Читать книгу The Land of Wherisit - H E Boote - Страница 4

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I have just told you a very Foolish Tale. Here is another, and one you should really have heard first, for it narrates events that formed a prelude to those already made known to you.

It's about the people of Wherisit, and the perplexing situation in which they found themselves.

They were the victims of the strangest paradox that ever was. The land in which they lived was a fertile one; in fact, it produced the most wonderful crops. When the seeds were cast into the earth they sprang to life as though by magic. The orchards were an ever-recurring miracle of fecundity, the trees, each in its season, being weighted to the ground with fruit.

Moreover, the Land of Wherisit was famous all over the world for the iron and copper and coal it yielded; while as for precious stones, never was anything seen to equal the splendour of its diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, opals and pearls.

Yet—this is where the paradox comes in—in spite of the richness of their country the people of Wherisit were Shockingly Poor.

And do what they would, they were unable to discover the reason of this anomalous state of affairs.

The fact itself was so obvious that the most careless observer could not fail to note it. It was the theme of constant discussion amongst every section of the community, and some of the explanations offered were as fantastic as they were futile.

The Drought was blamed, though it occurred but once in twenty years, and during the other nineteen the rain was permitted to run to waste. The Flood was blamed, though it came along rarely, and left behind it in regenerated soils abundant compensation for the temporary damage that it did.

Prayers were addressed to God to turn on the rain, and prayers were addressed to him to turn it off; and God, who dearly loved a joke, as you are aware, enjoyed these silly supplications very much.

Neither Drought nor Flood was the cause of the people's poverty, for the fat years were many times more numerous than the lean, and in the Bureau of Statistics prosperity was chronicled in ever-swelling figures.

But the higher the national wealth was piled, the deeper in poverty the people sank. And nobody could understand why it was so.

* * *

"It's Drink!" cried a Whiskered Wiseacre. "If you saved the money you spend on Booze you could buy yourselves and families more to eat and better clothes to wear."

But in a neighbouring country the people Did Not Drink, and they were even poorer than the people of Wherisit; so the eloquence of the Whiskered Wiseacre fell very flat.

"It's Improvidence!" a Professor of Political Economy declared. "You squander your wages instead of practising Thrift and learning the profitable art of Doing Without."

But this made no impression on the people, either, for already they Did Without so much that life was one long struggle with destitution.

"It's Irreligion!" stormed the Very Reverend Dr. Pomp, D.D., High Priest of Wherisit, shaking his fist from the great altar. "You are wicked. You do not come to church. You put nothing on the collection plate for the clergy; therefore the curse of God is upon you."

The people read this in their evening papers, and it failed to convince them, for if God cursed THEM for not supporting the clergy, he would curse the clergy for not supporting them.

"It's Slowing Down!" shouted the Moneylord, orating at the annual dinner of the Ancient Order of Unconvicted Swindlers. "The workers don't produce enough. Let them increase their output fifty per cent, and we'll get one of our Judges to raise the living wage eighteenpence a week."

But the people knew that already their lives were shortened by excessive toil, and that whenever the Judges raised the living wage the bosses reduced it again by the simple expedient of Putting Up Prices. So they read the speech in the press with a dull unconcern.

Then WHY were they always poor? Why were the wolves of want forever scratching at their doors? Why were they shabbily dressed, and meanly housed, and sparsely fed, and not half educated?

They looked at the land. It was golden and green with plenty. They looked at the stores. They were crammed with all that the heart of man desired. They looked at the heavens. There were no signs of a malevolent Fate. They looked at their hands. They were thickened and calloused with labour. They looked at their faces. They were seamed with anxiety and effort.

And yet their poverty was an incessant evil, afflicting them relentlessly—darkening their childhood, oppressing their youth, turning their mature years to an inexplicable mockery: and their old age to a tragical anti-climax.

They couldn't understand it at all, and every explanation they attempted was unsatisfactory.

"All I know," said the Oldest Inhabitant, "is this—it has been so since the memory of man; an' in my opinion it will be so until the end."

