"What's your opinion, Robin?"
"I think Mrs Inglethwaite should come. They like to see her on the
platform, I know."
"If the Candidate's wife does not appear, people say she is too grand
for them," put in Champion.
"I'll stay with Philly, Kit," said Dolly.
"Will you? You dear! But I know you want to come yourself."
"Never mind. It doesn't matter."
And so it was arranged.
We found the theatre packed to suffocation. A heated band of musicians
(whose degrees must have been conferred _honoris causa_) had just
concluded a set of airs whose sole excuse for existence was their
patriotic character, and Sir Thomas Wurzel (of Heycocks) was rising to
his feet, when our party appeared on the platform. Election fever was
running high by this time; the critical spirit was almost entirely
obliterated by a truly human desire to cut the preliminaries and hit
somebody in the eye; and we were greeted with deafening cheers.
Presently Champion was introduced and called upon to speak. He was
personally unknown to the crowd before him, although his name was
familiar to them. But in five minutes he had the entire audience in his
grip. He made them laugh, and he made them cheer; he made them breathe
hard, and he made them chuckle. There were moments when the vast throng
sat in death-like silence, while Champion, with his voice dropped almost
to a whisper, cajoled them as a woman cajoles a man. Then suddenly he
would blare out another battle-call, and provoke a great storm of
cheering. He made little use of gesture--occasionally he punctuated a
remark with an impressive forefinger, but he had the most wonderful
voice I have ever heard. I sat and watched him with whole-hearted
admiration. It is true that he was not doing our cause any particular
good. He had forgotten that he was there to make a party speech, to
decry his opponents, and crack up his friends. He was soaring away into
other regions, and--most wonderful of all--he was taking his audience
with him. He besought them to be men, to play the game, to think
straight, to awaken to a sense of responsibility, and to remember the
magnitude and responsibility of their task as controllers of an Empire.
He breathed into them for a moment a portion of his own great spirit;
and many a small tradesman and dull-souled artisan realised that night,
for the first (and possibly the last) time, that the summit of the
Universe is not composed of hides and tallow, and that there are higher
things than the loaves and fishes of party politics and the petty
triumphs of a contested election.
From a strictly tactical point of view all this was useless, and
therefore dangerous. But for a brief twenty minutes we were gods,
Utopians, Olympians, joyously planning out a scheme of things as they
should be, to the entire oblivion of things as they are. That is always
worth something.
Then he sat down, and we came to earth again with a bump, recollecting
guiltily the cause for which we were assembled and met together--namely,
the overwhelming of an Italian warehouseman and the retention of a
parliamentary seat in an unimportant provincial district.
Once only have I heard that speech bettered, and that was in the House
of Commons on a night in June fifteen years later, when a Prime Minister
started up from the Treasury Bench to defend a colleague whose
Bill--since recognised as one of the most statesmanlike measures of our
generation--was being submitted to the narrowest and meanest canons of
party criticism. It was another appeal for fair-play, unbiassed
judgment, and breadth of view, and it took a hostile and captious House,
Government and Opposition alike, by storm. The name of the Prime
Minister on that occasion was John Champion, and the colleague whom he
defended was Robert Chalmers Fordyce.
After Champion had sat down--nominally his speech was a vote of
confidence in my unworthy self--Robin rose to second the motion. I did
not envy him his task. It is an ungrateful business at the best, firing
off squibs directly after a shower of meteors. Even a second shower of
meteors would be rather a failure under the circumstances. Robin
realised this. He put something into his pocket and told his audience a
couple of stories--dry, pawky, Scottish yarns--which he admitted were
not new, not true, and not particularly relevant. The first was a
scurrilous anecdote concerning a man from Paisley,--which illustrious
township, by the way, appears to be the target of practically all
Scottish humour,--and the other treated of a Highland minister who was
delivering to a long-suffering congregation a discourse upon the Minor
Prophets. Robin told us how the preacher worked through Obadiah,
Ezekiel, Nahum, Malachi, "and many others whose names are doubtless
equally familiar to you, gentlemen," he added amid chuckles, "placing
them in a kind of ecclesiastical order of merit as he proceeded; and
finally he came to Habakkuk.
"'What place, my friends, what place will we assign to Habakkuk?' he
roared.
"That, gentlemen," said Robin, "proved to be the last straw. A man rose
up under the gallery.
"'Ye can pit him doon here in my seat,' he roared. 'I'm awa' hame!'
"Gentlemen," added Robin, as the shout of laughter subsided, "I fear
that one of you will be for offering _his_ seat to Habakkuk if I go on
any longer, so I will just second the motion and sit down."
After that I rose to my weary feet and offered my contribution. I have
no intention of giving a _précis_ of my speech here. It was exactly the
same as all the speeches ever delivered on such occasions. Thucydides
could have written it down word for word without ever having heard me
deliver it. It was not in the least a good speech, but it was the sort
of speech they expected, and, better still, it was the sort of speech
they wanted. Everybody was too excited to be critical, and I sat down,
perspiring and thankful, amid enthusiasm.
Then came the most trying ordeal of all--questions.
I am no hand at repartee; but practice had sharpened my faculties
in this direction, and I had, moreover, become fairly conversant
with the type of query to which the seeker after knowledge on these
occasions usually confines himself. The great secret is to bear in
mind the fact that what people want in one's reply is not accurate
information--unless, of course, you are standing for a Scottish
constituency, and then Heaven help you!--but something smart. If you can
answer the question, do so; but in any case answer it in such a way as
to make the questioner feel small. Then you will have your audience with
you.
To prevent unseemly shouting (and, _entre nous_, to give the Candidate a
little more time to polish up his impromptus), the questions were handed
up on slips of paper and read aloud, and answered _seriatim_. They were
sorted and arranged for me by Robin, and I not infrequently found, among
the various slips, a question usually coming directly after a regular
poser, in Robin's handwriting, with a brilliant and telling reply
thoughtfully appended.
This evening as usual Robin collected the slips from the stewards, and
ultimately laid them on the table before me. I rose, and started on the
heap. The first was a typewritten document which had been handed up by a
thoughtful-looking gentleman in the front row. It contained a single
line--
_Are you a Liberal or a Conservative?_
This was a trifle hard, I thought, coming directly after my speech; but
fortunately the audience considered it merely funny, and roared when I
remarked pathetically, "This gentleman is evidently deaf."