“You are right. I was there, yet I had forgotten. You were not there,
yet you remember. I will tell no more experiences.”
At another time, in Paris, in 1897, Sir Wilfrid and other Canadians, who
had visited England for the Jubilee of Queen Victoria, were being
conducted about the city. At the Arc de Triomphe, inscribed with the
names of the great victories of the Napoleonic wars, an army officer
undertook to give the dates of the different battles.
“Marengo,” he said, “was fought in July 14th., 1801.”
“Was it not 1800?” asked Sir Wilfrid.
“It was,” replied the officer, abashed. “Evidently we must go to Canada
to learn French history.”
* * * * *
Sir Wilfrid Laurier in a very real sense was passionately fond of
children. He relaxed to them, he loved them, and they loved him.
Children seemed to get closer to “the Chief” than anyone else. There
were times, in the stress of big events, when matters of policy were to
be determined, when situations had to be gauged and met, when Sir
Wilfrid seemed to shut himself behind an expressionless face to do his
thinking. His friends and lieutenants sought counsel from him then
without success. No premature intimations were forthcoming. He became to
all associated with him a seeker—not a giver—of information. One left
his presence, having gone for guidance, with the conviction that he had
laid bare his whole mind and thought at the delicate prompting of the
Chief’s skilful interrogations, but realizing that the latter had
communicated nothing.
At the time of the long naval debate and Parliamentary embroglio, when
the threat of closures was in the air and all the strategy of statecraft
was being brought into play by both parties, a Liberal caucus waited
anxiously one winter morning for the advent of the leader. Newspaper-men
who proceeded to the main entrance eagerly watching for his coming
witnessed the septuagenarian spending the valuable moments prodding in
the snow with his walking-stick and seeking to locate a “lost mitt” of
an all-alone baby girl, who was crying pathetically at her loss and the
cold. It was only when the missing mitten was found and restored and the
child had been comforted that Sir Wilfrid turned his attention to the
waiting caucus and the problems of the moment.
Those who accompanied the then Prime Minister on his memorable tour of
the West in the summer of 1910 will never forget an incident while he
was speaking at Edmonton. So great was the crowd that had assembled in
Alberta’s capital that hot August afternoon to hear his message that all
attempts to hold an indoor meeting were abandoned. Sir Wilfrid spoke
from a balcony at the central corner of the main thoroughfare, and
windows, balconies and streets were peopled with spectators. Suddenly,
in the midst of his speech he paused, and gazing over the seething mass
of humanity, pointed to one of the upper windows in a block diagonally
opposite to the balcony from which he spoke. A midget was seated alone
on the ledge, swinging her feet over the street far below. Anxiously he
inquired: “Is that little one safe?” Amid all the display and acclaim
Sir Wilfrid’s eyes were on the child in danger.
One of the most charming revelations of Sir Wilfrid’s thought for
children and his understanding of them occurred on the same tour during
a public reception at a temporary stand built upon a Manitoba prairie.
An eight-year-old maid of the harvest field, with unadorned straw hat
and bare feet, stood, like the publican of old, afar off. She looked on
with wide, wondering eyes while a more fortunate little lady, in the
fluffy, beribboned, spotless daintiness so dear to all daughters of Eve,
be they big or little, gave the great man a beautiful bouquet of roses.
She had seen him stoop and kiss her. Then she separated herself from the
cheering crowd. She strayed to a spot on the prairie where she knew they
grew. She gathered them herself, a little ill-assorted bunch of wild
weed blossoms. Then she edged her way back through the throng. She had
almost reached him as he was moving on, when a badged committeeman
stopped her, and taking her by the sleeve of her patched print dress
thrust her back. Tears sprang to her eyes.
For an instant the procession wavered. There was a break in the line.
Sir Wilfrid turned. Unwittingly the little one found herself almost
confronting him. Feverishly now she sought to squirm back into the
oblivion of the crowd. But he had seen her. He stepped toward her, and
the committeeman released his hold.
“Were you good enough to mean those flowers for me, little girl?” he
asked with a smile. She thrust them toward him now half-frightened.
He bowed and took them. He kissed her. Then he drew a sprig from the
bunch and fastened it upon the lapel of his coat. And when the great man
mounted his car and waved his hat to the cheering hundreds there was one
happy little girl who feasted her eyes upon a faded wild weed blossom
still drooping on his breast.
Sir Wilfrid never lost a chance to “make up” to the little folk. He
travelled on the first passenger train over the National
Transcontinental from Fort William to Winnipeg, when construction gangs
were still at work and the primitive condition of the country caused the
workmen to be housed in log and frame shanties along the line, and took
a remarkable interest in the several children who had accompanied their
pioneer parents to the wild and picturesque outposts of coming
civilization. He was the earliest riser on the train, and one morning,
when the call of breakfast found him missing, there was some anxiety as
to whether he had lost his way in an early morning walk through the
bush. “No need for worry,” volunteered one, who knew his Chief well;
“you’ll likely find him outside somewhere with the youngsters.” He was
right. Sir Wilfrid was “playing catch” with a sturdy four-year-old
behind a nearby shanty.
One day as the train lay in a switch near Humboldt a boy mounted the
steps with a new birthday present, and explained that he wanted to take
his first picture of “Mister Laurier.” A few moments later the tall
figure was standing patiently on the track till the juvenile
photographer “got it right.” The little fellow secured first-hand what
scores of correspondents and local photographers had for weeks been
struggling with crowds and erecting pedestals to obtain.
