MITCHENER. Naturally.
BALSQUITH. --And the feeling was that the Labor Party were soulless
cads.
MITCHENER. So they are.
BALSQUITH. And now comes this unmannerly young whelp Chubbs-Jenkinson,
the only son of what they call a soda king, and orders a curate to lick
his boots. And when the curate punches his head, you first sentence him
to be shot; and then make a great show of clemency by commuting it to a
flogging. What did you expect the curate to do?
MITCHENER (throwing down his pen and his letters and jumping up to
confront Balsquith). His duty was perfectly simple. He should have
obeyed the order; and then laid his complaint against the officer in
proper form. He would have received the fullest satisfaction.
BALSQUITH. What satisfaction?
MITCHENER. Chubbs-Jenkinson would have been reprimanded. In fact, he
WAS reprimanded. Besides, the man was thoroughly insubordinate. You
cant deny that the very first thing he did when they took him down after
flogging him was to walk up to Chubbs-Jenkinson and break his jaw. That
showed there was no use flogging him; so now he will get two years hard
labor; and serve him right.
BALSQUITH. I bet you a guinea he wont get even a week. I bet you another
that Chubbs-Jenkinson apologizes abjectly. You evidently havent heard
the news.
MITCHENER. What news?
BALSQUITH. It turns out that the curate is well connected. (Mitchener
staggers at the shock. Speechless he contemplates Balsquith with a wild
and ghastly stare; then reels into his chair and buries his face in his
hands over the blotter. Balsquith continues remorselessly, stooping
over him to rub it in.) He has three aunts in the peerage; and Lady
Richmond's one of them; (Mitchener utters a heartrending groan) and
they all adore him. The invitations for six garden parties and fourteen
dances have been cancelled for all the subalterns in Chubbs's regiment.
Is it possible you havent heard of it?
MITCHENER. Not a word.
BALSQUITH (shaking his head). I suppose nobody dared to tell you. (He
sits down carelessly on Mitchener's right.)
MITCHENER. What an infernal young fool Chubbs-Jenkinson is, not to know
the standing of his man better! Why didnt he know? It was his business
to know. He ought to be flogged.
BALSQUITH. Probably he will be, by the other subalterns.
MITCHENER. I hope so. Anyhow, out he goes! Out of the army! He or I.
BALSQUITH. His father has subscribed a million to the party funds. We
owe him a peerage.
MITCHENER. I dont care.
BALSQUITH. I do. How do you think parties are kept up? Not by the
subscriptions of the local associations, I hope. They dont pay for the
gas at the meetings.
MITCHENER. Man; can you not be serious? Here are we, face to face with
Lady Richmond's grave displeasure; and you talk to me about gas and
subscriptions. Her own nephew.
BALSQUITH (gloomily). Its unfortunate. He was at Oxford with Bobby
Bassborough.
MITCHENER. Worse and worse. What shall we do?
Balsquith shakes his head. They contemplate one another in miserable
silence.
A VOICE WITHOUT. Votes for Women! Votes for Women!
A terrific explosion shakes the building--they take no notice.
MITCHENER (breaking down). You dont know what this means to me,
Balsquith. I love the army. I love my country.
BALSQUITH. It certainly is rather awkward.
The Orderly comes in.
MITCHENER (angrily). What is it? How dare you interrupt us like this?
THE ORDERLY. Didnt you hear the explosion, Sir?
MITCHENER. Explosion. What explosion? No: I heard no explosion: I have
something more serious to attend to than explosions. Great Heavens: Lady
Richmond's nephew has been treated like any common laborer; and while
England is reeling under the shock a private comes in and asks me if I
heard an explosion.
BALSQUITH. By the way, what was the explosion?
THE ORDERLY. Only a sort of bombshell, Sir.
BALSQUITH. Bombshell!
THE ORDERLY. A pasteboard one, Sir. Full of papers with Votes for
Women in red letters. Fired into the yard from the roof of the Alliance
Office.
MITCHENER. Pooh! Go away. Go away.
The Orderly, bewildered, goes out.
BALSQUITH. Mitchener: you can save the country yet. Put on your
full-dress uniform and your medals and orders and so forth. Get a guard
of honor--something showy--horse guards or something of that sort; and
call on the old girl--
MITCHENER. The old girl?
BALSQUITH. Well, Lady Richmond. Apologize to her. Ask her leave to
accept the command. Tell her that youve made the curate your adjutant or
your aide-de-camp or whatever is the proper thing. By the way, what can
you make him?
MITCHENER. I might make him my chaplain. I dont see why I shouldnt have
a chaplain on my staff. He showed a very proper spirit in punching that
young cub's head. I should have done the same myself.
BALSQUITH. Then Ive your promise to take command if Lady Richmond
consents?
MITCHENER. On condition that I have a free hand. No nonsense about
public opinion or democracy.
BALSQUITH. As far as possible, I think I may say yes.
MITCHENER (rising intolerantly and going to the hearthrug). That wont do
for me. Dont be weak-kneed, Balsquith. You know perfectly well that the
real government of this country is and always must be the government of
the masses by the classes. You know that democracy is damned nonsense,
and that no class stands less of it than the working class. You know
that we are already discussing the steps that will have to be taken if
the country should ever be face to face with the possibility of a
Labor majority in parliament. You know that in that case we should
disfranchise the mob, and, if they made a fuss, shoot them down. You
know that if we need public opinion to support us, we can get any
quantity of it manufactured in our papers by poor devils of journalists
who will sell their souls for five shillings. You know--
BALSQUITH. Stop. Stop, I say. I dont know. That is the difference
between your job and mine, Mitchener. After twenty years in the army a
man thinks he knows everything. After twenty months in the Cabinet he
knows that he knows nothing.