THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT

Why don't they come to me to find the cause Of Elenor Murray's death? The house is first; That is the world, and Jack is G.o.d, you know; The malt is linen, purple, wine and food, The rats that get the malt are n.o.bles, lords, Those who had feudal dues and hunting rights, And privileges, first nights, all the rest.

The cats are your Voltaires, Rousseaus; the dogs, Your jailers, Louis, Fredericks and such.

And O, you blessed cow, you common people, Whom maidens all forlorn attend and milk.

Here is your Elenor Murray who gives hands, Brain, heart and spirit to the task of milking, And straining milk that other lips may drink, Revive and flourish, wedding, if she weds, The tattered man in church, which is your priest Shaven and shorn, and wakened with the sun By the c.o.c.k, theology that keeps the house Well timed and ruled for honor unto Jack, Who must have order, rising on the hour, And ceremony for his house.

If rats Had never lived, or left the malt alone, This girl had lived. Let's trace the story down: We went to France to fight, we go to France To get the origin of Elenor's death.

It's 1750, say, the malt of France And Europe, too, is over-run by rats; The n.o.bles and the clergy own the land, Exact the taxes, drink the luscious milk Of the crumpled horns. But cats come slinking by Called Diderot, Voltaire, Rousseau. Now look!

Cat Diderot goes after war and taxes, The slave trade, privilege, the merchant stomach.

In England, too, there is a sly grimalkin, Who poisons rats with most malicious thoughts, And bears the name of Adam--Adam Smith, By Jack named Adam just to signify His sinful nature. But the cat Voltaire Says Adam never fell, that man is good, An honest merchant better than a king, And shaven priests are worse than parasites.

He rubs his glossy coat against the legs Of Quakers, loving natures, loathes the trade Of war, and runs with velvet feet across The whole of Europe, scaring rats to death.

The cat Rousseau is instinct like a cat, And purrs that man born free is still in chains Here in this house that Jack built. Consequence?

There is such squeaking, running of the rats, The cats in North America wake up And drive the English rats out; then the dogs Grow cautious of the cats, poor simple Louis Convokes a French a.s.sembly to preserve The malt against the rats and give the cow Whose milk is growing blue and thin some malt.

And all at once rats, cats and dogs, the cow, The shaven priest, the maiden all forlorn, The tattered man, the c.o.c.k, are in a hubbub Of squeaking, caterwauling, barking, lowing, With c.o.c.k-a-doodles, curses, prayers and shrieks Ascending from the melee. In a word, You have a revolution.

All at once A mastiff dog appears and barks: "Be still."

And in a way in France's room in the house Brings order for a time. He grabs the fabric Of the Holy Roman Empire, tears it up, Sends for the shaven priest from Rome and bites His shrunken calves; trots off to Jena where He whips the Prussian dogs, but wakes them too To breed and multiply, grow strong to fight All other dogs in Jack's house, bite to death The maidens all forlorn, like Elenor Murray.

This mastiff, otherwise Napoleon called, Is downed at last by dogs from everywhere.

They're rid of him--but still the house of Jack Is better than it was, the rats are thick, But cats grow more abundant, malt is served More generously to the cow. The Prussian dogs Discover malt's the thing, also the cow Must have her malt, or else the milk gives out.

But all the while the Prussian dogs grow strong, Well taught and angered by Napoleon.

And some of them would set the house in order After the manner of America.

But many wish to fight, get larger rooms, Then set the whole in order. At Sadowa They whip the Austrian dogs, and once again A mastiff comes, a Bismarck, builds a suite From north to south, and forces Austria To huddle in the kitchen, use the outhouse Where Huns and Magyars, Bulgars and the rest Keep Babel under Jack who split their tongues To make them hate each other and suspect, Not understanding what the other says.

This very Babel was the cause of death Of Elenor Murray, if I chose to stop And go no further with the story.

Next Our mastiff Bismarck thinks of Luneville, And would avenge it, grabs the throat of France, And downs her; at Versailles growls and carries An emperor of Germany to the throne.

Then pants and wags his tail, and little dreams A dachshund in an early day to come Will drive him from the kennel and the bone He loves to crunch and suck.

This dachshund is In one foot crippled, rabies from his sires Lies dormant in him, in a day of heat Froth from his mouth will break, his eyes will roll Like b.u.t.tons made of pearl with glints of green.

Already he feels envy of the dogs Who wear bra.s.s collars, bay the moon of Jack, And roam at will about the house of Jack, The English, plainer said. This envy takes The form of zeal for country, so he trots About the house, gets secrets for reforms For Germany, would have his lesser dogs All merchants, traders sleek and prosperous, Achieve a n.o.ble breed to rule the house.

And so he puts his rooms in order, while The other dogs look on with much concern And growing fear.

The business of the house In every room is over malt; the cow Must be well fed for milk. And if you have No feudal dues, outlandish taxes, still The game of old goes on, has only changed Its dominant form. Grimalkin, Adam Smith Spied all the rats, and all the tricks of rats, Saw in his day the rats crawl hawser ropes And get on s.h.i.+ps, embark for Indias, And get the malt; and now the merchant s.h.i.+ps For China bound, for Africa, for the Isles Of farthest seas take rats, who slip aboard And eat their fill before the patient cow, Milked daily as before can lick her tongue Against a mouthful of the precious stuff.

