Complete Works of William Morris, page 303
[The Jury consult: the noise outside increases.
J. F. (Aside; Hilloa! what is going on? I begin to think there’s a row up!)
Foreman of the Jury. My lord, we are agreed upon our verdict.
J. N. Do you find the prisoner at the bar “Guilty” or “Not Guilty”?
F. of J. Guilty, my lord.
J. F. Just so.
J. N. Prisoner at the bar, you have been fairly tried and found guilty by a jury of your fellow-countrymen of two most serious offences — crimes, I should say. If I had not to pronounce sentence upon one whose conscience is seared and case-hardened to an unexampled degree, I might have some words to say to you. (Aside: And also if I didn’t want to get out of this as quick as I can; for I’m sure there is some row going on.) As it is, I will add no words to my sentence. (Aside: I wish I were off, but let’s give it him hot and heavy!) I sentence you to six years’ penal servitude and to pay a fine of £100.
J. F. Well, its pretty much what I expected of you. As to the £100, don’t you wish you may get it; and as to the six years —
[Great noise; “Marseillaise” sung quite close; hammering on the doors.
J. F. Hark! what’s that?
J. N. (in a quavering voice). Remove the prisoner!
[Enter a Socialist ensign with a red flag in his hand.
S. E. Remove the prisoner! Yes, that’s just what I’ve come to do, my lord. The Tables are Turned now!
J. N. (rising and prepared to go). Arrest that man!
S. E. Yes, do — if you can.
J. F. What does it all mean, Bill?
S. E. The very beginning of it, Jack. It seems we have not been sanguine enough. The Revolution we were all looking forward to had been going on all along, and now the last act has begun. The reactionists are fighting, and pretty badly too, for the soldiers are beginning to remember that they too belong to the “lower classes” — the lower classes — hurrah! You must come along at once, Freeman; we shall want you in our quarter. Don’t waste another minute with these fools.
J. N. (screaming). Help, help! Murder, murder!
S. E. Murder! — murder a louse! Who’s hurting you, old gentleman? Don’t make such a noise. We’ll try and make some use of you when we have time, but we must bustle now. Come on, Jack. Stop a bit, though; where’s the Clerk of the Court? Oh, there! Clerk, we shall want this Court-house almost directly to use for a free market for this district. There have been too many people starving and half-starving this long time; and the first thing that we’ve got to see to is that every one has enough to eat, drink, and wear, and a proper roof over his head.
J. N. Murder! thieves! fire!
S. E. There, there! Don’t make such a row, old fellow! Get out of this, and bellow in the fields with the horned cattle, if you must bellow. Perhaps they’ll want Courts of Justice now, as we don’t. And as for you, good fellows, all give a cheer for the Social Revolution which has Turned the Tables; and so — to work — to work!
[Judge screams and faints, and Curtain falls.
PART II.
SCENE. — The Fields near a Country Village; a Copse close by. Time — After the Revolution.
[Enter Citizen (late Justice) Nupkins. He looks cautiously about to right and left, then sits down on the ground.]
C. N. Now I think I may safely take a little rest: all is quiet here. Yet there are houses in the distance, and wherever there are houses now, there are enemies of law and order. Well, at least, here is a good thick copse for me to hide in in case anybody comes. What am I to do? I shall be hunted down at last. It’s true that those last people gave me a good belly-full, and asked me no questions; but they looked at me very hard. One of these times they will bring me before a magistrate, and then it will be all over with me. I shall be charged as a rogue and a vagabond, and made to give an account of myself; and then they will find out who I am, and then I shall be hanged — I shall be hanged — I, Justice Nupkins! Ah, the happy days when I used to sentence people to be hanged! How easy life was then, and now how hard! [Hides his face in his hands and weeps.
[Enter Mary Pinch, prettily dressed.]
M. P. How pleasant it is this morning! These hot late summer mornings, when the first pears are ripening, and the wheat is nearly ready for cutting, and the river is low and weedy, remind me most of the times when I was a little freckle-faced child, when I was happy in spite of everything, though it was hard lines enough sometimes. Well, well, I can think of those times with pleasure now; it’s like living the best of the early days over again, now we are so happy, and the children like to grow up straight and comely, and not having their poor little faces all creased into anxious lines. Yes, I am my old self come to life again; it’s all like a pretty picture of the past days. They were brave men. and good fellows who helped to bring it about: I feel almost like saying my prayers to them. And yet there were people — yes, and poor people too — who couldn’t bear the idea of it. I wonder what they think of it now. I wish, sometimes, I could make people understand how I felt when they came to me in prison, where all things were so miserable that, heaven be praised! I can’t remember its misery now, and they brought Robert to me, and he hugged me and kissed me, and said, when he stood away from me a little, “Come, Mary, we are going home, and we’re going to be happy; for the rich people are gone, and there’s no more starving or stealing.” And I didn’t know what he meant, but I saw such a look in his eyes and in the eyes of those who were with him, that my feet seemed scarcely on the ground; as if I were going to fly. And how tired out I was with happiness before the day was done! Just to think that my last-born child will not know what to be poor meant; and nobody will ever be able to make him understand it. [Nupkins groans.] Hilloa! What’s the matter? Why, there’s a man ill or in trouble; an oldish man, too. Poor old fellow! Citizen, what’s the matter? How can I help you?
