To return How much did Elenor Murray use her mind, How much her instincts, leave herself alone Let nature have its way? I think I know: But first you have the artist soul; and next The soul half artist, prisoned usually In limitations where the soul, half artist Between depressions and discouragements Rises in hope and knocks. Why, I can tell them The moment they touch keys or talk to me.

I hear their knuckles knocking on the walls, Insuperable part.i.tions made of wood, When seeking tones or words; they have the hint, But cannot open, manifest themselves.

So was it with this girl, she was all lover, Half artist, what a torture for a soul, And what escape for her! She could not play, Had never played, no matter what the chance.

I think there is no curse like being dumb When every waking moment, every dream Keeps crying to speak out. This is her case: The girl was dumb, like that dumb woman here Whose dress caught fire, and in the dining room Was burned to death while all her family Were in the house, to whom she could not cry!

You asked about her going to the war, Her sacrifice in that, and if I think She found expression there--yes, of a kind, But not the kind she hungered for, not music.

She found adventure there, excitement too.

That uses up the soul's power, takes the place Of better self-expression. But you see I do not think self-immolation life, I know it to be death. Now, look a minute: Why did she join the church? why to forget!

Why did she go to war? why to forget.

And at the last, this thing called sacrifice Rose up with meaning in her eyes. You see They tell around here now she often said: "I'm going to the war to be swept under."

Now comes your Christian idea: Let me die, But die in service of the race, in giving I waste myself for others, give myself!

Let G.o.d take notice, and reward the gift!

This is the failure's recourse often-times, A prodigal flinging of the self--let G.o.d Find what He can of good, or find all good.

I have abandoned all control, all thought Of finding my soul otherwise, if here I find my soul, a doubt that makes the gift Not less abandoned.

This is foolish talk I know you think, I think it is myself, At least in part. I know I'm right, however, In guessing off the reason of her failure, If failure it is. But pshaw, why talk of failure About a woman born to live the life She lived, which could not have been different, Much different under any circ.u.mstance?

She might have married, had a home and children, What of it? As it is she makes a story, A flute sound in our symphony--all right!

And I confess, in spite of all I've said, The profit, the success, may not be known To any but one's self. Now look at me, By all accounts I am a failure--look!

For forty years just making poor ends meet, My love all spent in making good pianos.

I thrill all over picking spruce and wires, And putting them together--all my love Gone into this, no head at all for business.

I keep no books, they cheat me out of rent.

I don't know how to sell pianos, when I sell one I have trouble oftentimes In getting pay for it. But just the same I sit here with myself, I know myself, I've found myself, and when collectors come I can say come to-morrow, turn about, And run the scale, or improvise, and smile, Forget the world!

The three arose and left.

Llewellyn George said: "That's a rarity, That man is like a precious flower you find Way off among the weeds and rocky soil, Grown from a seed blown out of paradise; I want to call again."

So thus they knew This much of Elenor Murray's music life.

But on a day a party talk at tea, Of Elenor Murray and her singing voice And how she tried to train it--just a riffle Which pa.s.sed unknown of Merival. For you know Your name may come up in a thousand places At earth's ends, though you live, and do not die And make a great sensation for a day.

And all unknown to Merival for good This talk of Lilli Alm and Ludwig Haibt:

LILLI ALM

In Lola Schaefer's studio in the Tower, Tea being served to painters, poets, singers, Herr Ludwig Haibt, a none too welcome guest, Of vital body, brisk, too loud of voice, And Lilli Alm crossed swords.

It came about When Ludwig Haibt said: "Have you read the papers About this Elenor Murray?" And then said: "I tried to train her voice--she was a failure."

And Lilli Alm who taught the art of song Looked at him half contemptuous and said: "Why did she fail?" To which Herr Ludwig answered "She tried too hard. She made her throat too tense, And made its muscles stiff by too much thought, Anxiety for song, the vocal triumph."

"O, yes, I understand," said Lilli Aim.

Then stabbing him she added, "since you dropped The Perfect Inst.i.tute, and dropped the idea Which stresses training muscles of the tongue, And all that thing, be fair and shoulder half The failure of poor Elenor Murray on Your system's failure. For I chanced to know The girl myself. She started work with me, And I am sure that if I had been able-- With time enough I could have done it too-- To rid her mind of muscles and to fix The thought alone of music in her mind, She would have sung. Now listen, Ludwig Haibt, You've come around to see that song's the thing.

I take a pupil and I say to her: The mind must fix itself on music, say I would make song, pure tones and beautiful; That comes from spirit, from the Plato rapture, Which gets the idea. It is well to know Some physiology, I grant, to know When, how to move the vocal organs, feel How they are moving, through the ear to place These organs in relation, and to know The soft palate is drawn against the hard; The tongue can take positions numerous, Can be used at the root, a throaty voice; Or with the tip, produce expressiveness.

But what must we avoid?--rigidity.

And if that girl was over-zealous, then So much the more her teaching should have kept Mind off the larynx and the tongue, and fixed Upon the spiritual matters, so to give The snake-like power of loosening, contracting The muscles used for singing. Ludwig Haibt, I can forgive your system, since abandoned, I can't forgive your words to-day who say This woman failed for trying over much, When I know that your system made her throw An energy truly wonderful on muscles; And when I think of your book where you said: The singing voice is the result, observe Of physical conditions, like the strings Or tubes of bra.s.s. While granting that it's well To know the art of tuning up the strings, And how to place them; after all the art Of tuning and of placing comes from mind, The idea, and the art of making song Is just the breathing of the perfect spirit Upon the strings. The throat is but the leaves, Let them be flexible, the mouth's the flower, The tone the perfume. And your olden way Of harping on the larynx--well, since you Turned from it, I'm ungenerous perhaps To scold you thus to-day.

But this I say, Let us be frank as teachers: Take the fetich Of breathing and see how you cripple talent, Or take that matter of the laryngyscope, Whereby you photograph a singer's throat, Caruso's, Galli Curci's at the moment Of greatest beauty in song, and thus preserve In photographs before you how the muscles Looked and were placed that moment. Then attempt To get the like effect by placing them In similar fas.h.i.+on. Oh, you know, Herr Ludwig, These fetiches go by. One thing remains: The idea in the soul of beauty, music, The hope to give it forth.

Alas! to think So many souls are wasted while we teach This thing or that. The strong survive, of course.

But take this Elenor Murray--why, that girl Was just a flame, I never saw such hunger For self-development, and beauty, richness, In all experience in life--I knew her, That's why I say so--take her as I say, And put her to a practice--yours we'll say-- Where this great zeal she had is turned and pressed Upon the physical, just the very thing To make her throat constrict, and fill her up With over anxiety and make her fail.

When had she come to me at first this pa.s.sion Directed to the beauty, the idea Had put her soul at ease to ease her body, Which gradually and beautifully had answered That flame of hers.

Well, Ludwig Haibt, you're punished For wasting several years upon a system Since put away as half erroneous, If not quite worthless. But I must confess, Since I have censured you, to my own sin.

This girl ran out of money, came to me And told me so. To which I said: "Too bad, You will have money later, when you do, Come back to me." She stood a silent moment, Her hand upon the k.n.o.b, I saw her tears, Just little dim tears, then she said good-bye And vanished from me.

Well, I now repent.

I who have thought of beauty all my life, And taught the art of sound made beautiful, Let slip a chance for beauty--why, I think, A beauty just as great as song! You see I had a chance to serve a hungering soul-- I could have said just let the money go, Or let it go until you get the money.

I let that chance for beauty slip. Even now I see poor Elenor Murray at the door, Who paused, no doubt, in hope that I would say What I thought not to say.

So, Ludwig Haibt, We are a poor lot--let us have some tea!

"We are a poor lot," Ludwig Haibt replied.

"But since this is confessional, I absolve you, If you'll permit me, from your sin. Will you Absolve me, if I say I'm sorry too?

I'll tell you something, it is really true:-- I changed my system more I think because Of what I learned from teaching Elenor Murray Than on account of any other person.

She demonstrated better where my system Was lacking than all pupils that I had.

And so I changed it; and of course I say The thing is music, just as poets say The thing is beauty, not the rhyme and words, With which they bring it, instruments that's all, And not the thing--but beauty."

So they talked, Forgave each other. And that very day Two priests were talking of confessionals A mile or so from the Tower, where Lilli Alm And Ludwig Haibt were having tea. You say The coroner was ignorant of this!

What is the part it plays with Elenor Murray?

