If the gods, who scatter wit in sundry unexpected places, so that it is
sometimes found beneath the bishop’s mitre and, once in a thousand
years, beneath a king’s crown, had given Edward two-pennyworth of that
commodity, he would undoubtedly have been a great as well as a good man.
Fortune smiled upon him uninterruptedly; he enjoyed the envy of his
neighbours; he farmed with profit, and, having tamed the rebellious
spirit of his wife, he rejoiced in domestic felicity. And it must be
noticed that he was rewarded only according to his deserts. He walked
with upright spirit and contented mind along the path which it had
pleased a merciful Providence to set before him. He was lighted on the
way by a strong Sense of Duty, by the Principles which he had acquired
at his Mother’s Knee, and by a Conviction of his own Merit. Finally, a
deputation waited on him to propose that he should stand for the County
Council election which was shortly to be held. He had been unofficially
informed of the project, and received Mr. Atthill Bacot with seven
committee men, in his frock-coat and a manner full of responsibility. He
told them he could do nothing rashly, must consider the matter, and
would inform them of his decision. But Edward had already made up his
mind to accept, and having shown the deputation to the door, went to
Bertha.
“Things are looking up,” he said, having given her the details. The
Blackstable district for which Edward was invited to stand, being
composed chiefly of fishermen, was intensely Radical. “Old Bacot said I
was the only Moderate candidate who’d have a chance.”
Bertha was too much astonished to reply. She had so poor an opinion of
her husband that she could not understand why on earth they should make
him such an offer. She turned over in her mind possible reasons.
“It’s a ripping thing for me, isn’t it?”
“But you’re not thinking of accepting?”
“Not? Of course I am. What do _you_ think!” This was not an inquiry, but
an exclamation.
“You’ve never gone in for politics; you’ve never made a speech in your
life.”
She thought he would make an abject fool of himself, and for her sake,
as well as for his, decided to prevent him from standing. “He’s too
ignorant!” she thought.
“What! I’ve made speeches at cricket dinners; you set me on my legs and
I’ll say something.”
“But this is different--you know nothing about the County Council.”
“All you have to do is to look after steam-rollers and get glandered
horses killed. I know all about it.”
There is nothing so difficult as to persuade men that they are not
omniscient. Bertha, exaggerating the seriousness of the affair, thought
it charlantry to undertake a post without knowledge and without
capacity. Fortunately that is not the opinion of the majority, or the
government of this enlightened country could not proceed.
“I should have thought you’d be glad to see me get a lift in the world,”
said Edward, somewhat offended that his wife did not fall down and
worship.
“I don’t want you to make a fool of yourself, Edward. You’ve told me
often that you don’t go in for book-learning; and it can’t hurt your
feelings when I say that you’re utterly ignorant. I don’t think its
honest to take a position you’re not competent to fill.”
“Me--not competent?” cried Edward, with surprise. “That’s a good one!
Upon my word, I’m not given to boasting, but I must say I think myself
competent to do most things.... You just ask old Bacot what he thinks of
me, and that’ll open your eyes. The fact is, every one appreciates me
but you: but they say a man’s never a hero to his valet.”
“Your proverb is most apt, dear Edward.... But I have no intention of
thwarting you in any of your plans. I only thought you did not know
what you were going in for, and that I might save you from some
humiliation.”
“Humiliation, where? Pooh, you think I shan’t get elected. Well, look
here, I bet you any money you like that I shall come out top of the
poll.”
Next day Edward wrote to Mr. Bacot expressing pleasure that he was able
to fall in with the views of the Conservative Association; and Bertha,
who knew that no argument could turn him from his purpose, determined to
coach him, so that he should not make too arrant a fool of himself. Her
fears were proportionate to her estimate of Edward’s ability! She sent
to London for pamphlets and blue-books on the rights and duties of the
County Council, and begged Edward to read them. But in his
self-confident manner he pooh-poohed her, and laughed when she read them
herself so as to be able to teach him.
“I don’t want to know all that rot,” he cried. “All a man wants is
gumption. Why, d’you suppose a man who goes in for parliament knows
anything about politics? Of course he doesn’t.”
Bertha was indignant that her husband should be so well satisfied in his
illiteracy, and that he stoutly refused to learn. It is only when a man
knows a good deal that he discovers how unfathomable is his ignorance.
Edward, knowing so little, was convinced that there was little to know,
and consequently felt quite assured that he knew all which was
necessary. He might more easily have been persuaded that the moon was
made of green cheese than that he lacked the very rudiments of
knowledge.
The County Council elections in London were also being held at that
time, and Bertha, hoping to give Edward useful hints, diligently read
the oratory which they occasioned. But he refused to listen.
