ARCHIBALD LOWELL
Archibald Lowell, owner of the _Times_ Lived six months of the year at Sunnyside, His Gothic castle near LeRoy, so named Because no sun was in him, it may be. His wife was much away when on this earth At cures, in travel, fighting psychic ills, Approaching madness, dying nerves. They said Her heart was starved for living with a man So cold and silent. Thirty years she lived Bound to this man, in restless agony, And as she could not free her life from his, Nor keep it living with him, on a day She stuck a gas hose in her mouth and drank Her lungs full of the lethal stuff and died. That was the very day the hunter found Elenor Murray's body near the river. A servant saw this Mrs. Lowell lying A copy of the _Times_ clutched in her hand, Which published that a slip of paper found In Elenor Murray's pocket had these words "To be brave and not to flinch." And was she brave, And nerved to end it by these words of Elenor? But Archibald, the husband, could not bear To have the death by suicide made known. He laid the body out, as if his wife Had gone to bed as usual, turned a jet And left it, just as if his wife had failed To fully turn it, then went in the room; Then called the servants, did not know that one Had seen her with the _Times_ clutched in her hand. He thought the matter hidden. Merival, All occupied with Elenor Murray's death Gave to a deputy the Lowell inquest. But later what this servant saw was told To Merival.
And now no more alone Than when his wife lived, Lowell passed the days At Sunnyside, as he had done for years. He sat alone, and paced the rooms alone, With hands behind him clasped, in fear and wonder Of life and what life is. He rode about, And viewed his blooded cattle on the hills. But what were all these rooms and acres to him With no face near him but the servants, gardeners? Sometimes he wished he had a child to draw Upon his fabulous income, growing more Since all his life was centered in the _Times_ To swell its revenues, and in the process His spirit was more fully in the _Times_ Than in his body. There were eyes who saw How deftly was his spirit woven in it Until it was a scarf to bind and choke The public throat, or stifle honest thought Like a soft pillow offered for the head, But used to smother. There were eyes who saw The working of its ways emasculate, Its tones of gray, where flame had been the thing, Its timorous steps, while spying on the public, To learn the public's thought. Its cautious pauses, With foot uplifted, ears pricked up to hear A step fall, twig break. Platitudes in progress-- With sugar coat of righteousness and order, Respectability.
Did the public make it? Or did it make the public, that it fitted With such exactness in the communal life? Some thousands thought it fair--what should they think When it played neutral in the matter of news To both sides of the question, though at last It turned the judge, and chose the better side, Determined from the first, a secret plan, And cunning way to turn the public scale? Some thousands liked the kind of news it printed Where no sensation flourished--smallest type That fixed attention for the staring eyes Needed for type so small. But others knew It led the people by its fair pretensions, And used them in the end. In any case This editor played hand-ball in this way: The advertisers tossed the ball, the readers Caught it and tossed it to the advertisers: And as the readers multiplied, the columns Of advertising grew, and Lowell's thought Was how to play the one against the other, And fill his purse.
It was an ingrown mind, And growing more ingrown with time. Afraid Of crowds and streets, uncomfortable in clubs, No warmth in hands to touch his fellows' hands, Keeping aloof from politicians, loathing The human alderman who bails the thief; The little scamp who pares a little profit, And grafts upon a branch that takes no harm. He loved the active spirit, if it worked, And feared the active spirit, if it played. This Lowell hid himself from favor seekers, Such letters filtered to him through a sieve Of secretaries. If he had a friend, Who was a mind to him as well, perhaps It was a certain lawyer, but who knew? And cursed with monophobia, none the less This Lowell lived alone there near LeRoy, Surrounded by his servants, at his desk A secretary named McGill, who took Such letters, editorials as he spoke. His life was nearly waste. A peanut stand Should be as much remembered as the _Times_, When fifty years are passed.
And every month The circulation manager came down To tell the great man of the gain or loss The paper made that month in circulation, In advertising, chiefly. Lowell took The audit sheets and studied them, and gave Steel bullet words of order this or that. He took the dividends, and put them--where? God knew alone.
He went to church sometimes, On certain Sundays, for a pious mother Had reared him so, and sat there like a corpse, A desiccated soul, so dry the moss Upon his teeth was dry.