You have your eastern question, and your Congo.

France wants Morocco, gives to Germany Possessions in the Congo for Morocco.

The dogs jump into China, even we Take part and put the Boxers down, lay hands Upon the Philippines, and Egypt falls To England, all are building battle s.h.i.+ps.

The dachshund barking he is crowded out, Encircled, as he says, builds up the army, And patriot c.o.c.ks are crowing everywhere, Until the house of Jack with snarls and growls, The fuff, fuff, fuff of cats seems on the eve Of pandemonium. The Germans think The Slavs want Europe, and the Slavs are sure The Germans want it, and it's all for malt.

Meantime the Balkan Babel leads to war.

The Slavic peoples do not like the rule Of Austro-Hungary, but the latter found No way except to rule the Slavs and rule Southeastern Europe, being crowded out By mastiff Bismarck. And again there's Jack Who made confusion of the Balkan tongues.

And so the house awaits events that look As if Jack willed them, anyway a thing That may be put on Jack. It comes at last.

All have been armed for malt. A crazy man Has armed himself and shoots a king to be, The Archduke Francis, on the Serbian soil, Then Austria moves on Serbia, Russia moves To succor Serbia, France is pledged to help The Russians, but our dachshund has a bond With Austria and rushes to her aid.

Then England must protect the channel, yes, France must be saved--and here you have your war.

And now for Elenor Murray. Top of brain Where ideals float like clouds, we owed to France A debt, but had we paid it, if the dog, The dachshund, mad at last, had left our s.h.i.+ps To freedom of the seas? Say what you will, This England is the smartest thing in time, Can never fall, be conquered while she keeps That mind of hers, those eyes that see all things, Spies or no spies, knows every secret hatched In every corner of the house of Jack.

And with one language spoken by more souls Than any tongue, leads minds by written words; Writes treaties, compacts which forstall the sword, And makes it futile when it's drawn against her....

You cuff your enemy at school or make A naso-digital gesture, coming home You fear your enemy, so walk beside The gentle teacher; if your enemy Throws clods at you, he hits the teacher. Well, 'Twas wise to hide munitions back of skirts, And frocks of little children, most unwise For Dachshund William to destroy the skirts And frocks to sink munitions, since the wearers Happened to be Americans. William fell Jumping about his room and spilled the clock, Raked off the mantel; broke his billikens, His images of Jack by doing this.

For, seeing this, we rise; ten million youths Take guns for war, and many Elenor Murrays Swept out of placid places by the ripples Cross seas to serve.

This girl was French in part, In spirit was American. Look back Do you not see Voltaire lay hold of her, Hands out of tombs and spirits, from the skies Lead her to Europe? Trace the causes back To Adam, or the dwellers of the lakes, It is enough to see the souls that stirred The Revolution of the French which drove The ancient evils from the house of Jack.

It is enough to hope that from this war The vestiges of feudal wrongs shall lie In Jack's great dust-pan, swept therein and thrown In garbage cans by maidens all forlorn, The Fates we'll call them now, lame G.o.ddesses, Hags halt, far sighted, seeing distant things, Near things but poorly--this is much to hope!

But if we get a freedom that is free For Elenor Murrays, maidens all forlorn, And tattered men, and so prevent the wars, Already budding in this pact of peace, This war is good, and Elenor Murray's life Not waste, but gain.

Now for a final mood, As it were second sight. I open the door, Walk from the house of Jack, look at the roof, The chimneys, over them see depths of blue.

Jack's house becomes a little ark that sails, Tosses and bobbles in an infinite sea.

And all events of evil, war and strife, The pain and folly, test of this and that, The groping from one thing to something else, Old systems turned to new, old eras dead, New eras rising, these are ripples all Moving from some place in the eternal sea Where Jack is throwing stones,--these ripples lap Against the house of Jack, or toss it so The occupants go reeling here and there, Laugh, scowl, grow sick, tread on each other's toes.

While all the time the sea is most concerned With tides and currents, little with the house, Ignore this Elenor Murray or Voltaire, Who living and who dying reproduce Ripples upon the pools of time and place, That knew them; and so on where neither eye Nor mind can trace the ripples vanis.h.i.+ng In ether, realms of spirit, what you choose!

Now on a day when Merival was talking More evidence at the inquest, he is brought The card of Mary Black, a.s.sociate Of Elenor Murray in the hospital Of France, and asks the coroner to hear What Elenor Murray suffered in the war.

And Merival consents and has her sworn; She testifies as follows to the jury:

Poor girl, she had an end! She seems to me A torch stuck in a bank of clay, snuffed out, Her warmth and splendor wasted. Never girl Had such an ordeal and a fate before.

She was the lucky one at first, and then Evils and enemies flocked down upon her, And beat her to the earth.

But when we sailed You never saw so radiant a soul, While most of us were troubled, for you know Some were in gloom, had quarreled with their beaux, Who did not say farewell. And there were some Who talked for weeks ahead of seeing beaux And having dinners with them who missed out.

