Macdonald had a sort of cookie shine to-night, and I was invited. The
other guests were Mitchell, the assistant-manager of the railway
construction department, and Willis, the head of the water department.
We played Bridge, and I spent four hours of misery. I hate cards; I
can't concentrate at all, and I never have the faintest idea what the
man on my left has discarded. Willis and I won.
I always look upon cards as a veiled insult to guests. I want to know
what a man is thinking when I meet him; on the few occasions on which I
have brought out a pack of cards to entertain guests I have done so on
the frank realisation that their conversation wasn't worth listening to.
Later when we sat round the fire to chat I grudged the time lost over
the game. Mitchell had been for many years in India, and his stories of
life there were of great interest to me. He did not theorise about
India; he accepted without thought the attitude of the average
Anglo-Indian ... the nigger is a beast that has to be knocked into
shape; the Anglo-Indian mode of government was tip-top, couldn't be
beat; asses like Keir Hardie ought never to be allowed to put their foot
in India; what's wrong with India is what's wrong with the working
classes here--we give 'em too much education, make 'em discontented.
Willis was of a more intelligent type. He had been all over the world,
and, although a Conservative to the backbone, he had made some study of
modern problems. He had studied Socialism, thought it a fine thing,
but.... "You've got to change human nature first," he said.
* * *
If I were writing a novel I should now head a chapter thus:--Chapter
XXIV., in Which Macdonald and I become Brothers in Affliction.
He came up to see me to-night.
"You've put your foot in it this time," he began.
"What is it?" I cried in alarm.
"Old Brown--Violet's father--wants to slay you. His wife heard from Mrs.
Wylie that you said to Wylie that he, Brown, had the intellect of a
boiled rabbit."
"That's bad," I said in dismay. "The old fool was talking puerile
rubbish about the wickedness of the working-classes. Wylie was there,
and after Brown had gone I did make the impatient remark that he had the
intellect of a boiled rabbit. But, Good Lord! I didn't want the thing to
go back to his ears. How I can ever look the man in the face again I
don't know."
"You should have thought of that before you spoke," said Macdonald with
a smile.
"Oh," I replied, "I don't regret saying it in the least; at the time I
felt it was the only thing to say. What I regret is the meanness of
Wylie or his wife. Brown is a decent old chap, and I'm rather fond of
him. Why the devil are people so dirty in mind, Macdonald? We all say
things that we don't want carried to the person we are speaking about. I
say things about you that I would hate you to hear, and I guess that you
are in a similar position with regard to me. But the unpardonable social
crime is to tell one man what another has said about him. It's the
lowest down trick I know."
"What'll you do about it?"
"I'll go straight down to Brown and apologise for Wylie's bad taste."
"And your own!"
"Not at all. I'll tell him I've said worse things than that about him,
but I'll implore him not to let them make any difference in our
friendship."
"I've got a nasty little problem myself," said Macdonald. "You know that
confounded committee of villagers that has charge of the Soup Kitchen
Fund?"
"I do," I cried fervently.
"Well, I called a meeting for last night ... and I forgot to post Mrs.
Wylie's invitation."
"Call that a nasty problem?" I cried; "my dear chap, you've raised a
whirlwind and tempest combined ... and there won't be any still small
voice at the end of 'em either. You've committed the Unforgivable Sin
this time."
"She's in an awful wax," he continued; "says that she never was
insulted like this before. She came up to-night and gave me beans ...
told me that you were a perfect gentleman!"
"I took care never to omit her when I called the committee," I said
modestly.
"She'll never forgive me," said Macdonald dolefully.
"Oh, yes she will ... if you play your cards well. Your game is to send
a notice of the meeting to the local paper. Then commence a new
paragraph thus:--The Convener, Mr. Macdonald, intimated that Mrs.
Wylie's invitation to the meeting had been unintentionally overlooked,
and he expressed his very earnest regret that his mistake had deprived
the meeting of the always helpful advice of the injured lady.
"Publicity salves all wounds in the village, Macdonald. Do as I suggest
and Mrs. W. will support you for all eternity."
"They are so small-minded," he said.
"They are hyper-sensitive," said I. "Mrs. Wylie is quite sure that you
made a mistake. She can forgive you for that, but the thing that she
will find it hard to forgive is the fact that you did not pay special
attention to her letter, send it by registered post as it were. No one
who knows me would accuse me of self-depreciation, but I tell you,
Macdonald, every villager down there has more self-appreciation in his
little finger than I have in my whole body. Old Jake Baffers never had
a bath in his life, and he would be secretly proud of his record if an
urchin were to shout at him: 'G'wa and tak a wash!' Yet if the secretary
forgot to send him a notice of the Parish Council Meeting Jake would
hate the man for all eternity."
"What does it all mean?" asked Macdonald.
"The innate love of publicity lies at the root of all the village hate
and narrowness. They spend their little lives looking for trouble, and
the trouble they look for specially is a personal slight. The village is
always full of this kind of trouble. They like to have a finger in every
pie. You don't want them to run your Soup Kitchen; you could do it fifty
times better yourself."
"Perhaps they think I'd sneak the cash, eh?"
"No! No, to give them their due, they don't think that. You may rob the
Committee of all their cash if you like (think of the fine talk they
would have over it!); what you mustn't do is to rob them of their
publicity. Some of them will always hate you because you wear a linen
collar and don't talk dialect. Also, you are an incomer. I once attended
a public meeting in a Fife village. A man stood up to give his opinion
about a public matter, and they shouted him down with the cry: 'Sit
doon! Ye're an incomer!' The man had been resident in that village for
twenty-three years, but he had come from Forfarshire originally."
"And this is democracy!" exclaimed Macdonald.
"This is education," said I. "All the history and geography and grammar
in the world won't produce a better generation in this village. What is
really wrong is narrow vision due to lack of wide interest. Obviously
the village thinks of small things, things that don't count to us. The
villager left school at fourteen and he never had any training in
thinking."
"Well, and what's the remedy?"
"Remedy be blowed!" I cried. "Come on, I'm going down with you and I'll
have it out with old Brown."
* * *
Brown was in no mood to be friendly. Indeed he was quite nasty. He told
me frankly that our friendship was at an end, and I felt pained about
the matter. Suddenly a brilliant inspiration came to me. As I stood at
the door I turned to him sharply.
"You've had your say, Mr. Brown," I said sternly, "and now it's my
innings. I didn't mean to mention it, but you've forced me to do it."