"It's in the nature of things, if you ask me," said the Boss's Pet. "Someone must work, d' you see, an' if there wasn't no poverty no one would work at all."

"It's good to be poor," said the Abject Crawler. "It makes yer humble an' chastens yer pride. Bear it patiently an' you'll be rewarded in the next world."

These were the prevalent views among the people of Wherisit. They summed up the philosophy of the crowd, and ignorance and hunger could reason no further.

But one day there rose from the ranks of the workers a young man who spoke Strange Things.

"I can tell you why you are poor," said he.

"Tell us!" they cried.

"You are poor BECAUSE YOU ARE ROBBED!"

And the young man proceeded to point out that the Ruling Class of Wherisit took so much of the products of their labour that there was not enough left for them to live upon in decency and comfort.

"They produce nothing themselves," he said, "and they take what is justly yours. It is for them you glean in the fields. It is for them you delve in the mines. It is for them you fell the forests and drain the marshes and wrest from the wilderness a wonder of wealth. For them you build palaces, and the hovels in which you and your children dwell are death-traps for body and soul. You gather for them the choicest fruits, and weave for them the costliest raiment; and the food YOU eat is coarse, and the clothes YOU wear are shoddy."

Then raising his voice to a pitch of vibrant intensity, he said:

"Keep what is yours, and poverty you know no more. God is not to blame for sufferings. Drought and Flood are not to blame. The soil is not to blame. Drink is not to blame. Improvidence is not to blame. Irreligion is not to blame. YOU only are to blame, for you are plundered, and do honour to the thieves."

Now this speech caused a great sensation among the people. They had never heard anything like it before, and the idea that they were robbed by their Rulers was one that staggered and bewildered them.

Every instinct of their being revolted from the thought, and yet at the same time it stirred them like a revelation.

They hated to believe it; AND KNEW IT WAS TRUE.

"Who are you?" they demanded.

And the young man answered with proud confidence:

"I am the voice of your secret soul. I am the wisdom of the ignorant. I am the courage of the cowardly. I am the pride of the meek. I am the Rebel."

And the people brooded over what he had said. And wheresoever the Rebel went in the land, uttering his astounding, disturbing words, crowds followed him, and the excitement grew and deepened, till the very air seemed tremulous with tempestuous possibilities.

* * *

The Grand Council of the Rulers of Wherisit was summoned to consider the situation.

The King presided on his golden throne, with the great mace on the table before him, and the Very Reverend Dr. Pomp, D.D., High Priest of Wherisit, opened the proceedings with the Most Terrible Curse in the repertory of the Church, reserved for special occasions and grave crises.

He cursed the Rebel to the end of the world and back again. He cursed him to the bottomest bottom of Hell, and left him there. He cursed him in every hair of his head and in every bone of his body and in every drop of his blood. He cursed so loud and so long that all the milk in Wherisit turned sour, and the grass was withered for miles around.

"Order!" shouted the King at last, for the Curse was getting on his nerves. "What is the pleasure of the Council with this Rebel?"

"He must die," snarled the High Priest, "because he has uttered truth."

"He must die," snapped The Moneylord, "because he has preached justice."

"He must die," mumbled The Lawyer, "because he has violated precedent."

"He must die," hissed The Soldier, "because he has praised peace."

"He must die," spat The Politician, "because he has lost me votes."

So armed men went forth and took the Rebel, and he was put to death upon a Cross, in the sight of the multitude.

But the words he had spoken were like sprouting seeds in the minds of the people, and they now knew why, in the midst of plenty, they were poor, and why, with the sunlight all about them, they were wretched.

In the royal palace the Ruling Class rejoiced greatly. The King, the High Priest, The Moneylord, The Lawyer, The Soldier and The Politician pledged one another in wine as red as the Rebel's blood.

But God laughed softly behind the clouds, for he knew that the Rebel in his defeat had conquered them, and that even whilst they made merry their doom was sealed.