We were a tearful, a deserted lot.

And some were apprehensive--well you know!

But Elenor, she had a beau devoted Who sent her off with messages and love, And comforts for her service in the war.

And so her face was lighted, she was gay, And said to us: "How wonderful it is To serve, to nurse, to play our little part For country, for democracy." And to me She said: "My heart is br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with love.

Now I can work and nurse, now use my hands To soothe and heal, which burn to finger tips, With flame for service."

Oh she had the will, The courage, resolution; but at last They broke her down. And this is how it was: Her love for someone gave her zeal and grace For watching, working, caring for the sick.

Her heart was in the cause too--but this love Gave beauty, pa.s.sion to it. All her men Stretched out to kiss her hands. It may be true The wounded soldier is a grateful soul.

But in her case they felt a warmer flame, A greater tenderness. So she won her spurs, And honors, was beloved, she had a brain, A fine intelligence. Then at the height Of her success, she disobeyed a doctor-- He was a pigmy--Elenor knew more Than he did, but you know the discipline: War looses all the hatreds, meanest traits Together with the n.o.blest, so she crumpled, Was disciplined for this. About this time A letter to the head nurse came--there was A Miriam Fay, who by some wretched fate Was always after Elenor--it was she Who wrote the letter, and the letter said To keep a watch on Elenor, lest she snag Some officer or soldier. Elenor, Who had no caution, venturesome and brave, Wrote letters more than frank to one she loved Whose tenor leaked out through the censors.h.i.+p.

Her lover sent her telegrams, all opened, And read first by the head nurse. So at last Too much was known, and Elenor was eyed, And whispers ran around. Those ugly girls, Who never had a man, were wagging tongues, And still her service was so radiant, So generous and skillful she survived, Helped by the officers, the leading doctors, Who liked her and defended her, perhaps In hopes of winning her--you know the game!

It was through them she went to Nice; but when She came back to her duty all was ready To catch her and destroy her--envy played Its part, as you can see.

Our unit broke, And some of us were sent to Germany, And some of us to other places--all Went with some chum, a.s.sociate. But Elenor, Who was cut off from every one she knew, And s.h.i.+pped out like an animal to be With strangers, nurses, doctors, wholly strange.

The head nurse pa.s.sed the word along to watch her.

And thus it was her spirit, once aflame For service and for country, fed and brightened By love for someone, thus was left to burn In darkness and in filth.

The hospital Was cold, the rain poured, and the mud was frightful-- Poor Elenor was writing me--the food Was hardly fit to eat. To make it worse They put her on night duty for a month.

Smallpox broke out and they were quarantined.

A nurse she chose to be her friend was stricken With smallpox, died and left her all alone.

One rainy morning she heard guns and knew A soldier had been stood against the wall.

He was a boy from Texas, driven mad By horror and by drink, had killed a Frenchman.

She had the case of crazy men at night, And one of them got loose and knocked her down, And would have killed her, had an orderly Not come in time. And she was cold at night, Sat bundled up so much she scarce could walk There in that ward on duty. Everywhere They thwarted her and crossed her, she was nagged, Brow-beaten, driven, hunted and besought For favors, for the word was well around She was the kind who could be captured--false, The girl was good whatever she had done.

All this she suffered, and her lover now Had cast her off, it seems, had ceased to write, Had gone back to America--even then They did not wholly break her.

But I ask What soldier or what nurse retained his faith, The splendor of his flame? I wish to G.o.d They'd pa.s.s a law and make it death to write Or speak of war as glory, or as good.

What good can come of hatred, greed and murder?

War licenses these pa.s.sions, legalizes All infamies. They talk of cruelties-- We shot the German captives--and I nursed A boy who shot a German, with two others Rushed on the fallen fellow, ran him through, Through eyes and throat with bayonets. The world Is better, is it? And if Indians scalped Our women for the British, and if Sherman Cut through the south with sword and flame, to-day Such terrors should not be, we are improved!

Yes, hate and l.u.s.t have changed, and maniac rage, And rum has lost its potency to fire A nerve that sickens at the b.l.o.o.d.y work Where men are butchered as you shoot and slash An animal for food!

Well, now suppose The preachers who preach Jesus meek and mild, But fulminate for slaughter, when the game Of money turns its thumbs down; if your statesmen With hardened arteries and hardened hearts, Who make a cult of patriotism, gain Their offices and livelihood thereby; Your emperors and kings and chancellors, Who glorify themselves and win sometimes Lands for their people; and your editors Who whip the mob to fury, bellies fat, Grown cynical, and rich, who cannot lose, No matter what we suffer--if we nurses, And soldiers fail; your patriotic shouters Of murder and of madness, von Bernhardis, Treitschkes, making p.a.w.ns of human life To shape a destiny they can't control-- Your bankers and your merchants--all the gang Who shout for war and pay the orators, Arrange the music--if I say--this crowd Finds us, the nurses and the soldiers, cold, Our fire of youth and faith beyond command, Too wise to be enlisted or enslaved, What will they do who shout for war so much?