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 God, you know;         The malt is linen, purple, wine and food,         The rats that get the malt are nobles, 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 cock, 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 nobles 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 assembly 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 cock, are in a hubbub         Of squeaking, caterwauling, barking, lowing,         With cock-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 buttons made of pearl with glints of green.         Already he feels envy of the dogs         Who wear brass 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 noble 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 ships, embark for Indias,         And get the malt; and now the merchant ships         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 ships.         The dachshund barking he is crowded out,         Encircled, as he says, builds up the army,         And patriot cocks 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 ships         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 goddesses,         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 vanishing         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, associate         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 brimming 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, passion 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 noblest, 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 censorship.         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, associate. But Elenor,         Who was cut off from every one she knew,         And shipped out like an animal to be         With strangers, nurses, doctors, wholly strange.         The head nurse passed 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 God         They'd pass 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 passions, 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 lust have changed, and maniac rage,         And rum has lost its potency to fire         A nerve that sickens at the bloody 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 pawns 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?         And haven't we, the nurses and the soldiers         Written some million stories for the eyes         Of boys and girls to read these fifty years?         And if they read and understand, no war         Can come again. They can't have war without         The spirit of your Elenor Murrays - no!         *        *        *        *        *         So Mary Black went on, and Merival         Gave liberty to her to talk her mind.         The jury smiled or looked intense for words         So graphic of the horrors of the war.         Then David Barrow asked: "Who is the man         That used to write to Elenor, went away?"         And Mary Black replied, "We do not know;         I do not know a girl who ever knew.         I only know that Elenor wept and grieved,         And did her duty like a little soldier.         It was some man who came to France, because         The word went round he had gone back, and left         The service, or the service there in France         Had left. Some said he'd gone to England, some         America. He must have been an American,         Or rather in America when she sailed,         Because she went off happy. In New York         Saw much of him before we sailed."          And then         The Reverend Maiworm juryman spoke up -         This Mary Black had left the witness chair -         And asked if Gregory Wenner went to France.         The coroner thought not, but would inquire.         *        *        *        *        *         Jane Fisher was a friend of Elenor Murray's         And held the secret of a pack of letters         Which Elenor Murray left. And on a day         She talks with Susan Hamilton, a friend.         Jane Fisher has composed a letter to         A lawyer in New York, who has the letters -         At least it seems so - and to get the letters,         And so fulfill the trust which Elenor         Had left to Jane. Meantime the coroner         Had heard somehow about the letters, or         That Jane knows something - she is anxious now,         And in a flurry, does not wish to go         Down to LeRoy and tell her story. So         She talks with Susan Hamilton like this: