I admire detachment. I commend a serene indifference to hubbub. I like
Archimedes, Leonardo da Vinci, Goethe, Balzac, Darwin, and other sages,
for having been so concentrated on this or that eternal verity in art
or science or philosophy, that they paid no heed to alarums and
excursions which were sweeping all other folk off their feet. It is
with some shame that I haunt the tape-machine whenever a General
Election is going on.
Of politics I know nothing. My mind is quite open on the subject of
fiscal reform, and quite empty; and the void is not an aching one: I
have no desire to fill it. The idea of the British Empire leaves me
quite cold. If this or that subject race threw off our yoke, I should
feel less vexation than if one comma were misplaced in the printing of
this essay. The only feeling that our Colonies inspire in me is a
determination not to visit them. Socialism neither affrights nor
attracts me--or, rather, it has both these effects equally. When I
think of poverty and misery crushing the greater part of humanity, and
most of all when I hear of some specific case of distress, I become a
socialist indeed. But I am not less an artist than a human being, and
when I think of Demos, that chin-bearded god, flushed with victory,
crowned with leaflets of the Social Democratic League, quaffing
temperance beverages in a world all drab; when I think of model
lodging-houses in St. James's Park, and trams running round and round
St. James's Square--the mighty fallen, and the lowly swollen, and, in
Elysium, the shade of Matthew Arnold shedding tears on the shoulder of
a shade so different as George Brummell's--tears, idle tears, at sight
of the Barbarians, whom he had mocked and loved, now annihilated by
those others whom he had mocked and hated; when such previsions as
these come surging up in me, I do deem myself well content with the
present state of things, dishonourable though it is. As to socialism,
then, you see, my mind is evenly divided. It is with no political bias
that I go and hover around the tape-machine. My interest in General
Elections is a merely 'sporting' interest. I do not mean that I lay
bets. A bad fairy decreed over my cradle that I should lose every bet
that I might make; and, in course of time, I abandoned a practice which
took away from coming events the pleasing element of uncertainty. 'A
merely dramatic interest' is less equivocal, and more accurate.
'This,' you say, 'is rank incivism.' I assume readily that you are an
ardent believer in one political party or another, and that, having
studied thoroughly all the questions at issue, you could give cogent
reasons for all the burning faith that is in you. But how about your
friends and acquaintances? How many of them can cope with you in
discussion? How many of them show even a desire to cope with you?
Travel, I beg you, on the Underground Railway, or in a Tube. Such
places are supposed to engender in their passengers a taste for
political controversy. Yet how very elementary are such arguments as
you will hear there! It is obvious that these gentlemen know and care
very little about 'burning questions.' What they do know and care about
is the purely personal side of politics. They have their likes and
their dislikes for a few picturesque and outstanding figures. These
they will attack or defend with fervour. But you will be lucky if you
overhear any serious discussion of policy. Emerge from the nether
world. Range over the whole community--from the costermonger who says
'Good Old Winston!' to the fashionable woman who says 'I do think Mr.
Balfour is rather wonderful!'--and you will find the same plentiful
lack of interest in the impersonal side of polities. You will find that
almost every one is interested in politics only as a personal conflict
between certain interesting men--as a drama, in fact. Frown not, then,
on me alone.
Whenever a General Election occurs, the conflict becomes sharper and
more obvious--the play more exciting--the audience more tense. The
stage is crowded with supernumeraries, not interesting in themselves,
but adding a new interest to the merely personal interest. There is the
stronger 'side,' here the weaker, ranged against each other. Which will
be vanquished? It rests with the audience to decide. And, as human
nature is human nature, of course the audience decides that the weaker
side shall be victorious. That is what politicians call 'the swing of
the pendulum.' They believe that the country is alienated by the
blunders of the Government, and is disappointed by the unfulfilment of
promises, and is anxious for other methods of policy. Bless them! the
country hardly noticed their blunders, has quite forgotten their
promises, and cannot distinguish between one set of methods and
another. When the man in the street sees two other men in the street
fighting, he doesn't care to know the cause of the combat: he simply
wants the smaller man to punish the bigger, and to punish him with all
possible severity. When a party with a large majority appeals to the
country, its appeal falls, necessarily, on deaf ears. Some years ago
there happened an exception to this rule. But then the circumstances
were exceptional. A small nation was fighting a big nation, and, as the
big nation happened to be yourselves, your sympathy was transferred to
the big nation. As the little party was suspected of favouring the
little nation, your sympathy was transferred likewise to the big party.
Barring 'khaki,' sympathy takes its usual course in General Elections.
The bigger the initial majority, the bigger the collapse. It is not
enough that Goliath shall fall: he must bite the dust, and bite plenty
of it. It is not enough that David shall have done what he set out to
do: a throne must be found for this young man. Away with the giant's
body! Hail, King David!
I should like to think that chivalry was the sole motive of our zeal. I
am afraid that the mere craving for excitement has something to do with
it. Pelion has never been piled on Ossa; and no really useful purpose
could be served by the superimposition. But we should like to see the
thing done. It would appeal to our sense of the grandiose--our
hankering after the unlimited. When the man of science shows us a drop
of water in a test-tube, and tells us that this tiny drop contains more
than fifteen billions of infusoria, we are subtly gratified, and
cherish a secret hope that the number of infusoria is very much more
than fifteen billions. In the same way, we hope that the number of
seats gained by the winning party will be even greater to-morrow than
it is to-day. 'We are sweeping the country,' exclaims (say) the
professed Liberal; and at the word 'sweeping' there is in his eyes a
gleam that no mere party feeling could have lit there. It is a gleam
that comes from the very depths of his soul--a reflection of the innate
human passion for breaking records, or seeing them broken, no matter
how or why. 'Yes,' says the professed Tory, 'you certainly are sweeping
the country.' He tries to put a note of despondency into his voice; but
hark how he rolls the word 'sweeping' over his tongue! He, too, though
he may not admit it, is longing to creep into the smoking-room of the
National Liberal Club and feast his eyes on the blazing galaxy of red
seals affixed to the announcements of the polling. He turns to his
evening paper, and reads again the list of ex-Cabinet ministers who
have been unseated. He feels, in his heart of hearts, what fun it would
be if they had all been unseated. He grudges the exceptions. For
political bias is one thing; human nature another.