News from Nowhere; Or, An Epoch of Rest<br />Being Some Chapters from a Utopian Romance by William Morris (best reads txt) 📗

the long bowls.  Nothing loth, I drank, for I was thirsty with the hot day; and thinks I, I am yet in the world, and the grapes of the Rhine have not yet lost their flavour; for if ever I drank good Steinberg, I drank it that morning; and I made a mental note to ask Dick how they managed to make fine wine when there were no longer labourers compelled to drink rot-gut instead of the fine wine which they themselves made.

“Don’t you drink a glass to us, dear little neighbours?” said I.

“I don’t drink wine,” said the lass; “I like lemonade better: but I wish your health!”

“And I like ginger-beer better,” said the little lad.

Well, well, thought I, neither have children’s tastes changed much.  And therewith we gave them good day and went out of the booth.

To my disappointment, like a change in a dream, a tall old man was holding our horse instead of the beautiful woman.  He explained to us that the maiden could not wait, and that he had taken her place; and he winked at us and laughed when he saw how our faces fell, so that we had nothing for it but to laugh also—

“Where are you going?” said he to Dick.

“To Bloomsbury,” said Dick.

“If you two don’t want to be alone, I’ll come with you,” said the old man.

“All right,” said Dick, “tell me when you want to get down and I’ll stop for you.  Let’s get on.”

So we got under way again; and I asked if children generally waited on people in the markets.  “Often enough,” said he, “when it isn’t a matter of dealing with heavy weights, but by no means always.  The children like to amuse themselves with it, and it is good for them, because they handle a lot of diverse wares and get to learn about them, how they are made, and where they come from, and so on.  Besides, it is such very easy work that anybody can do it.  It is said that in the early days of our epoch there were a good many people who were hereditarily afflicted with a disease called Idleness, because they were the direct descendants of those who in the bad times used to force other people to work for them—the people, you know, who are called slave-holders or employers of labour in the history books.  Well, these Idleness-stricken people used to serve booths all their time, because they were fit for so little.  Indeed, I believe that at one time they were actually compelled to do some such work, because they, especially the women, got so ugly and produced such ugly children if their disease was not treated sharply, that the neighbours couldn’t stand it.  However, I’m happy to say that all that is gone by now; the disease is either extinct, or exists in such a mild form that a short course of aperient medicine carries it off.  It is sometimes called the Blue-devils now, or the Mulleygrubs.  Queer names, ain’t they?”

“Yes,” said I, pondering much.  But the old man broke in:

“Yes, all that is true, neighbour; and I have seen some of those poor women grown old.  But my father used to know some of them when they were young; and he said that they were as little like young women as might be: they had hands like bunches of skewers, and wretched little arms like sticks; and waists like hour-glasses, and thin lips and peaked noses and pale cheeks; and they were always pretending to be offended at anything you said or did to them.  No wonder they bore ugly children, for no one except men like them could be in love with them—poor things!”

He stopped, and seemed to be musing on his past life, and then said:

“And do you know, neighbours, that once on a time people were still anxious about that disease of Idleness: at one time we gave ourselves a great deal of trouble in trying to cure people of it.  Have you not read any of the medical books on the subject?”

“No,” said I; for the old man was speaking to me.

“Well,” said he, “it was thought at the time that it was the survival of the old mediæval disease of leprosy: it seems it was very catching, for many of the people afflicted by it were much secluded, and were waited upon by a special class of diseased persons queerly dressed up, so that they might be known.  They wore amongst other garments, breeches made of worsted velvet, that stuff which used to be called plush some years ago.”

All this seemed very interesting to me, and I should like to have made the old man talk more.  But Dick got rather restive under so much ancient history: besides, I suspect he wanted to keep me as fresh as he could for his great-grandfather.  So he burst out laughing at last, and said: “Excuse me, neighbours, but I can’t help it.  Fancy people not liking to work!—it’s too ridiculous.  Why, even you like to work, old fellow—sometimes,” said he, affectionately patting the old horse with the whip.  “What a queer disease! it may well be called Mulleygrubs!”

And he laughed out again most boisterously; rather too much so, I thought, for his usual good manners; and I laughed with him for company’s sake, but from the teeth outward only; for I saw nothing funny in people not liking to work, as you may well imagine.

CHAPTER VII: TRAFALGAR SQUARE

And now again I was busy looking about me, for we were quite clear of Piccadilly Market, and were in a region of elegantly-built much ornamented houses, which I should have called villas if they had been ugly and pretentious, which was very far from being the case.  Each house stood in a garden carefully cultivated, and running over with flowers.  The blackbirds were singing their best amidst the garden-trees, which, except for a bay here and there, and occasional groups of limes, seemed to be all fruit-trees: there were a great many cherry-trees, now all laden with fruit; and several times as we passed by a garden we were offered baskets of fine fruit by children and young girls.  Amidst all these gardens and houses it was of course impossible to trace the sites of the old streets: but it seemed to me that the main roadways were the same as of old.

