News from Nowhere; Or, An Epoch of Rest<br />Being Some Chapters from a Utopian Romance by William Morris (english novels to improve english .txt) 📖

gone.  Again, many violent acts came from the artificial perversion of the sexual passions, which caused overweening jealousy and the like miseries.  Now, when you look carefully into these, you will find that what lay at the bottom of them was mostly the idea (a law-made idea) of the woman being the property of the man, whether he were husband, father, brother, or what not.  That idea has of course vanished with private property, as well as certain follies about the ‘ruin’ of women for following their natural desires in an illegal way, which of course was a convention caused by the laws of private property.

“Another cognate cause of crimes of violence was the family tyranny, which was the subject of so many novels and stories of the past, and which once more was the result of private property.  Of course that is all ended, since families are held together by no bond of coercion, legal or social, but by mutual liking and affection, and everybody is free to come or go as he or she pleases.  Furthermore, our standards of honour and public estimation are very different from the old ones; success in besting our neighbours is a road to renown now closed, let us hope for ever.  Each man is free to exercise his special faculty to the utmost, and every one encourages him in so doing.  So that we have got rid of the scowling envy, coupled by the poets with hatred, and surely with good reason; heaps of unhappiness and ill-blood were caused by it, which with irritable and passionate men—i.e., energetic and active men—often led to violence.”

I laughed, and said: “So that you now withdraw your admission, and say that there is no violence amongst you?”

“No,” said he, “I withdraw nothing; as I told you, such things will happen.  Hot blood will err sometimes.  A man may strike another, and the stricken strike back again, and the result be a homicide, to put it at the worst.  But what then?  Shall we the neighbours make it worse still?  Shall we think so poorly of each other as to suppose that the slain man calls on us to revenge him, when we know that if he had been maimed, he would, when in cold blood and able to weigh all the circumstances, have forgiven his manner?  Or will the death of the slayer bring the slain man to life again and cure the unhappiness his loss has caused?”

“Yes,” I said, “but consider, must not the safety of society be safeguarded by some punishment?”

“There, neighbour!” said the old man, with some exultation “You have hit the mark.  That punishment of which men used to talk so wisely and act so foolishly, what was it but the expression of their fear?  And they had need to fear, since they—i.e., the rulers of society—were dwelling like an armed band in a hostile country.  But we who live amongst our friends need neither fear nor punish.  Surely if we, in dread of an occasional rare homicide, an occasional rough blow, were solemnly and legally to commit homicide and violence, we could only be a society of ferocious cowards.  Don’t you think so, neighbour?”

“Yes, I do, when I come to think of it from that side,” said I.

“Yet you must understand,” said the old man, “that when any violence is committed, we expect the transgressor to make any atonement possible to him, and he himself expects it.  But again, think if the destruction or serious injury of a man momentarily overcome by wrath or folly can be any atonement to the commonwealth?  Surely it can only be an additional injury to it.”

Said I: “But suppose the man has a habit of violence,—kills a man a year, for instance?”

“Such a thing is unknown,” said he.  “In a society where there is no punishment to evade, no law to triumph over, remorse will certainly follow transgression.”

“And lesser outbreaks of violence,” said I, “how do you deal with them? for hitherto we have been talking of great tragedies, I suppose?”

Said Hammond: “If the ill-doer is not sick or mad (in which case he must be restrained till his sickness or madness is cured) it is clear that grief and humiliation must follow the ill-deed; and society in general will make that pretty clear to the ill-doer if he should chance to be dull to it; and again, some kind of atonement will follow,—at the least, an open acknowledgement of the grief and humiliation.  Is it so hard to say, I ask your pardon, neighbour?—Well, sometimes it is hard—and let it be.”

“You think that enough?” said I.

“Yes,” said he, “and moreover it is all that we can do.  If in addition we torture the man, we turn his grief into anger, and the humiliation he would otherwise feel for his wrong-doing is swallowed up by a hope of revenge for our wrong-doing to him.  He has paid the legal penalty, and can ‘go and sin again’ with comfort.  Shall we commit such a folly, then?  Remember Jesus had got the legal penalty remitted before he said ‘Go and sin no more.’  Let alone that in a society of equals you will not find any one to play the part of torturer or jailer, though many to act as nurse or doctor.”

“So,” said I, “you consider crime a mere spasmodic disease, which requires no body of criminal law to deal with it?”

“Pretty much so,” said he; “and since, as I have told you, we are a healthy people generally, so we are not likely to be much troubled with this disease.”

“Well, you have no civil law, and no criminal law.  But have you no laws of the market, so to say—no regulation for the exchange of wares? for you must exchange, even if you have no property.”

Said he: “We have no obvious individual exchange, as you saw this morning when you went a-shopping; but of course there are regulations of the markets, varying according to the circumstances and guided by general custom.  But as these are matters of general assent, which nobody dreams of objecting to, so also we have made no provision for enforcing them: therefore I don’t call them laws.  In law, whether it be criminal or civil, execution always follows judgment, and someone must suffer.  When you see the judge on his bench, you see through him, as clearly as if he were made of glass, the policeman to emprison, and the soldier to slay some actual living person.  Such follies would make an agreeable market, wouldn’t they?”