C. N. (jumping up with a howl). Ah, they are upon me! That dreadful word “citizen”! (Looks at M. P. and staggers back). Oh, Lord! is it? Yes, it is — the woman that I sentenced on that horrible morning, the last morning I adorned the judicial bench.
M. P. What is the matter? And how badly you’re dressed; and you seem afraid. What can you be afraid of? If I am not afraid of the cows, I am sure you needn’t be — with your great thick stick, too. (She looks at him and laughs, and says aside, Why to be sure, if it isn’t that silly, spiteful old man that sentenced me on the last of the bad days before we all got so happy together!) (To N.) Why, Mr. Nupkins — citizen — I remember you; you are an old acquaintance: I’ll go and call my husband.
C. N. Oh, no! no! don’t! please don’t! — (Aside: There, there, I’m done for — can I run away? — No use — perhaps I might soften her. I used to be called eloquent — by the penny-a-liners. I’ve made a jury cry — I think — let me try it. Gentlemen of the Jury, remember the sad change in my client’s position! remember. — Oh, I’m going mad, I think — she remembers me) (Kneels before her) Oh, woman, woman, spare me! Let me crawl into the copse and die quietly there!
M. P. Spare you, citizen? Well, I could have spared you once, well enough, and so could many another poor devil have done. But as to dying in the copse, no, I really can’t let you do that. You must come home to our house, and we’ll see what can be done with you. It’s our old house, but really nice enough, now; all that pretty picture of plenty that I told you about on that day when you were so hard upon me has come to pass, and more.
C. N. Oh, no! I can’t come!
M. P. Oh, yes; you can get as far as that, and we’ll give you something to eat and drink, and then you’ll be stronger. It will really please me, if you’ll come; I’m like a child with a new toy, these days, and want to show new-comers all that’s going on. Come along, and I’ll show you the pretty new hall they are building for our parish; it’s such a pleasure to stand and watch the lads at work there, as merry as grigs. Hark! you may hear their trowels clinking from here. And, Mr. Nupkins, you mustn’t think I stole those loaves; I really didn’t.
C. N. Oh, dear me! Oh, dear me! She wants to get me away and murder me! I won’t go.
M. P. How can you talk such nonsense? Why, on earth, should I murder you?
C. N. (sobbing). Judicially, judicially!
M. P. How silly you are! I really don’t know what you mean. Well, if you won’t come with me, I’m off; but you know where to go when you want your dinner. But if you still owe me a grudge, which would be very silly of you, any of the people in the houses yonder will give you your food. [Exit.
C. N. There! She’s going to fetch some ferocious revolutionaries to make an end of me. It’s no use trying to stop her now. I will flee in another direction; perhaps I shan’t always meet people I’ve sentenced.
[As he is going he runs up against William Joyce, once Socialist Ensign, entering from the other side.
William Joyce. Hilloa, citizen! look out! (looking at him) But I say, what’s the matter with you? You are queerly rigged. Why, I haven’t seen a man in such a condition for many a long day. You’re like an ancient ruin, a dream of past times. No, really I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. Can I do anything to help you?
[C. N. covers his face with his hands and moans.
W. J. Hilloa! Why, I’m blessed if it isn’t the old bird who was on the bench that morning, sentencing comrade Jack! What’s he been doing, I wonder? I say, don’t you remember me, citizen? I’m the character who came in with the red flag that morning when you were playing the last of your queer games up yonder. Cheer up, man! we’ll find something for you to do, though you have been so badly educated.
C. N. Spare me, I entreat you! Don’t let it be known who I am, pray don’t, or I shall certainly be hanged. Don’t hang me; give me hard labour for life, but don’t hang me! Yes, I confess I was Judge Nupkins; but don’t give me up! I’ll be your servant, your slave all my life; only don’t bring me before a magistrate. They are so unfair, and so hard!
W. J. Well, what do you think of a judge, old fellow?
C. N. That’s nearly as bad, but not quite; because sometimes there’s a cantankerous blackguard on the jury who won’t convict, and insists on letting a man off. But, please, pray think better of it, and let it be a private matter, if you must needs punish me. I won’t bring an action against you, whatever you do. Don’t make it a judicial matter! Look here, I’ll sign a bond to be your servant for ever without wages if you will but feed me. I suffer so from not having my meals regularly. If you only knew how bad it is to be hungry and not to be sure of getting a meal.
W. J. Yes, Nupkins; but you see, I do know only too well — but that’s all gone by. Yet, if you had only known that some time ago, or let’s say, guessed at it, it might have been the better for you now.
C. N. (aside; Oh, how jeering and hard he looks!) Oh, spare me, and don’t send me to the workhouse! You’ve no idea how they bully people there. I didn’t mean to be a bad or hard man; I didn’t indeed.
W. J. Well, I must say if you meant to be anything else, you botched the job! But I suppose, in fact, you didn’t mean anything at all. — So much the worse for you. (Aside: I must do a little cat and mouse with him).
