The Tables Turned Part 6

_J. N_. Officer, arrest that pernicious foreigner.

[USHER _promenades once more_.

_J. N_. (_Aside_: I don't like it: I'm afraid there is something going to happen.) (_To Court_) Mr. Hungary.

_Mr. H_. My lord and gentlemen of the Jury, the prisoner's mingled levity and bitterness leaves me little to answer to. I can only say, gentlemen of the Jury, that I am convinced that you will do your duty. As to the evidence, I need make no lengthened comments on it, because I am sure his lordship will save me the trouble. (_Aside_: Trust him!) It is his habit--his laudable habit--to lead juries through the intricacies which beset unprofessional minds in dealing with evidence. For the rest, there is little need to point out the weight of the irrefragible testimony of the sergeant and constable,--men trained to bring forward those portions of the facts which come under their notice which _are_ weighty. I will not insult you, my lord, by pointing out to intelligent gentlemen in your presence how the evidence of the distinguished and ill.u.s.trious personages so vexatiously called by the prisoner, so far from shaking the official evidence, really confirms it. (_Aside_: I wonder what all that row is about? I wish I were out of this and at home.) Gentlemen of the Jury, I repeat that I expect you to do your duty and defend yourselves from the bloodthirsty designs of the dangerous revolutionist now before you. (_Aside_: Well, now I'm off, and the sooner the better; there's a row on somewhere.) [_Exit_.

_J. N_. Gentlemen of the Jury, I need not expatiate to you on the importance of the case before you. There are two charges brought against the prisoner, but one so transcends the other in importance--nay, I may say swallows it up--that I imagine your attention will be almost wholly fixed on that--the charge of conspiring and inciting to riot. Besides, on the lesser charge the evidence is so simple and crystal-clear that I need but allude to it. I will only remark on the law of the case, that committing an obstruction is a peculiar offence, since it is committed by everyone who, being in a public thoroughfare, does not walk briskly through the streets from his starting-place to his goal. There is no need to show that some other person is hindered by him in his loitering, since obviously that _might_ be the case; and besides, his loitering might hinder another from forming in his mind a legitimate wish to be there, and so might do him a very special and peculiar injury. In fact, gentlemen, it has been doubted whether this grave offence of obstruction is not always being committed by everybody, as a corollary to the well- known axiom in physics that two bodies cannot occupy the same s.p.a.ce at one and the same time. So much, gentlemen, for the lesser accusation. As to the far more serious one, I scarcely know in what words to impress upon you the gravity of the accusation. The crime is an attack on the public safety, gentlemen; if it has been committed, gentlemen--if it has been committed. On that point you are bound by your oaths to decide according to the evidence; and I must tell you that the learned counsel was in error when he told you that I should direct your views as to that evidence. It is for you to say whether you believe that the witnesses were speaking what was consonant with truth. But I am bound to point out to you that whereas the evidence for the prosecution was clear, definite, and consecutive, that for the defence had no such pretensions. Indeed, gentlemen, I am at a loss to discover why the prisoner put those ill.u.s.trious and respectable personages to so much trouble and inconvenience merely to confirm in a remarkable way the evidence of the sergeant and the constable. His Grace the Archbishop said that there were but three persons present when the prisoner _began_ speaking; but he has told us very clearly that before the end of the discourse there were ten, or more. You must look at those latter words, _or more_, as a key to reconcile the apparent discrepancy between his Grace's evidence and that of constable Potlegoff. This, however, is a matter of little importance, after what I have told you about the law in the case of obstruction. His Grace's clear remembrance of the horrible language of the prisoner, and the shuddering disgust that it produced on him, is a very different matter. Although his remembrance of the _ipsissima verba_ does not quite tally with that of the constable, it is clear that both the Archbishop and the policeman have noted the real significance of what was said: The owners of this capital, said the prisoner--

_J. F_. I said nothing of the kind.

_J. N_. Yes you did, sir. Those were the very words you said: I have got it down in my notes of his Grace's evidence. What is the use of your denying it, when your own witness gives evidence of it? Hold your tongue, sir.--And the workingmen, says the prisoner, must take the matter into their own hands. Take it into _their own hands_, gentlemen, and take _the matter_ into their hands. What matter are they to take into their hands? Are we justified in thinking that the prisoner was speaking metaphorically? Gentlemen, I must tell you that the maxim that in weighing evidence you need not go beyond the most direct explanation guides us here; forbids us to think that the prisoner was speaking metaphorically, and compels us to suppose that the _matter_ which is to be in the _hands_ of the workmen, their very _hands_, gentlemen, is--what?

Why, (_in an awe-struck whisper_) the bowels of the owners of the capital, that is of this metropolis--London! Nor, gentlemen, are the means whereby those respectable persons, the owners of house property in London, to be disembowelled left doubtful: the raising of armed men by the million, concealed weapons, and an organisation capable of frustrating the search for them. Nay, an article in the paper which impudently calls itself (_reading the_ "_Commonweal_") the official journal of the Socialist League, written by one Bax, who ought to be standing in the same dock with the prisoner--an article in which he attacks the sacredness of civilisation--is murky with the word dynamic or dynamite. And you must not forget, gentlemen, that the prisoner accepts his responsibility for all these words and deeds. With the utmost effrontery having pleaded "Not Guilty," he says, "I am a Socialist and a Revolutionist"!--Thus much, gentlemen, my duty compels me to lay before you as to the legal character of the evidence. But you must clearly understand that it rests with you and not with me to decide as to whether the evidence shows this man to be guilty. It is you, gentlemen of the Jury, who are responsible for the verdict, whatever it may be; and I must be permitted to add that letting this man loose upon society will be a very heavy responsibility for you to accept.

[_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 p.r.o.nounce 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 pounds.

_J. F_. Well, its pretty much what I expected of _you_. As to the 100 pounds, don't you wish you may get it; and as to the six years--

[_Great noise_; "_Ma.r.s.eillaise_" _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 cla.s.ses"--the lower cla.s.ses--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 n.o.body 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 pa.s.s, 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?