“Certainly,” said I, “that means turning the market into a mere battle-field, in which many people must suffer as much as in the battle-field of bullet and bayonet.  And from what I have seen I should suppose that your marketing, great and little, is carried on in a way that makes it a pleasant occupation.”

“You are right, neighbour,” said he.  “Although there are so many, indeed by far the greater number amongst us, who would be unhappy if they were not engaged in actually making things, and things which turn out beautiful under their hands,—there are many, like the housekeepers I was speaking of, whose delight is in administration and organisation, to use long-tailed words; I mean people who like keeping things together, avoiding waste, seeing that nothing sticks fast uselessly.  Such people are thoroughly happy in their business, all the more as they are dealing with actual facts, and not merely passing counters round to see what share they shall have in the privileged taxation of useful people, which was the business of the commercial folk in past days.  Well, what are you going to ask me next?”

CHAPTER XIII: CONCERNING POLITICS

Said I: “How do you manage with politics?”

Said Hammond, smiling: “I am glad that it is of me that you ask that question; I do believe that anybody else would make you explain yourself, or try to do so, till you were sickened of asking questions.  Indeed, I believe I am the only man in England who would know what you mean; and since I know, I will answer your question briefly by saying that we are very well off as to politics,—because we have none.  If ever you make a book out of this conversation, put this in a chapter by itself, after the model of old Horrebow’s Snakes in Iceland.”

“I will,” said I.

CHAPTER XIV: HOW MATTERS ARE MANAGED

Said I: “How about your relations with foreign nations?”

“I will not affect not to know what you mean,” said he, “but I will tell you at once that the whole system of rival and contending nations which played so great a part in the ‘government’ of the world of civilisation has disappeared along with the inequality betwixt man and man in society.”

“Does not that make the world duller?” said I.

“Why?” said the old man.

“The obliteration of national variety,” said I.

“Nonsense,” he said, somewhat snappishly.  “Cross the water and see.  You will find plenty of variety: the landscape, the building, the diet, the amusements, all various.  The men and women varying in looks as well as in habits of thought; the costume far more various than in the commercial period.  How should it add to the variety or dispel the dulness, to coerce certain families or tribes, often heterogeneous and jarring with one another, into certain artificial and mechanical groups, and call them nations, and stimulate their patriotism—i.e., their foolish and envious prejudices?”

“Well—I don’t know how,” said I.

“That’s right,” said Hammond cheerily; “you can easily understand that now we are freed from this folly it is obvious to us that by means of this very diversity the different strains of blood in the world can be serviceable and pleasant to each other, without in the least wanting to rob each other: we are all bent on the same enterprise, making the most of our lives.  And I must tell you whatever quarrels or misunderstandings arise, they very seldom take place between people of different race; and consequently since there is less unreason in them, they are the more readily appeased.”

“Good,” said I, “but as to those matters of politics; as to general differences of opinion in one and the same community.  Do you assert that there are none?”

“No, not at all,” said he, somewhat snappishly; “but I do say that differences of opinion about real solid things need not, and with us do not, crystallise people into parties permanently hostile to one another, with different theories as to the build of the universe and the progress of time.  Isn’t that what politics used to mean?”

“H’m, well,” said I, “I am not so sure of that.”

Said he: “I take, you, neighbour; they only pretended to this serious difference of opinion; for if it had existed they could not have dealt together in the ordinary business of life; couldn’t have eaten together, bought and sold together, gambled together, cheated other people together, but must have fought whenever they met: which would not have suited them at all.  The game of the masters of politics was to cajole or force the public to pay the expense of a luxurious life and exciting amusement for a few cliques of ambitious persons: and the pretence of serious difference of opinion, belied by every action of their lives, was quite good enough for that.  What has all that got to do with us?”

Said I: “Why, nothing, I should hope.  But I fear—In short, I have been told that political strife was a necessary result of human nature.”

“Human nature!” cried the old boy, impetuously; “what human nature?  The human nature of paupers, of slaves, of slave-holders, or the human nature of wealthy freemen?  Which?  Come, tell me that!”

“Well,” said I, “I suppose there would be a difference according to circumstances in people’s action about these matters.”

“I should think so, indeed,” said he.  “At all events, experience shows that it is so.  Amongst us, our differences concern matters of business, and passing events as to them, and could not divide men permanently.  As a rule, the immediate outcome shows which opinion on a given subject is the right one; it is a matter of fact, not of speculation.  For instance, it is clearly not easy to knock up a political party on the question as to whether haymaking in such and such a country-side shall begin this week or next, when all men agree that it must at latest begin the week after next, and when any man can go down into the fields himself and see whether the seeds are ripe enough for the cutting.”

Said I: “And you settle these differences, great and small, by the will of the majority, I suppose?”

“Certainly,” said he; “how else could we settle them?  You see in matters which are merely personal which do not affect the welfare of the community—how a man shall dress, what he shall eat and drink, what he shall write and read, and so forth—there can be no difference of opinion, and everybody does as he pleases.  But when the matter is of common interest to the whole community, and the doing or not doing something affects everybody, the majority must have their way; unless the