C. N. Oh, spare me, spare me! I’ll work so hard for you. Keep it dark as to who I am. It will be such an advantage you’re having me all to yourself.
W. J. Would it, indeed? Well, I doubt that.
C. N. Oh, I think so. I really am a good lawyer.
W. J. H’m, that would be rather less useful than a dead jackass — unless one came to the conclusion of making cat’s meat of you.
C. N. (aside, Oh, I’m sick at heart at his hinted threats). Mr. Socialist, don’t you see I could put you up to all sorts of dodges by which you could get hold of odds and ends of property — as I suppose you have some sort of property still — and the titles of the land must be very shaky just after a revolution? I tell you I could put you up to things which would make you a person of great importance; as good as what a lord used to be.
W. J. (aside, Oh, you old blackguard! What’s bred in the bone won’t come out of the flesh. I really must frighten the old coward a little; besides, the council has got to settle what’s to be done with him, or the old idiot will put us to shame by dying on our hands of fright and stupidity.) (To N.) Nupkins, I really don’t know what to do with you as a slave; I’m afraid that you would corrupt the morals of my children; that you would set them quarrelling and tell them lies. There’s nothing for it but you must come before the Council of our Commune: they’ll meet presently under yonder tree this fine day.
C. N. No, no, don’t! Pray let me go and drag out the remainder of a miserable existence without being brought before a magistrate and sent to prison! You don’t know what a dreadful thing it is.
W. J. You’re wrong again, Nupkins. I know all about it. The stupid red tape that hinders the Court from getting at the truth; the impossibility of making your stupid judge understand the real state of the case, because he is not thinking of you and your life as a man, but of a set of rules drawn up to allow men to make money of other people’s misfortunes; and then to prison with you; and your miserable helplessness in the narrow cell, and the feeling as if you must be stifled; and not even a pencil to write with, or knife to whittle with, or even a pocket to put anything in. I don’t say anything about the starvation diet, because other people besides prisoners were starved or half-starved. Oh, Nupkins, Nupkins! it’s a pity you couldn’t have thought of all this before.
C. N. (aside: Oh, what terrible revenge is he devising for me?) (to W. J.) Sir, sir, let me slip away before the Court meets. (Aside: A pretty Court, out in the open-air! Much they’ll know about law!)
W. J. Citizen Nupkins, don’t you stir from here! You’ll see another old acquaintance presently — Jack Freeman, whom you were sending off to six years of it when the red flag came in that day. — And in good time here he is.
[Enter Jack Freeman, sauntering in dressed in a blouse, smoking, a billycock on his head, and his hands in his pockets.
W. J. There’s your judge, Citizen Nupkins! No, Jack, you needn’t take your hands out of your pockets to shake hands with me; I know your ways and your manners. But look here! (pointing to Nupkins).
J. F. Why, what next? There’s no mistaking him, it’s my old acquaintance Mr. Justice Nupkins. Why you seem down on your luck, neighbour. What can I do to help you?
[Nupkins moans.
W. J. (winking at Freeman). You’ve got to try him, Jack.
J. F. Why, what has he been doing? (Aside, I say, old fellow, what game are you up to now?)
W. J. Doing? why nothing. That’s just it; something must be done with him. He must come before the council: but I’m afraid he’s not of much use to anyone. (Aside, I say, Jack, he is a mere jelly of fear: thinks that we are going to kill him and eat him, I believe. I must carry it on a little longer; don’t spoil all my fun.)
J. F. (Aside, to W. J.) Well, certainly he deserves it, but take care that he doesn’t die of fear on your hands, Bill. (Aloud) Well, the council will meet in a minute or two, and then we will take his case.
C. N. (to J. F.) Oh, sir, sir, spare me and don’t judge me! I’ll be servant to you all my life!
W. J. Why Nupkins, what’s this? You promised to be a servant to me!
J. F. Citizen Nupkins, I really must say thank-you for nothing. What the deuce could I do with a servant? Now don’t you trouble yourself; the council will see to your affairs. And in good time here come the neighbours.
[Enter the Neighbours, Robert Pinch, Mart Pinch, and others.
W. J. Now for it, Nupkins! Bear your own troubles as well as you used to bear other peoples’, and then you’ll do very well.
Jack Freeman takes his seat on the ground under the tree, the others standing and sitting about him: William Joyce makes a show of guarding Nupkins, at which the neighbours look rather astonished; but he nods and winks to them, and they see there is some joke toward and say nothing.
J. F. Well, neighbours, what’s the business to-day?
1st Neighbour. I have to report that three loads of that oak for the hall-roof have come to hand; it’s well-seasoned good timber, so there need be no hitch in the building now.
2nd Neighbour. Well, chairman, we sent off the wool to the north-country communes last week, and they are quite satisfied with it. Their cloth has come to hand rather better than worse than the old sample.
3rd Neighbour. I have to report that the new wheel at the silk mill is going now, and makes a very great improvement. It gives us quite enough power even when the water is small; so we shan’t want a steam-engine after all.