And on a day, His wife now in the earth a week or so, Himself not well, the doctor there to quiet His fears of sudden death, pains in the chest, His manager had come--was made to wait Until the doctor finished--brought the sheets Which showed the advertising, circulation. And Lowell studied them and said at last: "That new reporter makes the Murray inquest A thing of interest, does the public like it?" To which the manager: "It sells the paper." And then the great man: "It has served its use. Now being nearly over, print these words: The Murray inquest shows to what a length Fantastic wit can go, it should be stopped." An editorial later might be well: Comment upon a father and a mother Invaded in their privacy, and life In intimate relations dragged to view To sate the curious eye.
Next day the _Times_ Rebuked the coroner in these words. And then Merival sent word: "I come to see you, Or else you come to see me, or by process If you refuse." And so the editor Invited Merival to Sunnyside To talk the matter out. This was the talk: First Merival went over all the ground In mild locution, what he sought to do. How as departments in the war had studied Disease and what not, tabulated facts, He wished to make a start for knowing lives, And finding remedies for lives. It's true Not much might be accomplished, also true The poet and the novelist gave thought, Analysis to lives, yet who could tell What system might grow up to find the fault In marriage as it is, in rearing children In motherhood, in homes; for Merival By way of wit said to this dullest man: "I know of mother and of home, of heaven I've yet to learn." Whereat the great man winced, To hear the home and motherhood so slurred, And briefly said the _Times_ would go its way To serve the public interests, and to foster American ideals as he conceived them. Then Merival who knew the great man's nature, How small it was and barren, cold and dull, And wedded to small things, to gold, and fear Of change, and knew the life the woman lived,-- These seven days in the earth--with such a man, Just by a zephyr of intangible thought Veered round the talk to her, to voice a wonder About the jet left turned, his deputy Had overlooked a hose which she could drink Gas from a jet. "You needn't touch the jet. Just leave it as she left it--hide the hose, And leave the gas on, put the woman in bed." "This deputy," said Merival, "was slack And let a verdict pass of accident." "Oh yes" said Merival, "your servant told About the hose, the _Times_ clutched in her hand. And may I test this jet, while I am here? Go up to see and test it?"
Whereupon The great man with wide eyes stared in the eyes Of Merival, was speechless for a moment, Not knowing what to say, while Merival Read something in his eyes, saw in his eyes The secret beat to cover, saw the man Turn head away which shook a little, saw His chest expand for breath, and heard at last The editor in four steel bullet words, "It is not necessary."
Merival Had trapped the solitary fox--arose And going said: "If it was suicide The inquest must be changed."
The editor Looked through the window at the coroner Walking the gravel walk, and saw his hand Unlatch the iron gate, and saw him pass From view behind the trees.
Then horror rose Within hi
s brain, a nameless horror took The heart of him, for fear this coroner Would dig this secret up, and show the world The dead face of the woman self-destroyed, And of the talk, which would not come to him, To poison air he breathed no less, of why This woman took her life; if for ill health Then why ill health? O, well he knew at heart What he had done to break her, starve her life. And now accused himself too much for words, Ways, temperament of him that murdered her, For lovelessness, and for deliberate hands That pushed her off and down.
He rode that day To see his cattle, overlook the work, But when night came with silence and the cry Of night-hawks, and the elegy of leaves Beneath the stars that looked so cold at him As he turned seeking sleep, the dreaded pain Grew stronger in his breast. Dawn came at last And then the stir and voices of the maids. And after breakfast in the carven room Archibald Lowell standing by the mantel In his great library, felt sudden pain; Saw sudden darkness, nothing saw at once, Lying upon the marble of the hearth; His great head cut which struck the post of brass In the hearth's railing--only a little blood! Archibald Lowell being dead at last; The _Times_ left to the holders of the stock Who kept his policy, and kept the _Times_ As if the great man lived.
And Merival Taking the doctor's word that death was caused By angina pectoris, let it drop. And went his way with Elenor Murray's case.
* * * * *
So Lowell's dead and buried; had to die, But not through Elenor Murray. That's the Fate That laughs at greatness, little things that sneak From alien neighborhoods of life and kill. And Lowell leaves a will, to which a boy-- Who sold the _Times_ once, afterward the _Star_-- Is alien as this Elenor to the man Who owned the _Times_. But still is brought in touch With Lowell's will, because this Lowell died Before he died. And Merival learns the facts And brings them to the jury in these words:--