Or with the inquest? Wait a little yet And see if Merival has told to him What thing of value touching Elenor Murray Is lodged in Father Whimsett's heart or words.

FATHER WHIMSETT

Looking like Raphael's Perugino, eyes So slightly, subtly aquiline, as brown As a buck-eye, amorous, flamed, but lightly dimmed Through thought of self while sitting for the artist; A nose well bridged with bone for will, the nostrils Distended as if sniffing diaphanous fire; A very bow for lips, the under lip Rich, kissable like a woman's; heavy cheeks Propped with a rounded tower of flesh for neck: Thus Perugino looked, says Raphael, And thus looked Father Whimsett at his desk, With vertical creases, where the nose and brow Together come, between the eye-brows slanting Unequally, half clown-wise, half Mephisto, With just a touch of that abandoned humor, And laughter at the world, the race of men, Mephisto had for mischief, which the priest Has for a sense which looks upon the dream And smiles, yet pities those who move in it.

And Father Whimsett smokes and reads and smiles.

He soon will hold confessional. For days he has heard nothing but complaints of lovers, And searched for nullities, impediments, Through which to give sore stricken hearts relief: There was the youth too drunk to know he married A woman never baptized. Now the youth Has found another--oh this is the one!

And comes and says: Oh, holy father, help me, May I be free to marry her I love, And get the church's blessing when a court Dissolves the civil contract? Holy Father, I knew not what I did, cannot remember Where I was married, when, my mind's a blank-- It was the drink, you know.

And so it goes, The will is eyeless through concupiscence, And that absolves the soul that's penitent.

And Father Whimsett reads his Latin books, Searches for subtleties for faithful souls, Whereby the faithful souls may have their wish, Yet keep the gospel, too.

These Latin books Leave him fatigued, but not fatigued to turn Plotinus, Xenophon, Boccacio, Ars Amatoria and Remedia Amoris.

And just this moment Father Whimsett reads Catullus, killing time, before he hears Confession, gets the music of Catullus Along the light that enters at the eye: Etherial strings plucked by the intellect To vibrate to the inner ear. At times He must re-light his half-forgot cigar.

And while the music of the Latin verse, Which is an echo, as he stops to light His half-forgot cigar, is wafted through His meditation, as a tune is heard After the keys are stayed, it blends, becomes The soul, interpretation of these stories, Which lovers tell him in these later days.

And now the clock upon the mantel chimes The quarter of the hour. Up goes Catullus By Ovid on the shelf. The dead cigar Is thrown away. He rises from the chair-- When Father Conway enters, just to visit Some idle moments, smoke and have a talk.

And Father Whimsett takes his seat again, Waves Father Conway to a comfort chair, Says "Have a smoke," and Father Conway smokes, And sees Catullus, says you read Catullus, And lays the morning _Times_ upon the table, And says to Father Whimsett: "Every day The _Times_ has stories better than Catullus, And episodes which Horace would have used.

I wish we had a poet who would take This city of Chicago, write it up, The old Chicago, and the new Chicago, The race track, old cafes and gambling places, The prize fights, wrestling matches, sporting houses, As Horace wrote up Rome. Or if we had A Virgil he would find an epic theme In this American matter, typical Of our America, one phase or more Concerning Elenor Murray. Here to-day There is a story, of some letters found In Arthur Fouche's mansion, under the floor, Sensational, dramatic.

Father Whimsett Looked steadily at Father Conway, blew A funnel of tobacco smoke and said: I scarcely read the _Times_ these days, too busy-- I've had a run of rich confessionals.

The war is ended, but they still come on, And most are lovers in the coils of love.

I had one yesterday that made me think Of one I had a year ago last spring, The point was this: they say forgive me father, For I have sinned, then as the case proceeds A greater sin comes forth, I mean the sin Of saying sin is good, cannot be sin: I loved the man, or how can love be sin?

Well, as a human soul I see the point, But have no option, must lay to and say Acknowledgment, contrition and the promise To sin no more, is necessary to Win absolution. Now to show the matter, Here comes a woman, says I leave for France To serve, to die. I have a premonition That I shall die abroad; or if I live, I have had fears, I shall be taken, wronged, So driven by this honor to destroy Myself, goes on and says, I tell you all These fears of mine that you may search my heart, More gladly may absolve me. Then she says, These fears worked in my soul until I took The step which I confess, before I leave.

I wait and she proceeds: