before 12 noon on March 4th, 1921_.
WOODROW WILSON, MARSHALL, _the Vice-President, and_ TUMULTY _are
waiting for the hour to strike that will make_ WARREN HARDING
_President of the United States of America, and_ WILSON _a free
citizen again._
WILSON: They have been great years to live in. I’ve tried to be worthy
of them.
TUMULTY: And succeeded, with Lincoln and George Washington, Governor.
WILSON (_shyly_): You put me in mighty good company. Anyone can
be great in great times. The events we’ve been through called for
something superhuman. I wish I could have given that.
MARSHALL: No man could have done more, Mr. President. Some day the
world will see it.
WILSON: Marshall, I’m not ambitious for the world to see any such
thing. I want my work to prosper. That is all.
TUMULTY: It has made a beginning.
WILSON: A small beginning, a halting beginning, but a beginning, yes.
Yet when I think of what the League could be doing to facilitate a
general settling down to peace, if only America were behind it-- And
yet again, perhaps it is well. Maybe, if things had not so fallen
out, the weaknesses of the thing we made would not have become
manifest, until it was too late for improvement.
MARSHALL: You think it has weaknesses?
WILSON: The highest product of man’s mind, the law, is full of
weaknesses, Marshall. How can this new conception have escaped them?
But the idea will surely triumph. I have faith.
TUMULTY: The new administration will kill it, if they can.
WILSON: I have faith.... It must be nearly time now.
_A tall, spare man followed by his colleagues walks into the Chamber.
This is_ SENATOR LODGE, _the President’s life-long political foe_.
LODGE (_stiffly_): Mr. President, we have come, as a Committee of
the Senate, to notify you that the Senate and the House are about to
adjourn, and await your pleasure.
WILSON (_rising with majesty_): Senator Lodge, I have no further
communication to make. I thank you.... The few seconds now remaining
no more than suffice me to lay down the authority derived from my
office. (_The clock strikes twelve._) Gentlemen, I wish you well, and
farewell. Come, Tumulty.
_He goes. Simultaneously a roar of applause without, proclaims the
accession of_ PRESIDENT HARDING.
THE SCENE CLOSES.
[THE END.]
JEMIMA BLOGGS
(_A Play of Life as it is, in the Manchester manner of Mr. St. John
Ervine._)
ACT I
SCENE: _A dingy parlour in a London Suburb. Two men in ill-fitting
garments are sitting glumly, in comfortless chairs with shabby and
rather soiled covers, on either side of a dismal mockery of a fire.
The room is lit with incandescent gas, which shows a sickly yellow
through a raw haze, offensively compounded of “London Particular” and
the penetrating yellow fumes of cheap coal. The men are_ JOSEPH BLOGGS
_(52), one of life’s many failures, and_ HENRY HOOKER _(49), another
of them. Their tired white faces are resting on their hands, and
they are staring into the smoking grate. At last_ HOOKER _breaks the
intolerable silence_.
HOOKER (_gloomily_): The fire’s smoking.
BLOGGS: Yes. (_He pokes it. The fire smoulders angrily. They cough.
There is a pause._ HOOKER _looks out of the window_.)
* * * * *
HOOKER (_darkly_): It’s raining.
BLOGGS (_with a deep sigh_): Yes.... Has the fog lifted?
HOOKER: No. It’s getting thicker.
BLOGGS (_with resignation_): Ah, well. (JEMIMA (42) _comes in,
tiredly. She is the wife of_ BLOGGS, _a thin, prematurely grey-haired
woman, haggard with cares. The fire welcomes her with a spiteful
volley of lyddite._)
JEMIMA (_wearily_): You’re here, are you?
BLOGGS: Yes.... The fire’s smoking.
JEMIMA (_with a sigh_): I’ll make it up. (_She makes a listless attack
on it with the poker. The fire goes out._) The coals are so bad. (_She
painfully rekindles it._)
HOOKER: Yes.
Jemima (_addressing_ BLOGGS): That kid’s very bad again. She’s
coughing something awful.
BLOGGS: Better have the doctor.
JEMIMA: Perhaps Mr. Hooker would tell him on his way home?
HOOKER: Yes.
JEMIMA: The gas company’s going to cut off the gas to-morrow,
unless--Joseph, couldn’t we pay something on account?
BLOGGS: I’ll see what I can do.
HOOKER: Life’s very hard.
JEMIMA: Yes. (_She begins to lay the table with enamel cups and
saucers._) You’ll stay for tea, Mr. Hooker?
HOOKER (_drearily_): Yes. I suppose so. (_They wait in silent misery
for the kettle to boil._)
THE CURTAIN FALLS.
[Illustration: HOOKER: Life’s very hard.]
ACT II.
SCENE: _The same room, slightly more dingy._ JEMIMA BLOGGS, _her
husband, and a_ DOCTOR _are standing under the gas bracket_. HOOKER,
_as usual, is crouching over the starveling fire_.
THE DOCTOR (_curtly_): She can’t live. It’s only a matter of days,
perhaps hours. I must go.
BLOGGS: Can nothing be done?
THE DOCTOR: Can you send her to the Riviera?
BLOGGS: No. Would that cure her?
THE DOCTOR: It might.... I’m sorry. Good-day. (_He goes._)
JEMIMA (_in a shaking voice_): I’ll get your tea, Joseph. (_She begins
taking down the cups and laying the table._)
BLOGGS (_as if in a trance_): The Riviera might save her. (_He takes
his hat._)
JEMIMA: Won’t you wait for tea before you go?
BLOGGS: I don’t want any tea. (_He slouches miserably out._)
HOOKER: The fog’s very thick.
JEMIMA: Yes.
HOOKER: It’s still raining. (_He takes his hat and coat._)
JEMIMA: Won’t you stay for tea, Mr. Hooker?
HOOKER: I don’t feel equal to tea. (_He goes out unsteadily._ JEMIMA
_sits wretchedly by the smouldering hearth. The child cries out in its
delirium. The fog steals into the room obscuring everything._)
THE CURTAIN FALLS.
ACT III.
SCENE: _The same room--if possible dingier than ever._ JEMIMA _is
sitting hunched up by the fire, which is enveloping her in a yellow
cloud_. BLOGGS _is pushed into the room by a hard-faced man_.
THE HARD-FACED MAN (_grimly_): I’ve brought you back your husband,
ma’am. You may as well know he’s discharged from my employment.
JEMIMA (_tonelessly_): Oh?
THE H.F.M.: And lucky he’s not prosecuted.
JEMIMA (_as before_): Oh?
THE H.F.M.: Embezzlement’s a serious thing.
JEMIMA: Yes.... Starvation’s serious too.
THE H.F.M.: That’s your affair.... I don’t want thanks. I don’t intend
to prosecute, because it’s a nuisance. That’s all.
JEMIMA: Yes.
BLOGGS (_inadvertently stepping out of the picture_): I tell you I
did it to save my little girl. She’s dying. I must have money to save
her--to send her abroad. Oh, Amy, Amy, my child. (_He tries in vain to
sob._)
THE H.F.M. (_chillingly_): No sentiment, please! This is not the
Lyceum.... Now, I’m going. I hope I never see either of you again. I
don’t care two straws whether the girl dies or not. And I won’t wish
you luck, because I don’t specially want you to have it, and anyway
you wouldn’t get it. (_But they are paying no attention, and he goes._)
JEMIMA (_listlessly_): Doctor’s been again.
BLOGGS (_the same_): Oh yes?
JEMIMA: Says she’s getting better.
BLOGGS: Is she? (_He sits by the fire in his hat and coat. The
inevitable_ HOOKER _slouches in, similarly clad, and takes his place
on the other side. A melancholy silence reigns._)
HOOKER (_at last_): It’s raining again.
JEMIMA (_bringing in the milk-jug_): The thunder’s turned the milk
sour.
BLOGGS (_dismally_): I thought it would.
HOOKER (_shivering, and hugging himself in his coat_): There’s a thick
fog, and it’s very damp.
BLOGGS (_gloomily_): There always is.
HOOKER: Yes. (_The fire contributes to the general depression by a
shower of soot, and a sudden belch of acrid yellow fumes._)
BLOGGS: Jemima, the fire’s smoking.
JEMIMA (_wearily_): I’ll make it up in a minute. (_She worries it
with various implements. More soot falls and the smoke increases. She
stirs it aimlessly with the poker. It flickers and goes out for the
last time. They, and the audience, are too depressed to care. They sit
staring blankly at the grate as the cold and fog gradually invade the
room._)
THE CURTAIN FALLS VERY SLOWLY.
UNDER EASTERN SKIES
(_A Romantic Drama suitable for performance at His Majesty’s Theatre_.)
FIRST SCENE.--_A street in Damascus, copied, with meticulous
exactitude, from the Byway of Beggars in that famous city. Even the
smells are there--thanks to an ingenious contrivance of concealed
sprays, by means of which the appropriate odour is insinuated into the
nostrils of the audience._
_A party of camels, an elephant and a couple of giraffes, are
loitering about in the charge of officials from the Zoological Gardens
disguised as Bedouin Sheiks._ ALI BABA, SINBAD THE SAILOR, SHIBLI
BAGARAG, _and other familiar Eastern figures are exchanging hoarse
Oriental salutations from their houses and shops. Goats, sheep,
goatwomen, shepherds, etc., complete the picture._
ALI BABA (_in a wailing shriek_): Inshallah, wullahy, eywallah.
SHIBLI BAGARAG (_lamenting_): Eywah! Traadisveribadahii! (_He beats
his breast_).
A PASSER-BY (_indignantly addressing a stolid camel-driver_):
Bismillah, O Son of my Uncle, have thy camels, on whom be peace,
acquired a _firman_ investing in them the sole use of this highway?
THE OUTRAGED CAMEL-DRIVER (_forgetting his part and falling back on
the language of Regent’s Park_): ’Ere. Look ’ere----
ANOTHER PASSER-BY (_hastily interrupting, and turning upon the first
with contumely_): Hence, brother of a baboon. Mock not dumb beasts, as
it is written.
A GOAT: M-a-a-a-a.
A GOATWOMAN: Aie, little one, muzzle thy tongue ... (_resuming her
conversation_). In sooth, O my father, as thou dost say----
THE GOAT (_rebelliously_): M-a-a-a-a-a.
THE GOATWOMAN: Arree, be silent, child of misfortune, or thou shalt
see the inside of a stewpan. (_The goat thinks better of it._)
THE HAJJI OSKARASHI BEN DAOUD BEN ISMAIL (_a holy and very dirty
man of enormous size, sinister appearance and awe-inspiring voice,
appearing from a hovel_): Alms. Alms for the love of Allah. (_People
give him money. He takes it nonchalantly and without thanks._) Alms in
the name of the Compassionate. (_He moves majestically on, until he
meets a disreputable-looking being who has just emerged from a side
street. Aside to this apparition._) Is all arranged?
HIS CONFEDERATE (_in a low tone_): Ya, holy one. (_At the top of his
voice in order to deceive everyone except the audience._) Nay, I have
nothing for thee, thou evil-smelling and consummate old humbug.
OSKARASHI (_whining_): Deny not of thy plenty, O gracious benefactor,
as it is written. (_Aside_) What is the signal?
HIS CONFEDERATE (_giving money with bad grace_): Veialeikum a-salaam,
O holy one. (_Aside_) Three raps on the outer postern gate: and
then----
OSKARASHI (_showing his teeth in a terrible smile_): And then--blood
and much booty (_passing on_). Alms in the name of Allah.
THE GOAT (_unable to contain itself_): M-a-a-a-a-a!
THE CAMELS AND GIRAFFES: M-o-o-o-o-o!
THE ELEPHANT--_But no, we cannot describe the cry of the elephant._
A MUEZZIN (_appearing on his minaret_): La Allah il Allah (_a bell
tolls. The faithful prostrate themselves towards the East_).
SECOND SCENE.--_Bagdad. The harem of Oskarashi ben Daoud, etc. We
deduce either that alms-seeking in the East is a highly lucrative
profession, or else that the “much booty,” referred to in the first
scene, proved even more abundant than was expected. The harem is
an enormous apartment, about the size of the Albert Hall, with a
swimming pool fed by a golden fountain in the centre, and rows of
marble colonnades receding in all directions into an apparently
illimitable distance. A vast concourse of beautiful and, despite their
biscuit-coloured complexions, unmistakably European young women,
languish on cushions of every variety of texture and colouring._
_A pair of acrobats, a jazz band of strange instruments, and some kind
of Oriental glee party are giving a simultaneous performance. Some
withered crones with birches are chastising certain recalcitrant wives
in a corner. Our friends the camels, giraffes and elephants have been
replaced by a party of leopards, duck-billed platypuses, anthropoid
apes, okapis and tapirs._ OSKARASHI _himself, comatose after an
enormous Eastern supper, is keeping awake with difficulty, propped up
against a mound of cushions piled on a huge divan. Entwined around
him, serpent-wise, is Zobeide el Okra, the Bulbul of the harem._
THE GLEE PARTY (_bursting into the well-known Eastern ditty_):
We sit and gobble with chopsticks and spoon
From the midnight hour to the stroke of noon,
Gobble at work and----
OSKARASHI: Enough. Let them be dispatched. (_Black slaves hurl them
into the Tigris, which obligingly flows near by._) Let the feast
proceed. (_An obsequious conjurer appears; nobody, however, pays any
attention, except the junior members of the audience, who are properly
fascinated._)
ONE OF THE ACROBATS (_drawing aside his disguise and revealing himself
as the terrible_ ASWARAK--_whom we forgot to mention in Scene I, but
who plays an important part in the proceedings. He addresses one of
the attendants, who draws aside his disguise and reveals the features
of the dreaded_ BOO BOO): All is ready?
BOO BOO (_grimly_): Ya Aswarak. Allah hath favoured us. Every door is
stopped and the black guards have received their price.
ASWARAK: It is well.... Remember she is to be mine.
BOO BOO: Whom--I mean who?
ASWARAK (_rapturously_): The Bulbul of the night, the reward of the
favoured of Islam.
BOO BOO: Have a care, Holy One, we may be overheard.
ASWARAK: And the signal?
BOO BOO: Thy song. (_The conjurer concludes his entertainment._)
ASWARAK: I will now sing.
EVERYONE: Oh, Allah, must this be?
OSKARASHI (_grimly_): Let him sing. Guards be at hand to do my bidding.
ASWARAK (_aside_): Thy last bidding in this world, O corpulent Father
of Obscenity. (_Aloud_) As thou sayest, O Protector of the Poor. (_He
takes his lute and sings, gazing ardently--almost too ardently--at
Zobeide_):
Ah, when the sun
Gives up the ghost;
And lovers run,
With ardent boast,
To woo the one
Each fancies most--
The stars arise
Behind thine eyes
O Bulbul.
ALL: O Bul-bul-bul.
ASWARAK: And I thy sighs
Apostrophize
O Bulbul.
ALL: O Bul-bul-bul--
OSKARASHI (_who has no intention of allowing this kind of thing to go
on_): Enough! Well sung, Minstrel. (_Darkly_) Thy reward?
ASWARAK (_throwing off his disguise_): Thy head, Father of
Abomination. (_Tumult. He draws a sword and rushes at the divan.
The wives scuttle wailing, pursued by the guards, who pour into
the chamber. Everyone runs shouting after someone else._ OSKARASHI
_strikes his assailants into a heap, and hurls himself roaring into
the Tigris. The curtain falls upon a writhing mass of humanity._)
THIRD SCENE.--_The action has for some reason shifted to
China--probably in order that Mr. Gloomy Bishop, the celebrated
producer, may be enabled to show the London public what he is really
capable of, when he cares to extend himself. The stage, therefore,
is a blaze of red lacquer and Chinese Lanterns, supplemented by
pagodas, palanquins and pigtails. A forbidding archway of crumbling
masonry--flanked on either side by a barbaric figure armed with
crossbow, javelin, long horsehair moustache and a hideous expression
of brutality, indicates that the action is about to continue at
the Gateway of the Lotus--a bypath in Old Pekin._ OSKARASHI, _the
Venerable Hajji, has lain here in honourable concealment ever
since his escape in the Tigris. But ah! his hiding place has been
discovered. This is made apparent by the highly suspicious conduct of
two strolling passers-by, whose physical characteristics appear to
correspond more or less accurately with those of_ ASWARAK _and the
odious_ BOO BOO.
FIRST STROLLER (_accosting the other with all the honeyed courtesy of
the Celestial Empire_): Honourable Dweller in a foreign land, deign
to accept of my accursed superfluity. (_Gives money and continues in
an undertone_) The detested of Islam has been discovered.
SECOND STROLLER (_performing the ceremonies, observances and
obeisances prescribed in the canons of Celestial etiquette_): May the
shadow of this undeserving one diminish and disappear, if he should
unworthily be found wanting in gratitude to your honourable and
beatific and excellent self. (_Pouches the coins and continues also in
an undertone_) Where, O Father of Procrastination?
FIRST STROLLER: As Confucius justly remarks, charity--(_dropping his
voice_). In a certain hovel in the back street beyond the wall, he
conceals himself, plying the disreputable calling--may his porkers
perish--of a seller of swine’s flesh--the curse of the prophet’s beard
be upon him. Everything is arranged. To-night we surround the house:
rush in at the appointed hour: and nail him to the counter in the
midst of his abominable merchandise. Bismillah.
SECOND STROLLER (_fiercely_): Inshallah! (_Louder_) The honourable
greeting of your illustrious Excellency has brought sunshine and hope
into the miserable existence of this one.
FIRST STROLLER: Your honourable praise is sweeter in the ears of this
obsequious rubbish-heap, than the music of the Celestial stars. Peace
be with you.
_They depart. A bundle of rags and blankets in a neighbouring corner
suddenly comes to life, and reveals the familiar lineaments of
Oskarashi, as he slinks away, like an enormous anthropoid ape, to his
hovel in the back street beyond the wall._
FOURTH SCENE.--_We now find ourselves at night in an even more ancient
and dilapidated part of the city--the neighbourhood of the hovel in
the back street, beyond the wall. A number of American tourists,
shepherded by an unsightly and bespectacled Baboo from the local
Cook’s office, are making a tour of these rather unsavoury precincts,
before embarking to join the P. and O. steamer at Hong Kong. Lurking
in the background are_ ASWARAK, BOO BOO AND CO., with an arsenal of
weapons, closing in upon their enemy.
THE BABOO (_addressing his audience collectively_):
And--here--we--have--a--typical--example--of--the--ar--chitecture--of
old--Pekin--dating--to--a--time--co--eval--with--Ginghis
Khan--in--my--country.
A TOURIST: My, Sally. Look at here! (_To the guide_) Say, cutey, what
you callum this? (_She points to a procession forming up among the
houses._)
THE BABOO: This--is--a very--fortunate--circumstance.
Ladies--and--gentlemen--we--are--about--to--witness--a--Manchu--funeral.
ANOTHER TOURIST: Some guy pegged out, I guess.
THE BABOO: We must--withdraw--to--one--side. (_They do so._)
ASWARAK (_or_ BOO BOO): A thousand curses. We must delay the assault
until this pig of an unbeliever has been taken away. (_They confer._)
_The procession advances, headed by the Mourners, who are singing a
terrible wailing melody. As they approach the words become audible._
THE MOURNERS (_dolefully_):
Honourable mandarin gone west,
Welly sick belly and pain in chest,
Silly fellow leave off winter vest,
No can facee breeze.
First catchee chicken-pox, then get croup,
Double pneumonia, and off he poop:
Chop-suey, Laichee, Birds-nest-soup,
That’s good stage Chinese.
(_They go out with their melancholy burden._)
THE BABOO: We--will--now--return--in
time--for--the--especial--dance--for--ladies--and
gentlemen--at--the--Nautical--Club. (_He takes his tribe away._)
(_The stage darkens._ ASWARAK AND CO. _begin to emerge stealthily from
their hiding place. Red limelight illumines the stage. Weird music.
They rush into the hovel. Reappear raving like Bedlamites._ OSKARASHI
_has escaped. They realise that he was in the coffin of the Manchu
funeral. In the thick of the hubbub, the voices of the returning
mourners are heard._)
THE MOURNERS (_returning_):
Chinky Chinky Chip Chip Choop,
And any damn rot you please,
Chop-suey, Laichee, Birds-nest-soup
Welly good stage Chinese.
ASWARAK (_foaming at the mouth_): Halt, evil-tongued progeny of
obscene mothers!
THE MOURNERS (_tearing off their disguises_): What? Offal-eating scum
of the bazaar! (_They fall on each other. The curtain falls on the
familiar spectacle of writhing humanity._)
The last scene we are not sure about. It depends largely on the
temperamental judgment of Mr. Gloomy Bishop. It was originally planned
to be the courtyard of the Dalai Lamasery of Thibet. Mr. Bishop,
however, leans in favour of a Patagonian village or alternatively a
street scene in Tristan d’Acunha. He thinks the latter might enable
him to introduce a talking penguin as a counterweight to Mr. Charles
Cochran’s singing duck. And he is not absolutely certain that he
wouldn’t like a Honolulu surf scene, or perhaps a salt mining camp on
the Gulf of Carpentaria. Mr. Bishop is not sure; and he must have time
to think it over.
Things, therefore, are held up until the producer and author can come
to an agreement. But on one thing the author is adamant. Oskarashi has
got to come to a sticky end. The author absolutely refuses to allow the
fellow to be perpetuated in another play.
THE VODKA BOTTLE
(_A Play of Russian Life in the manner of Anton Tchekov._)
_The study of Ivan Ivanovitch Bougárov, a wealthy landowner. Bougárov
is alone at the desk. A vodka bottle and a measuring glass are at his
elbow._
BOUGÁROV (_sniffing the glass_): It’s strong enough, I think.... Brr,
what a filthy stench!... Where are the directions? (_He gropes for
a piece of paper._) Here they are. Sprinkle it on toasted cheese,
and leave it lying about in the vicinity of their holes. (_Examining
the bottle._) That ought to be sufficient for all the rats in Little
Russia as the saying is. (_Enter_ STEPAN STEPANOVITCH RUMBUNKSKI.)
RUMBUNKSKI: Good morning, honoured Ivan Ivanovitch.
BOUGÁROV: Little Fathers, Stepan Stepanovitch, how you startled me.
RUMBUNKSKI: Your nerves are upset, my darling. You must give up the
vodka, and all that.
BOUGÁROV: But my dear little Stepan Stepanovitch, you are wrong;
because you see, my dearest little Stepan Stepanovitch, I don’t drink
vodka now, and so it can’t be vodka.
RUMBUNKSKI: Don’t drink vodka?
BOUGÁROV: No, my precious, I don’t drink it any more; so you see you
must be wrong, my little woodchuck.
RUMBUNKSKI: But, Ivan Ivanovitch, my dear fellow, don’t try to
stuff my head, as the French say. You must drink vodka, because
there’s a bottle and glass on the table before you. I don’t say you
drink to excess, my dearest little love-bird, but you must drink it
sometimes--or you wouldn’t have it always on the table in front of
you, and so on.
BOUGÁROV: Stepan Stepanovitch, be careful how you contradict me,
because I can’t stand it, my dear little flying-fish, and that’s a
fact. You ought to know better than to come into a brother landowner’s
house and accuse him of drunkenness to his face. It’s mean; it’s
beastly; it’s not worthy of you, my little alligator.
RUMBUNKSKI: I didn’t accuse you of anything of the kind. I only
said----
BOUGÁROV: Well, well, you withdraw. That’s all right. We’ll say no
more about it.
RUMBUNKSKI: But excuse me, my dear Ivan Ivanovitch, I don’t withdraw,
because I have said nothing that calls for withdrawal. I didn’t make
any beastly accusation and all that. All I said----
BOUGÁROV: Oh, little God Almighty, won’t you stop talking! I can’t
stand it, I tell you. My head’s bursting, and I’ve got a terrible pain
in my shoulder blades. And both my ears are burning.
RUMBUNKSKI: All I said was that vodka didn’t agree with you, and you
know it doesn’t. Why everyone knows perfectly well that one night, at
Roobikov’s, you----
BOUGÁROV: Excuse me, Stepan Stepanovitch, but you’d better go. Yes,
you had better go. I might do you a mischief, and so on; and I shall
be sorry afterwards. That night at Roobikov’s, let me tell you, you
were in a disgusting state yourself, and unfit to pass an opinion on
anybody.
RUMBUNKSKI: That’s a lie, Ivan Ivanovitch: you were always a liar and
an intriguer. And as for doing me a mischief, come and try, that’s all!
BOUGÁROV: Oh, little Mothers, help me to be patient. You’re a skunk
and a coward, Stepan Stepanovitch. A skunk. You know you’re safe in
threatening me, because I’m on my last legs with disease, and dying
out, and all that, and so you think you can insult me with impunity.
But when Dmitri Dmitriov thrashed you with a cane----
RUMBUNKSKI: What’s this? What’s this lie about Dmitri Dmitriov. Oh,
Little Uncles and Aunts, this is a bit too much!
BOUGÁROV: Yes. Dmitri Dmitriov thrashed you, didn’t he? And you ran
squealing about the room, trying to hide under the furniture----
RUMBUNKSKI: Ivan Ivanovitch, how can you tell such falsehoods? I was
wounded at the time and couldn’t put up a fight. But I settled him
afterwards.
BOUGÁROV: Yes. By having him waylaid and thrashed by Yats, the
blacksmith.
RUMBUNKSKI: Ivan Ivanovitch, you impugn my honour. You insult me. If
you weren’t an old infirm vodka drunkard I’d smash you into a jelly.
I’d stamp on your face. But please don’t imagine I shall marry your
daughter now. I say, please don’t. That’s finished. You don’t marry
into a family that insults you. No. Never.
BOUGÁROV: Now, my dear Stepan Stepanovitch, do be reasonable. Anything
harsh that I may have said you brought on yourself, my darling. You
shouldn’t have begun about the vodka, my dearest little duck-billed
platypus.
RUMBUNKSKI: So I’m a coward, am I? Just wait. I’ll get my breath, and
then you’ll see.... I’m sick. I must have a drink. (_Seizes the vodka
bottle._)
BOUGÁROV (_trying to take it away_): Not that, my dear fellow. Give it
back, I implore you.
RUMBUNKSKI: I must have a drink, I tell you... I’m seeing stars ...
bats are flying round my head ... I’m falling--(_drinks from the
bottle_). T’shoo! Pfui!! What disgusting liquor.
BOUGÁROV (_protesting_): It isn’t liquor at all, honoured Stepan
Stepanovitch. It’s poison, my dearest little frog. I told you it
wasn’t vodka, and you wouldn’t believe me.
RUMBUNKSKI (_in wild horror_): Poison. Where’s an emetic?... I can’t
see.... My head’s going to burst.... Now my heart’s come to pieces.
My nose is twitching. Both my eyes are falling out. Ah--h----(_falls
into a chair sobbing hysterically_).
BOUGÁROV (_yelling_): He’s poisoned. I’m a rat-catcher ... we’re all
murderers.... Little Fathers, have pity! (_Enter_ IRENA IVANOVNA,
_Bougárov’s daughter_.) There. Your husband to be. I’ve murdered him.
Lock me up. Suffocate yourself. Tickle his throat. Give him mustard
and water. A drink. I’m fainting. Quick. (_She gives him the glass
from the desk. He drains it._) Pouagh! Now I’m poisoned too.... My
ears have gone to sleep.... All my teeth are aching. I’m agony all
over (_collapses on the sofa screaming_).
IRENA IVANOVNA (_wildly_): Vodka--Champagne--Mustard and Water. (_She
plies them with assorted liquors, which they drink gratefully. They
are shaken by internal tempests. They recover slowly._)
BOUGÁROV (_faintly_): Give thanks to Irena Ivanovna, my dear Stepan
Stepanovitch. Without the presence of mind of your wife-to-be you’d be
a dead man, my little angel-elect.
RUMBUNKSKI (_feebly_): I say no. I’ve told you I won’t marry her.
Impugn my honour and all that. A thousand times no.
IRENA (_tenderly_): Nobody’s impugned your honour, illustrious Stepan
Stepanovitch. Your mind is affected by the poison, my little darling.
RUMBUNKSKI: No. He did (_indicates_ BOUGÁROV). He accuses me of
waylaying Dmitri Dmitriov. Not that he has any right to talk after
what was done to Andrey Andreyvitch.
BOUGÁROV (_as violently as he is able_): Now I give you one chance,
Stepan Stepanovitch. Either stop these insinuations or leave my house.
Yes. I’m sick of you. Yes. I’ve had enough. Enough, I say.
RUMBUNKSKI (_staggering_): I’ll go. Yes. I’d better go. I’m fainting
with pain, and I’ve such a bilious attack I can hardly move without
nausea; but I’d sooner suffer any torments than put up with false
friends.
IRENA: False friends? Take care what you say, Stepan Stepanovitch.
When you talk about false friends remember how you betrayed Nicolai
Nicolaivitch at Moscow, and so on. Think of the Cheka and all that,
before you talk of disloyalty, my little wood pigeon.
BOUGÁROV (_sneering_): And remember that even if I am a dying man with
heart disease and paralysis, I’ve got people in my house who are good
enough to settle the hash of a lame hen like you, honoured Stepan
Stepanovitch Rumbunkski.
RUMBUNKSKI: Ah, you threaten, do you? Wait a bit.... Ah, Little
Fathers, this poison. I’m dead again. (_He falls over sideways._)
IRENA IVANOVNA (_screaming at_ BOUGÁROV): He’s dead. Unnatural father.
Murderer.
BOUGÁROV (_at the top of his voice_): Don’t yell like that. You
inflict me with the most acute palpitations.... I can’t see.... I’m a
dead man. (_He sinks back in his chair._)
IRENA IVANOVNA: Little Fathers and Mothers!... I must escape. (_She
drains the vodka bottle and falls prostrate. They all lie motionless.
You think they are dead; but they are not. Just as the light is
failing they come to life one by one and resume their dispute. The
fall of the curtain and the end of the play leave nothing decided._)
[Illustration: RUMBUNKSKI: Ah! Little Fathers, this poison----]
KING DAVID I
(_An Historical Drama in the manner sometimes attributed to the Lord
Verulam._)
SCENE: _The Welsh Hills near Criccieth. A vast concourse of people,
Druids and Burghers among them. Flourish of trumpets. Enter_ KING
DAVID, _attended by_ ALFRED, KNIGHT OF SWANSEA, _and_ RIDDELL OF
WALTON HEATH.
THE KNIGHT OF SWANSEA: Gif me your attentions, I pray you, and mark
vell dese vorts. Ve Velshman haf great traditions. Ve are proud and
ancient peoples. Some tink perhaps ve shows too much ze pride of race,
yes? Ze fierce Celtic patriotism? But ve are chustly proud to tink
ourself descendant of Cadvallader, cradle of Tudors, and fine stocks
of Owen Clendower, look you--Mark den vat vorts our leader shall tell
you and observe dese rulings. (_He withdraws a pace._)
FIRST DRUID:
Methinks his words, though seasoned with good sense
And aptly illustrative of our merits,
Bewray a foreign origin.
