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.
J. F. When do we begin wheat harvest?
3rd Neighbour. Next Thursday in the ten-acre; the crop is heavy and the weather looks quite settled; so we shall have a jolly time of it.
J. F. Well, I’m glad I know in good time; for I never like to miss seeing the first row of reapers going into the corn. Is there anything else?
W. J. Well, there’s one troublesome business, chairman ( looks at C. N., who trembles and moans ). There’s that dog we caught, that thief, that useless beast. What is to be done with him?
C. N. ( Aside, That’s me! that’s me! To think that a justice should be spoken of in such language! What am I to do? What am I to do?)
2nd Neighbour. Well, chairman, I think we must shoot him. Once a thief always a thief, you see, with that kind of brute. I’m sorry, because he has been so badly brought up; and though he is an ugly dog, he is big and burly; but I must say that I think it must be done, and as soon as possible. He’ll be after the girls if we don’t do it at once!
C. N. ( Aside: What! have they got hold of that story, then?)
J. F. Well, neighbours, what’s to be said? anybody against it? Is this unpleasant business agreed to?
All. Agreed, agreed.
J. F. Well, then, let the dog be shot. Bill, it’s your turn for an ugly job this time: you must do it.
W. J. Well, if it must be, it must. I’ll go and get a gun in a minute.
C. N. Oh, God! to think of their disposing of a fellow-man’s life with so little ceremony! And probably they will go and eat their dinners afterwards and think nothing of it. ( Throwing himself on his knees before Jack Freeman.) Oh, your Socialist worship! Oh, citizen my lord! spare me, spare me! Send me to prison, load me with chains, but spare my life!
J. F. Why, what ails the man? Chains! we don’t use chains for that sort of thing. They’re good to fasten up boats with, and for carts, and such like; so why should we waste them by ornamenting you with them? And as to prison, we can’t send you to prison, because we haven’t got one. How could we have one? who would be the jailer? No, no; we can’t be bothered with you in prison. You must learn to behave decently.
C. N. What! have you no punishment but death, then? O! what am I to do? what am I to do?
1st Neighbour. Do? Why, behave decently.
C. N. But how can I behave decently when I’m dead? ( Moans.)
2nd Neighbour. But, neighbour, you must die some time or another, you know. Make the most of your time while you are alive.
C. N. Have you the heart to say such things to a man whom you are going to shoot in a few minutes? How horrible! Oh, look here! if you haven’t got a prison, build one for me! or make one out of a cellar, and lock me up in it; but don’t shoot me—don’t!
W. J. Well, old acquaintance, to want a prison all to your own cheek! This is individualism, with a vengeance! It beats Auberon Herbert. But who is going to shoot you?
C. N. Why, you. He said shoot the dog ( weeping ).
W. J. Well, citizen, I must say that either your estimate of yourself is modest, or your conscience is bad, that you must take that title to yourself! No; it is a bad business, but not so bad as that. It’s not you that we’re going to shoot, but a poor devil of a dog—a real dog, with a tail, you know—who has taken to killing sheep. And I’m sorry to say that social ethics have given me the job of shooting him. But come, now, you shall do it for me: you used to be a great upholder of capital punishment.
C. N. But what are you going to do with me, then? How are you going to punish me?
J. F. Punish you? how can we punish you? who do you think is going to do such work as that! People punish others because they like to; and we don’t like to. Once more, learn to live decently.
G. N. But how am I to live?
J. F. You must work a little.
C. N. But what at, since you object to lawyers?
J. F. Look round you, friend, at the fields all yellowing for harvest,—we will find you work to do.
C. N. ( Aside: Ah, I see. This means hard labour for life, after all. Well, I must submit. Unhappy Nupkins! To Freeman ) But who is to employ me? You will have to find me a master; and perhaps he won’t like to employ me.
J. F. My friend, we no more have masters than we have prisons: the first make the second. You must employ yourself: and you must also employ something else.
C. N. What? I don’t understand.
J. F. Mother Earth, and the traditions and devices of all the generations of men whom she has nourished. All that is for you, Nupkins, if you only knew it.
C. N. I still do not comprehend your apologue.
J. F. No? Well, we must put aside abstractions and get to the concrete. What’s this, citizen? ( showing a spade.)
C. N. That is an instrument for effodiation.
J. F. Otherwise called a spade. Well, to use your old jargon, citizen, the sentence of this court is that you do take this instrument of effodiation, commonly called a spade, and that you do effodiate your livelihood therewith; in other words, that you do dig potatoes and other roots and worts during the pleasure of this court. And, to drop jargon, since you are so badly educated our friend Robert Pinch—Mary’s husband—will show you how to do it. Is that agreed to, neighbours?
All. Agreed, agreed.
W. J. ( rather surlily ). I don’t think he will get on well. Now he knows we are not going to serve him out, he is beginning to look sour on us for being happy. You see, he will be trying some of his old lawyers’ tricks again.
J. F. Well, Bill, it won’t much matter. He can’t hurt us; so we will hope the best for him.
M. P. Should we hurt his feelings by being a little merry in his presence now?
J. F. Well, I think we may risk it. Let those of you who are not too lazy to dance, as I am, do so to the tune that sprang up at the dawn of freedom in the days of our great-grandfathers.
[ They dance round Citizen Nupkins, singing the following words to the tune of the “ Carmagnole ”:
What’s this that the days and the days have done ? Man’s lordship over man hath gone . How fares it, then, with high and low ? Equal on earth, they thrive and grow . Bright is the sun for everyone ; Dance we, dance we the Carmagnole . How deal ye, then, with pleasure and pain ? Alike we share and bear the twain . And what’s the craft whereby ye live ? Earth and man’s work to all men give . How crown ye excellence of worth ? With leave to serve all men on earth . What gain that lordship’s past and done ? World’s wealth for all and every one .
[ Freeman and Nupkins come to the front.
* * * * *
J. F. Well, Nupkins, you see you have got the better of us damned Socialists after all. For in times past you used to bully us and send us to prison and hang us, and we had to put up with it; and now you and yours are no longer masters, there are no masters, and there is nobody to bully you. How do you like it, old fellow? ( clapping him on the shoulder.)
C. N. ( bursting into tears ). A world without lawyers!—oh, dear! oh, dear! To think that I should have to dig potatoes and see everybody happy!
J. F. Well, Nupkins, you must bear it. And for my part, I can’t be very sorry that you feel it so keenly. When scoundrels lament that they can no longer be scoundrels for lack of opportunity, it is certain that the tables are turned.