? Well, in a word I don't know Elenor Murray After these weeks of canvassing her life. I don't know whether 'twas good or bad, in truth

I don't know whether her life was waste or not, Though thinking it was waste. But here to-night She seems an actress in a play, who trod The boards with zest, and made her part a thing For long remembrance. Maybe there are gods Who write such plays, and then assign the parts, And watch the playing. What is back of gods As need, or reason, use who run the world In such a fashion, while the players win A moment's ecstasy and years' regret, And gods win what, and to what ultimate end?"

So ranged the talk of Merival as Arielle With rapt attention listened, and the while Studied him, and assayed his face and heart. Then there was music, and with the evening gone Aunt Cynthia with her nephew wandered home.

Next day at ten o'clock with Arielle Merival set forth upon a tramp. Along a street becoming a country road They left the town, and wandered down a hill, And crossed a bridge that spanned a creek, then up A hill where they could see the meadowlands; Then coming to a wood of oaks and elms Where sheep were pasturing they climbed a fence, And strode athletically for a mile or so;

Till amid hills, and on a hill which looked Upon a little lake they found a log, And sat, and rested, listening to the wind Of April which was shaking blasted stalks, And racing clouds across a vernal sky.

Here seeing in the eyes of Arielle The passing clouds, and how the April air Had flushed her cheeks, and how despite the test Of heaven's discerning light her beauty stood Unanalyzed to any fault, he sat And felt the kindling flame within his heart Warm like a peace, and thrill with hope which said, "This Arielle, this woman is all true, Not like that woman of the long ago Who died in France, after she ran away From you." And with closed eyes against the wind To shut the grosser seeing of the day, And win the finer seeing of the dark, So better to get the image of this woman, And enter to its essence, Merival Mused, murmuring that the walk and air, 'This scene of peace, this change from recent days Of the troubled inquest, had induced a mood Filled full with happiness. Quietly he spoke Thus and put forth his hand to find her hand, And finding it enclosed it, folding up

Her fingers softly in his palm. She looked Steadily at his face now, free to gaze By his closed eyes with greater scrutiny, And saw a weariness along his cheeks, And something of a sorrow in the lids Which seemed like memory lost in quietude. Now she remembered what Aunt Cynthia Had told her of the woman dying in France, And how he grieved about it. How to bring Some further word from Merival touching this She planned, and to ensure it asked him now To tell her how he spent his days, and what He read, with whom he fellowed, how he played To pass the time, and what the years had been. To which he answered, "Well, you wrote me thus: 'Most everything about you, of your youth, Your schooling, shall I say your sorrow too, I know, and I admire your life.'" "Quite true," Said Arielle, "and yet can one be sure That a loving aunt, a little mystical, And prone as women are to sentiment, Stuck to the truth as closely as you would?" Now Merival not opening his eyes, And with his hand still holding Arielle's hand Concocted answers, as his wit divined How curious she was, divining too Beneath her quest of knowledge of his days

Just her one interest, centered in this woman Who died in France. And thus he said to her: "You want the facts—about this woman, too. Well, first the world must have its pleasing myths, Its spectacles of grief to feed upon; And what the Romans with their circus did The world does right along with its desire For tales of men who suffered, and who failed. There is a happiness in hearing such; And human cruelty is like a claw Which catches what the human heart must have As nutriment. But it's imagination Which gives the taste desired to what is caught. The taste is in the mind of those who feed. By which I mean specifically, no man Grieves for a lifetime for a woman's loss; It never happened. Petrarch, all the rest Are pleasant myths. I say this though confessing That thwarted love may be like some disease Which builds up antibodies and prevents Recurrence soon, and yet recurrence comes. But you can say the man will suffer change And suffer in a thousand ways, without Saying that for his lifetime he will grieve About a woman lost. As well to say That he will brood about his suffering When ill, and suffer brooding all his life.

And seeing this he wondered what she saw, As often looking in the eyes of Boy He sought the image on such retinas, To learn if it was that of human eyes.

Then Merival without the obvious probe Of questions, said eliciting by a tack Of indirection, "More and more I see That what we are for life is made before We come to twelve, or maybe ten years old; It's so with me." And Arielle rejoined, "Oh, that is true; but thinking of one's self One wonders just what habit, trait of thought, Or feeling is related to what event Or circumstance, or kind of daily breath. I know this much: that out of my mother come All undertones in me. When I was born She lost her health and never again was well. And I don't say my father was unkind; I feel he might have shown more tenderness. But more I shall not say, it touches me Too sacredly to talk about. I know That from my childhood on my mother filled My heart with sorrow, meditative mood. I can relate some happier things. You know My birthplace was Virginia among the hills; And when I was a little girl I knew

A girl named Mary, first at school and then In play around her father's yard, who lived In an old house high on a wooded hill. They called her father judge, for on a time He had been judge, or as a lawyer held Court for the judge as deputy. I think That can be done. But anyway the father Of Mary was an old man, white and bent When we were little girls. He used to climb The hill so slowly going into town, It hurts my heart to think of him even now, Day after day climbing the weary hill To reach his office where he practiced law. Now Mary had no mother. Perhaps as mine Was much away for treatment, we were drawn By the like fate more closely to each other. But as the years went on it still was true Our fond attachment grew. We're here together Looking upon these green Wisconsin hills Because of Mary, though your Cynthia Aroused my interest in your work and life. Yet I am sure I never should have written That note to you, except for Alma Bell Who loved, somehow too strangely, Elenor Murray. So in this way does Elenor Murray send Your boat to mine to drift a day or so Beside my boat."

Then Merival spoke between Her words to ask, "Did Alma Bell remind you Of Mary; do you think they were alike?" And Arielle said: "Of course I couldn't say. But this was it: This inquest seemed to smudge The fame of Alma Bell, for nothing more Than loving Elenor, just as Mary loved Me as a girl to early womanhood. And knowing what such love is, that it's free Of the taint which baser minds would put upon it, I hated all the men, who uttered hints Which crept like tiny serpents in the press And hissed their doubts, and sprayed with poison too The name of Alma Bell. Coincident With all of this, news comes to me of Mary, After these fifteen years of ignorance Of where she was, or even if she lived. Her older sister died in Idaho, And that was published in the little sheet Of my home town; and at the last it said "That Mary was an invalid, and had lived With this good sister who had died, whose skill As a physician, too, these many years Prolonged the life of Mary. So I sent Money to Mary, and now we write again. Wasn't it strange that I should find her thus While Alma Bell from long obscurity

I saw you here. A woman wise, or one Striving for wisdom and for mastery Would feel her strength augmented by the thought That she could call you friend with certainty Of admiration given her for what she strove To do and be, with which her interwoven Approval of your faith in life and work And human love, and your democracy Would compact strands, and make them firm and fast." Now saying this Arielle leaned her head Nearer his shoulder, till his cheek was touched By the trembling tendrils of her hair. And he Brought with an arm her brow against his chin, His lips against her brow, and pressed her shoulder, With tenderness against his own. And while Shaking and pressing her with mischievous growls He said, "Well, how is Mary, tell me more About her, of yourself, and how you came To leave Virginia, and to settle here?" "When I was fourteen," Arielle resumed, "My good aunt in Chicago sent for me. By this time father was a rattled wreck; He didn't drink, he had anxiety, My mother, everything; he couldn't solve The money matter. My brother had flown off To work his way through school. And there I was In rooms that fronted on a business street