The devotion of the habitant of rural Quebec to Sir Wilfrid Laurier was
well illustrated by an incident during the campaign of 1911. The Liberal
leader was leaving Bonaventure station, in Montreal, very early one
morning to proceed, via Coteau, to accept the nomination for Soulanges.
At the station he passed a little girl, the daughter of a basket-laden
woman, on her way to market. He stopped to pat the child’s head and
exchange a greeting.
“Qui est l’homme?” (“Who is the man?”) asked the astonished mother of a
bystander.
“Sir Wilfrid Laurier,” replied one of the group of newspapermen nearby.
The woman’s face was a picture. “En vérité?” (“Indeed, truly?”) she
persisted, turning from one to another for confirmation.
When she was convinced she ran after the departing figure and stroked
the sleeves of his coat as if it were something holy. Sir Wilfrid turned
and shook her hand, ere the poor woman fled in confusion.
* * * * *
His love of children was very sincere. On one occasion he was visiting a
friend at his farm near Aurora. One evening he sat down to dinner, and
after commencing, excused himself, went upstairs and shortly returned.
Next day the little granddaughter of his host, who was also staying at
the farm, said that, “Mr. Wilfrid” had forgotten to say goodnight to her
the night before and that he had come up from dinner to kiss her
goodnight and speak to her before she went to sleep.
* * * * *
A man who visits Ottawa from time to time tells of an unexpected
interview with Sir Wilfrid. Word was brought to him that the Liberal
Chieftain wished to see him. The remainder of the story may be told in
his own words:—
The friend who brought me the message made an appointment for me to
visit Sir Wilfrid at two o’clock in the afternoon. When I reached his
home on Laurier Avenue, he was waiting for me, and although I had never
met him before, his welcome was so simple and kindly that I felt at home
at once, and felt as if we had been life-long friends. In a sense we had
been, for I had admired him since I had first seen him on a platform
over thirty years ago. The acquaintanceship was at least complete on my
side. I felt that I knew him very thoroughly, and his welcome made me
forget that his knowledge of me must be very casual.
But though his greeting made me feel not only at ease but flattered and
happy, it was not long before I noticed something that aroused an
old-time critical attitude. It so happened that many years ago I had
served my time as a dramatic critic, and had learned to notice the
little niceties by which an actor achieves his affects. Now I do not
wish to accuse Sir Wilfrid of being an actor, but if his methods were
spontaneous and merely happened so, they were still worthy of Booth,
Irving or Belasco.
I was shown into his sitting-room, where a grate fire was burning. After
a most cordial greeting, in which he referred to some of my activities,
which had attracted his attention and pleased him, he motioned me to a
chair and when I had seated myself he sat down beside me. While standing
he towered over me in height, but to my surprise, when he sat down I was
looking down into his earnest, attentive face. I instantly noticed that
the chair on which he sat was several inches lower than the one on which
I sat. The stage trick was so apparent that although I did not betray
the fact that I had noticed it, it made me keenly alert for anything
else of the same kind that might happen. For over an hour we engaged in
a most animated conversation. I had information which he wanted, and by
his shrewd questions, but even more by his absorbed attention, which
never wavered, he made me tell everything I knew about the subject in
hand.
During the hour that I spent with him I could not help feeling his
magnetic personality. His wonderful graciousness and flattering
attention to every word I spoke made me realize that he was more
compelling and captivating when met privately than when seen on the
platform. No outburst of eloquence could surpass the delightful
persuasiveness of his ordinary conversation.
Finally, he rose as if some thought had suddenly occurred to him. He
walked over to the open fireplace, and stood with his back to me for a
few moments. As he rose from the low chair on which he had been sitting
and stood erect his height seemed more than mortal. Standing with his
back to me, he seemed absorbed in profound thought, but presently he
turned and his whole manner had changed. Instinctively I came to
attention and stood before him. With the smile which made his followers
adore him, he began abruptly.
“Now, Mr. ——, what I want to know is what constituency are you going
to contest in the coming election?”
“Why!” I stammered. “I never thought of such a thing!”
“Ah, but I have thought of it,” said Sir Wilfrid.
I protested that I had no political experience and would probably bring
confusion upon myself and the party, if I attempted to take a public
part in politics. With a magnificent gesture he brushed aside my
objections.
“But I want you with me in Parliament. I need you there!”
This compelled me to speak somewhat intimately of my personal affairs,
and to make it clear to him that it was impossible for me to change the
whole current of my life and take part in politics. My explanations
convinced him, and the subject was dropped.
Though I was deeply moved by the compliment implied by his request, the
dramatic critic was still alert at the back of my head and chuckling
with inward appreciation. The scene had been worthy of Booth at his
best. Cardinal Richelieu could not have surpassed him. As a matter of
fact, I have always thought of him since then as “the Cardinal,” and
have used the title when speaking of him to intimate friends.
Though I had other interviews with him, none of them equalled the first
in the exquisite attention to detail in the stage setting—the low
chair, the open fireplace and the turning towards me with infinite
suavity and appeal to make his request.
But I do not wish to leave the impression that he was consciously an
actor. He naturally made use of his surroundings for dramatic effect. It
was not so much that he put on a grand manner as that it was impossible
for him ever to lay it off. It was part of the man.