We came presently into a large open space, sloping somewhat toward the south, the sunny site of which had been taken advantage of for planting an orchard, mainly, as I could see, of apricot-trees, in the midst of which was a pretty gay little structure of wood, painted and gilded, that looked like a refreshment-stall.  From the southern side of the said orchard ran a long road, chequered over with the shadow of tall old pear trees, at the end of which showed the high tower of the Parliament House, or Dung Market.

A strange sensation came over me; I shut my eyes to keep out the sight of the sun glittering on this fair abode of gardens, and for a moment there passed before them a phantasmagoria of another day.  A great space surrounded by tall ugly houses, with an ugly church at the corner and a nondescript ugly cupolaed building at my back; the roadway thronged with a sweltering and excited crowd, dominated by omnibuses crowded with spectators.  In the midst a paved be-fountained square, populated only by a few men dressed in blue, and a good many singularly ugly bronze images (one on the top of a tall column).  The said square guarded up to the edge of the roadway by a four-fold line of big men clad in blue, and across the southern roadway the helmets of a band of horse-soldiers, dead white in the greyness of the chilly November afternoon—I opened my eyes to the sunlight again and looked round me, and cried out among the whispering trees and odorous blossoms, “Trafalgar Square!”

“Yes,” said Dick, who had drawn rein again, “so it is.  I don’t wonder at your finding the name ridiculous: but after all, it was nobody’s business to alter it, since the name of a dead folly doesn’t bite.  Yet sometimes I think we might have given it a name which would have commemorated the great battle which was fought on the spot itself in 1952,—that was important enough, if the historians don’t lie.”

“Which they generally do, or at least did,” said the old man.  “For instance, what can you make of this, neighbours?  I have read a muddled account in a book—O a stupid book—called James’ Social Democratic History, of a fight which took place here in or about the year 1887 (I am bad at dates).  Some people, says this story, were going to hold a ward-mote here, or some such thing, and the Government of London, or the Council, or the Commission, or what not other barbarous half-hatched body of fools, fell upon these citizens (as they were then called) with the armed hand.  That seems too ridiculous to be true; but according to this version of the story, nothing much came of it, which certainly is too ridiculous to be true.”

“Well,” quoth I, “but after all your Mr. James is right so far, and it is true; except that there was no fighting, merely unarmed and peaceable people attacked by ruffians armed with bludgeons.”

“And they put up with that?” said Dick, with the first unpleasant expression I had seen on his good-tempered face.

Said I, reddening: “We had to put up with it; we couldn’t help it.”

The old man looked at me keenly, and said: “You seem to know a great deal about it, neighbour!  And is it really true that nothing came of it?”

“This came of it,” said I, “that a good many people were sent to prison because of it.”

“What, of the bludgeoners?” said the old man.  “Poor devils!”

“No, no,” said I, “of the bludgeoned.”

Said the old man rather severely: “Friend, I expect that you have been reading some rotten collection of lies, and have been taken in by it too easily.”

“I assure you,” said I, “what I have been saying is true.”

“Well, well, I am sure you think so, neighbour,” said the old man, “but I don’t see why you should be so cocksure.”

As I couldn’t explain why, I held my tongue.  Meanwhile Dick, who had been sitting with knit brows, cogitating, spoke at last, and said gently and rather sadly:

“How strange to think that there have been men like ourselves, and living in this beautiful and happy country, who I suppose had feelings and affections like ourselves, who could yet do such dreadful things.”

“Yes,” said I, in a didactic tone; “yet after all, even those days were a great improvement on the days that had gone before them.  Have you not read of the Mediæval period, and the ferocity of its criminal laws; and how in those days men fairly seemed to have enjoyed tormenting their fellow men?—nay, for the matter of that, they made their God a tormentor and a jailer rather than anything else.”

“Yes,” said Dick, “there are good books on that period also, some of which I have read.  But as to the great improvement of the nineteenth century, I don’t see it.  After all, the Mediæval folk acted after their conscience, as your remark about their God (which is true) shows, and they were ready to bear what they inflicted on others; whereas the nineteenth century ones were hypocrites, and pretended to be humane, and yet went on tormenting those whom they dared to treat so by shutting them up in prison, for no reason at all, except that they were what they themselves, the prison-masters, had forced them to be.  O, it’s horrible to think of!”

“But perhaps,” said I, “they did not know what the prisons were like.”

Dick seemed roused, and even angry.  “More shame for them,” said he, “when you and I know it all these years afterwards.  Look you, neighbour, they couldn’t fail to know what a disgrace a prison is to the Commonwealth at the best, and that their prisons were a good step on towards being at the worst.”

Quoth I: “But have you no prisons at all now?”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I felt that I had made a mistake, for Dick flushed red and frowned, and the old man looked surprised and pained; and presently Dick said angrily, yet as if restraining himself somewhat—

“Man alive! how can you ask such a question?  Have I not told you that we know what a prison means by the undoubted evidence of really trustworthy books, helped out by our own imaginations?  And haven’t you specially called me to notice that the people about the roads and streets look happy? and how could they look happy if they knew that their neighbours were shut up in prison, while they bore such things quietly?  And if there were people in prison, you couldn’t hide it from folk, like you may an occasional man-slaying; because that isn’t done of set purpose, with a lot of people