SECOND DRUID:
Why, sir,
The man’s as good a Welshman as e’er breathed!
His pedigree I’ll tell you in brief space,
Identifying in so many words
Wales with the lost ten tribes of Israel.
Moses begat----
A HERALD: Peace Ho! Have silence there.
VOICES FROM THE CROWD: Silence for David.
OTHER VOICES: Peace for the Man of Wales.
RIDDELL (_aside_):
Mark, Swansea, how impregnable he looks,
Like some proud eagle, weary of scouring the skies,
That pauses on a lofty pinnacle
Refashioning his pinions, whetting his beak
Ready to swoop again.
KING DAVID:
Good countrymen,
And ye, my immemorial Cymric Hills,
I came among ye in my indecision
To steel myself anew.
Good countrymen,
I have well pondered here in Criccieth
And now have made resolve, in which I’ll pray
A moment hence for your support; but first
’Tis meet I should explain.
Ye well do know
How lately has arisen from the ranks
A party sutler, subtle enough it seems,
Older than I, yet Younger by God’s grace,
Who seeks to take direction by the throat,
Sow discord where was harmony before,
Bring ruin on the Coalition, bind
Our fortunes, mine and yours, to Torydom,
Vex all my policies, overthrow my plans,
And make of our political affairs
The kind of stew the French call _bouillabaisse_.
THE CROWD (_murmuring_): We’ll have none of that. None of that. We’ll
rise and storm their strongholds. We’ll burn down their castles to the
ground.
KING DAVID:
Peace, peace, my friends, and hear me out.
They say
(Insolent curs), these Younger statesmen say,
They’d have my leadership because they know,
Perchance, that I have prowess in the field.
But in the Council Chamber I’ll be nought,
A thing, a cipher, ordered here and there....
What? Shall we now on Unionists depend?
Sue them for favours, fawn on them for smiles?
Eat from the dish of infamy the food
They’d grudge to give had they the giving of it?
Not in these trousers, sirs!
DRUIDS:
Nay, never! Never!
He’s been despitefully and most vilely used.
KING DAVID:
Must I go on and watch complacently
The fairest promise turned to rottenness
By bigots--dull, reactionary fools?
Why, I could form a better Government
(With Riddell’s and my faithful Swansea’s help)
Of certain Davieses and sundry Jones,
Llewellyns a few, an Evans here and there,
A sprinkle of the goodly Williams blood;
And not a Chamberlain among the lot
To dull our spirits with his laggard’s breath.
THE DAVIESES (_talking among themselves_): There’s much in this.
THE WILLIAMSES: Most true and notable.
THE EVANSES: Not to be lightly put aside, look you.
A DRUID: Peace, he begins again.
KING DAVID:
My noble friends,
This, then, the resolution I have formed.
I’ll back to Westminster and beard them there
And put this Younger’s power to the test.
If, as I think, he fall before my lance,
Why, we’ll admit them to some sort of quarter;
But if, as may be, they resist my terms,
Then to the hustings with our banners high,
Our hopes and hearts and courage higher still;
And I, and doughty Riddell, and wise Mond,
Fisher and Greenwood, Churchill and Monro,
And all these gallant gentlemen of ours,
Will armour up and lead our forces out
’Gainst Bonar and his liver-hearted crew
Of purse-proud commoners and needy peers,
And bear them down and roll them in the dust.
Heads shall fall right and left, Curzon’s and Chamberlain’s,
Amery’s, Baldwin’s. We’ll have Ormsby’s gore,
Young F. E.’s Birken-head and Carson’s scowl,
Old Devonshire’s yawning mask, and Derby’s jowl;
And Younger on a dung heap shall be thrown
That day when David comes into his own.
ALL: Away. Away. We’ll to the fray, amain;
And see Welsh David cleanse the land again.
(_Sound a flourish._ EXEUNT.)
THE SLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD
(_A Play in the Irish Manner._)
SCENE I.--_A hovel by the sea at Ballycottin, near Queenstown. Eamon,
in squalid garments and in an appropriate attitude of misery, is
crouched over the fire. Seamus Smitha is distilling poteen by the
door. Peadar Roabensôn and the Men of Gunn (a war-like clan) are
lurking in the background. Caitilin ni Houlihan, Bridgeen Dick, and
the Widow Markiewicz are watching Eamon with speechless devotion. The
door is flung open and Sean de Browna bursts in._
SEAN: Where’s himself?
SEAMUS: Taking a bit of sleep, maybe, if he’s able--God help him!
SEAN (_exultantly_): There’s fine doings on the sands this night, with
great ships boarded and sunk and the lads making grand talk. Rifles
and cannon we’ve taken, and munitions would be enough for a great war.
THE MEN OF GUNN (_murmuring appreciatively_): Bully for you, Kid!
PEADAR: It’s himself will bless these tidings. (_Addressing Eamon with
conspicuous timidity_): Mister, honey, he’s after saying they’ve sunk
the British Navy, and captured all the munitions in the western world.
EAMON: The blessing of Gunn upon those words! (_Dropping his voice_):
I say, what d’you imagine they’ve really got?
PEADAR (_dropping his_): Oh, I don’t know--a few dozen rifles, I
suppose, and a couple of boxes of S.A.A. One has to exaggerate a bit
in an Irish drama.
(_Enter Boûgus, claimant to the throne of Ulster, followed by Naisi
and Narsti, the sons of Gunn._)
BOÛGUS (_in bloodthirsty tones_): It’s taking the arms up to the caves
they are, till all’s ready to strike the blow; and it’s fine gory
heads there’ll be, and great masses of dead bodies that day in the six
counties, and throughout the land, so you’ll not avoid to tread on
the white upturned faces of the dead, they lying so thick. And I’ll
be king that day in Ulster, and the black Orangemen destroyed and
vanquished.
THE MEN OF GUNN (_with appreciation_): Sa-ay, kid, that’s talking.
EAMON: Let you go down now, Boûgus, with Naisi and Narsti and the men
of Gunn; for I’ve word that Cosgrave, or perhaps Mulcahy, do be coming
to Castlebar or maybe Dundalk, and it’s there he must be sent away
with scorn and laughter, and maybe a leaden bullet or two.
THE MEN OF GUNN (_springing to their feet_): Easy money. Get right
after it, boys.
BOÛGUS (_bursting into song_): Oh, Alannah, Acushla, Asthore, Macree,
Honomandhiaul!!! (_He dashes out at the head of the party. Eamon wraps
himself complacently in his rags and nods over the fire. The women
continue to regard him with speechless devotion._)
SCENE II.--_A hovel by the sea at Ballyruff. The roar of breakers
almost drowns the voices of the speakers. Enter Seamus Smitha and
Peadar hurriedly_.
SEAMUS: Where’s himself?
SEAN: Asleep, God help him, and dreaming of Caitilin ni Houlihan, the
creature, and her wedded to him in these coming days.
PEADAR (_roughly_): It’s her he can put from his mind then, for she’s
up there on the hillside with Cosgrave and Mulcahy, and James Craig,
and they going on together with dancing and merriment, the way would
surprise the stags for leppin’; and her that let on to be a decent
woman would marry a holy man.
BRIDGEEN DICK (_sharply_): Let yourself be holding your tongue now,
Peadar Roabensôn, with your great noises to waken the seven sleepers,
and he not stretched in his bed a dozen hours to be resting after his
great labours.
BOÛGUS (_rushing in, followed by Naisi and Narsti_): It’s destroyed we
are, entirely.
EAMON (_sitting up suddenly_): I beg your pardon? Did you say
destroyed?
BOÛGUS: Aye, destroyed.... She’s turned against us, and joined the
hands of Cosgrave and James in friendship--as Deirdre, in the days of
old, did try with Conchubor and the sons of Usna.
EAMON (_in an undertone, to one of his personal retinue_): My God,
what are we to do now?
THE OTHER (_whispering_): You must make a speech in Gaelic.
EAMON (_also whispering_): I can’t. I’ve left the book at the Mansion
House.
THE OTHER: Well, you must think of something appropriate in English,
then.
BOÛGUS (_keening_): Oh, whirra, whirra, Ochone, Ochone. (_They all
burst into tears._)
EAMON (_as one pronouncing a curse_): If the sun could have darkened
to hide her shame, and the waters of the great ocean given themselves
to wash away her faithlessness, it’s a strange, black, arid world we’d
be living in this day. O’Connell, Parnell, Redmond, she’s broken the
heart in all of them; and now it’s mine she’s broken, too; and it’s
not Cosgrave and James that she’ll spare in the days to come.--I will
go out with the Men of Gunn....
SCENE III.--_A hovel by the sea among the Balmy Stones of
Claptrapatrick, near Ballyidiocee. Enter_ SEAMUS _as usual_.
SEAMUS: Where’s himself?
SEAN: Musha avick, how many more times will I be telling you in this
play that he’s asleep, God help him, the holy man, and maybe dreaming,
if he’s able, of the grand goings on there’ll be when they’re after
making him Pope and King of all the world, and he a scraggy, thin,
weakly man would put you in mind of an old hen, or maybe a worn-out
jackass to be taken from the shafts and turned away among the roots
and grasses to die.
PEADAR: Sure, I’m thinking that’s not what he’d be dreaming at all,
but the great joy of making combats and running here and there in high
spirits, with the Men of Gunn around him.
EAMON (_mournfully_): The heart’s broke in me, Seamus Smitha, for
it’s all put aside and finished now, and there’s no more doings I can
contrive; and there’s nothing left but to go back, the way we came,
among the Bohunks and Dagoes, and die in a little dirty state in the
hind end of America.
THE WIDOW MARKIEWICZ (_scornfully_): And isn’t there land called
England over across a dirty bit of water would hardly wet your boots
to cross it; where do be fine houses, and gold ornaments, and a
stupid uncomplaining people to govern, and a crazy Parliament over it
all is calling for ever on the Mother of God to send an alternative
Government?
THE MEN OF GUNN: Gee whiz!!
THE WIDOW: How do you say, Eamon! Will you take this country and
people and make a new Ireland there; and be leaving the North and the
South to slit the throats on each other?
EAMON (_in a great voice_): I’ll do it, so.... And won’t it be the
fine adventure to hold it over the heads of Cosgrave and Mulcahy, when
I’m sitting in the seat of Lloyd George with the Kings and Emperors
and Presidents of the world around under my feet, and Boûgus beside
me, and Naisi and Narsti on my either hand, and the Men of Gunn
holding the fair land of England, and me Lord of it all?
BRIDGEEN: And haven’t you the right, Mister honey, to be sitting in
that place and taking your ease, and a sup of whiskey itself maybe;
for it’s you surely is destroyed by thinking and fighting in these
days in Ireland, and where would there be your match for craft and
savagery in all the western islands?
EAMON: I have so. (_To Naisi and Narsti_): Call up the Men of Gunn,
and let Boûgus be there, and Seamus, and Sean, and Peadar Roabensôn,
and any other man would make his future, so; and I’ll lead them out to
England, or Russia itself if need be, and split the brainpan on Lloyd
George and all of them, and be master of the world in their places;
and so I will. (_They go out._)
THE WIDOW MARKIEWICZ (_looking after them as they go_): And isn’t he
the fine handsome lad to be riding forth on a great adventure; and he,
God help him, nothing but a poor crazy scholar, with a great savagery
and bitterness in his heart?
IMPOLITICS
A MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT
A man, or woman, who has just been elected to Parliament may be
pardoned if, in the words of Gilbert, “the compliment implied,
inflates” him (or her) “with legitimate pride.” It is rather difficult,
when the declaration of the poll is announced by the Returning Officer,
and you find yourself, by a swinging (or narrow) majority, the elected
representative of some 30,000 people, to avoid a certain feeling of
pleasurable self-congratulation. For the first time in your life you
are, suddenly, the central figure of a great demonstration. You are
astonished at your own popularity. Strangers rush up and clasp you
by the hand; bearded men kiss you on both cheeks; you are taken in
charge by the police, to save you from being torn limb from limb by
your almost too enthusiastic friends. And, if there is a fleeting
resemblance, in the triumphal march from the returning office to the
headquarters of your organisation, to the old-time procession to the
scaffold of a popular highwayman--a resemblance heightened by the
necessity for making a speech on a crazy wooden erection usually known
as “the hustings,” that air of spurious importance is, for the most
part, effaced next day, when you leave your constituency by train,
unrecognised and even unremarked. After the splendours of the previous
night, this anonymity is an almost painful contrast; but there are
lower depths of abasement to be reached. You have yet to pay your first
visit to the House of Commons.
In the interval between your election and the summoning of Parliament,
you have probably to some extent recovered your normal self-confidence.
You have doubtless secured a home near Westminster, “to be near the
House, you know.” You may even have been interviewed by a provincial
paper. It is just possible that one of the leaders of your party--a
junior one--in the first generous glow of the election results, may
have shaken you by the hand. Perhaps (but this happens very rarely)
the august personage who speaks from the Front Bench in the name of
your party, may have stared you out of countenance at Lady Broadside’s
reception. You are actually beginning to feel that you are Somebody
after all; and so you nerve yourself to make your first visit to the
scene of your future labours.
Somehow, as you slink into Old Palace Yard, the fine fervour of
enthusiasm, that accompanied you in your walk along Victoria Street,
seems to have largely abated. You cannot help secretly wondering
whether you will be required to produce credentials by the doorkeeper.
You visualise a painful moment, when a gigantic functionary will say
politely, but oh so firmly, in response to your frantic asseverations,
“Very sorry, sir, but if you can’t prove you’re a member, I can’t let
you in.” You wonder whether he will accept the evidence of the birth
certificate, and the cutting from the “Times” announcing your victory,
which you hastily stuffed into your pocket before starting out; or
whether you had better lie in wait for some senior member of your
party, and steal in, in his wake. And, whilst these fearful doubts are
invading your mind, you find yourself at the entrance, and an enormous,
genial, rubicund policeman accosts you smilingly: “Good morning, Sir!
New member, Sir?”
[Illustration: “New Member, Sir?”]
Down, swelling heart!
You try to avoid bursting with pride; acknowledge his salute; and walk
in. But ah, you think, the terrors are yet to come. Another constable
equally large, equally genial, touches his hat as you pass through
the swing doors, and says: “Cloakroom on the right, sir.” “Here at
least,” you fear, “there will be a challenge.” An attendant comes up to
you. He gives you a searching look. Your heart sinks into your boots.
“Good Heavens,” you think to yourself, “I am in the wrong part of the
building--this is probably reserved for Cabinet Ministers.” You are
about to mutter an excuse and slink away. Quite unnecessary. He was
only memorising your face. “Name, sir?” he asks. You give it; you
will never have to do so again. Like your face and appearance, it has
been indelibly recorded for future reference. “Your peg’s here, sir,”
he says; and you find, rather to your astonishment, that a peg has
already been reserved for you, and bears your name. Two or three other
members come in--old members evidently, for he knows them personally.
They exchange greetings; and you think to yourself: now where have I
seen something like this before?--Your mind, in a flash, bridges a
gulf of a quarter of a century, and takes you back to your first day
at your public school.... “New boy, sir?” said the janitor, committing
your face and name to memory. “Mr. ----’s house, sir? That’s your peg
in that corner; them’s the school notices under that shed, see? You
ought to read them every day; and that’s the tuckshop the other side
of the road opposite the gates.” ... “New member, sir?” enquires the
attendant. “There’s your peg, sir; you’ll find the Post Office at the
top of the stairs on the left of the Lobby; you ought to ask there for
the letters. Smoking-room, sir? Along the corridor, turn to the right;
and it’s on your left-hand side.”
Truly the boy is father to the man.
You leave your coat, and wander up the stairs to the inner Lobby. You
sample the thrill of receiving your first batch of letters in the House
of Commons. You peep reverentially into the empty Chamber--half afraid
to go inside for fear of inadvertently transgressing some rule of the
House. You would like to look at the Library and the smoking-room; and
yet you feel a certain unwillingness to trouble the attendants with
questions. Suddenly a stranger, noticing your irresolution, saunters up
to you. “New member?” he asks affably (as who should say “New boy?”);
and when you have admitted the soft impeachment--“Thought so,” he
continues, “I think I knew most of the last Parliament. Care to look
round? I’ve nothing to do for an hour.”
And, even as you accept, you remember how Williams (or Brown), who
afterwards grew to be your _alter ego_, took pity on you in the old
days at Greyfriars, led you round and “put you wise”; and, whilst your
new friend is explaining the mysteries of the Chamber--the Chair, the
Cross Benches, the Bar, the Galleries--leading you through the Library,
along the passages to the House of Lords, and making you acquainted
with your new public school, you think with gratitude, and some wonder,
of the eternal youth of human institutions.
WOES OF THE WHIPS
The Chief Whip of a Party is a very august personage. He shares in the
councils of the Party leaders. He is one of the links that bind them
to the Headquarters organisation, and the constituencies. He holds
the party together on the lines laid down by the Leader. He keeps a
watchful eye upon recalcitrants, like a sheep-dog with wayward sheep.
He is, in fact, the Chief of Staff; and his lot is not an unenviable
one.
The Junior Whips are another matter. Rebellious members of the party
who would, however, feel some compunction about speaking their minds
to the Chief Whip, lay bare their grievances, with embarrassing
plain-spokenness, to the juniors. The Scottish and Welsh Whips
must often find themselves like to the unfortunate victims of that
mythological giant, whose habit it was to tie the legs of his foes to
opposing fir-trees, and, releasing the trees, divide them in twain--by
reason of the rival claims of their own particular groups of members
and of the Chief Whip himself. Needless to say, in all parties, there
is the fullest opportunity for members to bring their point of view
to the notice of the leaders, both through the Whips and at party
meetings. But once a party decision has been taken, it is obvious that,
for the sake of the unity of the party, it is highly important that
its members should present a consolidated front. And it is when the
preconceived opinions of individual members, or special circumstances
in their constituencies, happen to be at variance with the general
policy of the party, that the troubles of the Junior Whips begin.
They have obviously an inclination towards those who compose their
own group, such as the Welsh members or Scottish members; they have
also their duty towards the party as a whole--not always easily to
be reconciled. Anyone who experienced the unenviable position of a
Junior Staff Officer in one of the feuds that habitually raged between
battalion and brigade, or between brigade and division, during the war,
will have a fairly accurate understanding of the trials of a Junior
Whip.
But that is not all. The Whips are responsible for the social side
of the party as well. Sir Augustus and Lady Broadside, let us say,
offer to arrange a reception. For some reason, limitation of space
for instance, it is not possible to invite everybody. On the Whips
falls the invidious duty of making the selection, who shall be asked
and who not. And when this difficult task has been performed, it is
discovered that, by an oversight, there is no record of the fact that
some new member is married--consequently he is asked and his wife is
not, with inevitable heartburnings as the result. Or, again, there
are ceremonial duties to be attended to. Members wishing to attend
the King’s Levee must have their paths made smooth. The presentation
at Court of the wives and daughters of members must be arranged. The
Whips must expect to be consulted, as well, on sumptuary questions,
such, for instance, as whether a member ought to buy a levee dress, or
whether it will be considered sufficient if he avails himself of the
new regulation, and attends in evening coat and knee breeches; and what
is the most appropriate garment, other than a white sheet, in which to
make a maiden speech.
As if that was not enough, there are the speaking arrangements to be
made. It does not, of course, follow that the list will be adhered
to, but, for the convenience of the Speaker, it is usual for him to
be furnished “through the usual channels,” which means in other words
by the Whips, with a list of members of each party who would like to
speak in any Debate. Obviously some selection must be made, or in a
Parliament of active politicians, such as the present, the list of each
party would be impossibly large. More than half a dozen names for each
party would be more of a hindrance to the Speaker than a help, because
there would be no possibility of getting them all in--seeing that the
normal hours of Debate are between four in the afternoon and eleven
at night--seven hours in all--and the average duration of speeches is
twenty minutes, giving a maximum of twenty-one speakers. This process
of selection calls for tact of the highest order. On the one hand, if
the list is too full, the Whip must not put off further volunteers
in such a manner as to discourage them. On the other hand, he must
be careful not to create the impression that he wants them to speak
always, or they will never leave him in peace. Even the most sensible
and level-headed people are touchy about their speaking; and the effect
of a hasty word may easily take a whole session to efface from the mind
of the person to whom it was addressed.
Nor do the Whip’s duties end there. A question suddenly arises needing
instant determination. On the one hand, the leader may make up his mind
at once as to the party attitude; in that case the Whips must hurry
round, and communicate it to the members of the party. On the other
hand, the leader may wish to know the feelings of his party before
deciding on a course of action; there is no opportunity for holding a
party meeting, the decision must be taken probably within half an hour;
it now becomes the duty of the Whips to flit from member to member,
collecting opinions and suggestions for communication to the Leader by
the “Chief.” Or it may be necessary to “keep a house” for one of the
back-benchers who is “raising a question on the adjournment”; again the
busy Whips must hurry here and there lobbying their party to make sure
that forty members will be present, to protect their colleague against
the misfortune of being “counted out.”
And then, on top of all this, there is liaison with the other parties,
which in practice is more or less reserved for the Chief Whip
himself--for this kind of work demands the delicacy of Agag. These are
the accommodations, arrangements of business, exchange of party views,
that necessarily go on behind the scenes as a preliminary to the set
Debates--especially in connection with the procedure of the House and
the settlement of the order of public business.
There is a certain glamour in being styled a Whip. Your name and,
probably, your photograph are published in the papers; you are given
special facilities for entertaining your fellow-members; if your party
happens to be in power, you hold a junior office in the Treasury.
The Chief Whip, despite his responsibilities, has, on the whole, an
interesting job. He is largely concerned with what is sometimes called
the kitchen side of politics; but his function of linking up the
Parliamentary party with the leader, calls for high qualities; and his
weight, in the determination of the party programme in the conclave of
leaders, is considerable. The Junior Whips are devotees of a high order
to their party’s organisation. Their task is a thankless one. They
condemn themselves to well-nigh Trappist vows in the Chamber, because
they are almost always at work outside it. They place themselves
at everyone’s beck and call. They are in demand to smooth out any
difficulty that may arise.
In fact, as a man once said, who was A.D.C. to a Colonial Governor:
“It’s a spittoon of a life.”
YOUNG MEN AND “MAIDENS”
Defer it as you may, upon one pretext or another, the fatal moment will
come at last when you must make your maiden speech. There have, it is
to be supposed, been members of Parliament of such agonising modesty
or such iron self-restraint, that they would have been willing to pass
their entire Parliamentary lives in silence. But sooner or later, and
probably sooner than later, an aggregation of pressures--duty to the
constituency, the spur of _amour propre_, green jealousy of the triumph
of X., who so impressed the House by his speech on the Protection of
Insects Bill, the subtle encouragement of some fair flatterer who, when
X.’s speech was discussed, eyed you archly and murmured, “Of course
_you_ ...” leaving your vanity to fill in the blanks--these, and other
compelling reasons, combine to persuade you to the irrevocable step of
giving in your name to the Whips, after which, feeling like a man who
has made an appointment with his dentist, you slink away and prepare
for the worst.
With becoming modesty, you select some insignificant, and relatively
trivial, subject--such as World Federation, the Solar system, or the
relations of the Almighty and the Universe, as affording you scope
for the pronouncement you feel it in you to make. You collect a whole
pantechnicon-load of authorities, which, when you have read them
through, are allowed to lie piled in the darkest passages of your house
for the servants to fall over; you take a ticket for the British Museum
Library; you apply yourself to study with all the fervour of a Bengalee
competing for an examination. And then, one or at the most two days
before the great oration is scheduled to be delivered, your Whip says
casually, “Oh, we’ve had to change the arrangements. We’re getting
you in on the Committee stage of the Impurities in Milk (Abolition)
Bill”; and all your labour is shown to be wasted and vain. There are
only three days left. You rush to the Dairy Produce Association,
the Institute of Milkmaids, and the Society for the Preservation of
Cattle and Kine, from each of which you receive an undigested mass of
propaganda, disguised in the form of scientific tracts. There is no
time to push your investigations beyond these, so you set yourself to
learn them word by word. You come down to the House on the fatal day
primed with knowledge, with lactialities on your lips and the milk of
human kindness bubbling from your heart--and you discover that, before
your arrival, a member of your own party, interested in the welfare
of subject populations of the Empire, has moved the Adjournment of
the House to draw attention to a matter of urgent and definite public
importance, namely, the refusal of the Government to issue practising
licences and a charter of incorporation to the witch-doctors in the
U-Ba-Be district of Abeokeuta.
You seek out your Whip, demanding information. He tells you that the
Government has changed its mind about the Bill on which you were to
speak, and intends, in its place, to introduce an Amending Act in
connection with the Acquisition of Mineral Royalties in Zanzibar,
Proclamation of 1872. Having no knowledge whatever of Zanzibar or
minerals, other than those in bottles, and only a nodding acquaintance
with the lesser grades of royalty, you feel bound to demur, when he
suggests that you should “give tongue” at such short notice on this
subject. Whereupon he offers you your choice between the Protection of
Herrings (Scotland) Bill, Second Reading; the Civil Service and Revenue
Departments (grants in respect of medical referees, destitute aliens,
and port and riparian sanitary authorities) Vote on Account; and the
Army and Air Force Annual Bill. Smitten with despair at the prospect
of the vigils, prayer and fasting entailed in the mastery of any one
of these three subjects, and fortified by a hazy recollection of “King
Solomon’s Mines,” you quaveringly ask whether it would not be possible
for you to speak on the Witch Doctors Adjournment. As your Whip has
been searching high and low for someone to do this very thing, he
almost invites you to dinner in his relief; and hurries away with your
name to the Speaker. In due course he seeks you out in the Library,
where you are sitting, in a cold perspiration at your own temerity,
and struggling to master a report on “Witchcraft and the Black Arts as
practised in the Continent of Africa,” furnished through the medium
of the Aborigines Suppression Society in 1850--apparently the only
standard work on the subject. He informs you that you will be called
immediately after the Government has replied. Your heart sinks into
your boots; a clammy sweat breaks out upon your forehead; and you apply
yourself assiduously to the report.
Just before 8.15 p.m. you stagger into the Chamber. To your excited
fancy it seems to have grown very large. The seat on which you are
accustomed to sit, seems an immense distance from the Speaker’s Chair.
But, as the House is practically empty, you sneak into somebody’s
corner seat, and hope for the best. The one encouraging factor in the
whole proceedings is that, in spite of the ghastly hash that the mover
of the resolution seems to be making, the patient House is attentively
listening in silence. After all, you think, remembering your own
triumphant speeches during the election, the swing of the words, the
thrill of the audience, the storm of applause--after all, it can’t be
as difficult as all that.... An Under-Secretary begins a half-hearted
defence of the Government. He says he is quite certain that in this
case the House will consider that the House ought to be extremely
careful before responding to the suggestion made by his hon. and
gallant friend that the House is at liberty to vary a former decision
of that House, as hon. members below the gangway seem to imagine.
He goes on to say, er--that the Government--er--will, of course, be
ruled--er--or perhaps he ought to say guided--er--by the view of the
House towards--er--or with regard to the matter--assuming that in that
matter or--er--as he would rather put it, in such questions--er--the
opinion of the House must be the governing consideration. Furthermore,
he would remind the House, with the permission of the House, that the
House is always reluctant to set aside a privilege won by the House in
former times and upheld on the floor of the House by statesmen like
Drigg and Bulgman with the full approval of the House--an approval, Mr.
Speaker, which, as the House is aware, is recorded in the journals of
the House, and which he is satisfied--nay, assured--that all members
of the House would pause before challenging.
With this adjuration he resumes his place. You climb tremulously to
your feet. The Speaker calls: “Mr. Wutherspoon.” And immediately
most of the people in the Chamber rise, and hurry out, with looks of
disgust and loathing. The bustle of their exit rather takes away from
the effect of your carefully prepared opening sentences; and your
biting gibe at the expense of the Minister seems in some mysterious
way to have lost the greater part of its sting. Those to whom it
is audible ejaculate a mirthless “Ha, ha,” to encourage a maiden
speaker, and vanish in the wake of those members who have already
left. You wonder to yourself, in dismay, whatever induced you to
embark upon a Parliamentary career; and at the same moment, stumbling,
quite by accident, upon some happy phrase, you are greeted, to your
astonishment, with modified cheering. This is what you were waiting
for. You feel that Parliament is not so insensible to your merits, as
you had at first supposed. You seize the lapel of your coat with your
left hand, and, throwing out your right in a generous half-circle, you
venture boldly upon the great passage in your speech, beginning, “The
witch-doctors of U-Ba-Be, a humble section of our fellow-subjects,
organised, as who shall say they have no right to be organised, in a
society, union or corporation, turn their eyes and lift up their voices
to this House of Commons imploring....” Somehow, by the malignant
intervention of unhappy chance, before you have said half a dozen
words of this moving passage, a deathly silence has fallen upon the
Chamber; all eyes are fixed upon you; you stumble and falter; and
murmured conversation at once begins. Again you blunder on a telling
phrase. Once more you find you are being listened to. This is a pity,
because it betrays you into a touch of self-confidence. Immediately,
all around you, faces, like flowers in the morning sun, expand into
smiling bloom. But you are getting into your stride: you correct that
mistake with a modest remark and a deprecating movement of the hand.
Whereupon, you are cheered. You turn with graceful assurance towards
the Chair. “Why, Mr. Speaker, the witch-doctors of U-Ba-Be,” you begin;
and you find that the Speaker, who has a legion of duties beyond
listening to the speeches, is in earnest conversation over the arm of
the Chair with one of the Whips, or perhaps is writing, or--and this is
so disconcerting as almost to petrify one with astonishment--he has
vacated the Chair to the Deputy-Speaker, who wearing neither wig nor
gown, is well-nigh invisible under the mighty canopy. In the dismay of
this paralysing discovery, your legs endeavour to collapse under you.
You nerve yourself for a prodigious effort, jettison the witch-doctors
into space, and endeavour to sweep into the peroration, so carefully
prepared on the subject of World Peace, adapted later to the Milk Bill,
and now, with suitable alterations, doing service on behalf of the
subject populations of the Empire. You get along very nicely for about
two minutes; you feel that you are taking the House into your arms;
you carefully avoid a second glance at the Chair, and look along the
benches, warming to your work. Alas! at that moment somebody laughs.
In all human probability his laughter had nothing to do with anything
you said. In a feverish effort to recall your words, for purposes of
correction, you lose the sequence of ideas, and the peroration follows
the witch-doctors into the limbo of forgotten things. You lamely thank
the House for its indulgence; and sit down covered with ignominy and
shame.
Then, to your astonishment, other members turn round, and nod to
you--nods of approval. Somebody says “Well done.” Somebody else leans
forward, and pats you on the back. One of the leaders on the Front
Bench actually turns round and looks at you. The Whip who arranged for
your call offers words of congratulation.
You congratulate yourself--on having got it over.
FRONT BENCHES AND BACK BENCHES