“I don’t want to crib other men’s stuff. I’m going to talk on my own.”
“Why don’t you write out a speech and get it by heart?”
Bertha fancied that so she might influence him a little and spare
herself and him the humiliation of utter ridicule.
“Old Bacot says when he makes a speech, he always trusts to the spur of
the moment. He says that Fox made his best speeches when he was blind
drunk.”
“D’you know who Fox was?” asked Bertha.
“Some old buffer or other who made speeches.”
The day arrived when Edward for the first time was to address his
constituents, in the Blackstable town-hall; and for a week past placards
had been pasted on every wall and displayed in every shop, announcing
the glad news. Mr. Bacot came to Court Leys, rubbing his hands.
“We shall have a full house. It’ll be a big success. The hall will hold
four hundred people and I think there won’t be standing room. I dare say
you’ll have to address an overflow meeting at the Forresters Hall
afterwards.”
“I’ll address any number of meetings you like,” replied Edward.
Bertha grew more and more nervous. She anticipated a horrible collapse;
they did not know--as she did--how limited was Edward’s intelligence!
She wanted to stay at home so as to avoid the ordeal, but Mr. Bacot had
reserved for her a prominent seat on the platform.
“Are you nervous, Eddie?” she said, feeling more kindly disposed to him
from his approaching trial.
“Me, nervous? What have I got to be nervous about?”
The hall was indeed crammed with the most eager, smelly, enthusiastic
crowd Bertha had ever seen. The gas-jets flared noisily, throwing crude
lights on the people, sailors, tradesmen, labourers, and boys. On the
platform, in a semi-circle like the immortal gods, sat the notabilities
of the neighborhood, Conservatives to the backbone. Bertha looked round
with apprehension, but tried to calm herself with the thought that they
were stupid people and she had no cause to tremble before them.
Presently the Vicar took the chair and in a few well-chosen words
introduced Mr. Craddock.
“Mr. Craddock, like good wine, needs no bush. You all know him, and an
introduction is superfluous. Still it is customary on such an occasion
to say a few words on behalf of the candidate, and I have great
pleasure, &c., &c....”
Now Edward rose to his feet, and Bertha’s blood ran cold. She dared not
look at the audience. He advanced with his hands in his pockets--he had
insisted on dressing himself up in a frock-coat and the most dismal
pepper-and-salt trousers.
“Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen--Unaccustomed to public speaking as
I am....”
Bertha looked up with a start. Could a man at the end of the nineteenth
century, seriously begin an oration with those words! But he was not
joking; he went on gravely, and, looking around, Bertha caught not the
shadow of a smile. Edward was not in the least nervous, he quickly got
into the swing of his speech--and it was terrible! He introduced every
hackneyed phrase he knew, he mingled slang incongruously with pompous
language; and his silly jokes, chestnuts of great antiquity, made Bertha
writhe and shudder. She wondered that he could go on with such
self-possession. Did he not see that he was making himself perfectly
absurd! She dared not look up for fear of catching the sniggers of Mrs.
Branderton and of the Hancocks: “One sees what he was before he married
Miss Ley. Of course he’s a quite uneducated man.... I wonder his wife
did not prevent him from making such an exhibition of himself. The
grammar of it, my dear; and the jokes, and the stories!!!”
Bertha clenched her hands, furious because the flush of shame would not
leave her cheeks. The speech was even worse than she had expected. He
used the longest words, and, getting entangled in his own verbosity, was
obliged to leave his sentence unfinished. He began a period with an
elaborate flourish and waddled in confusion to the tamest commonplace:
he was like a man who set out to explore the Andes and then, changing
his mind, took a stroll in the Burlington Arcade. How long would it be,
asked Bertha, before the audience broke into jeers and hisses? She
blessed them for their patience. And what would happen afterwards?
Would Mr. Bacot ask Edward to withdraw from the candidature? And
supposing Edward refused, would it be necessary to tell him that he was
really too great a fool? Bertha saw already the covert sneers of her
neighbours.
“Oh, I wish he’d finish!” she muttered between her teeth. The agony, the
humiliation of it, were unendurable.
But Edward was still talking, and gave no signs of an approaching
termination. Bertha thought miserably that he had always been
long-winded: if he would only sit down quickly the failure might not be
irreparable. He made a vile pun and every one cried, Oh! Oh! Bertha
shivered and set her teeth; she must bear it to the end now--why
wouldn’t he sit down? Then Edward told an agricultural story, and the
audience shouted with laughter. A ray of hope came to Bertha: perhaps
his absolute vulgarity might save him with the vulgar people who formed
the great body of the audience. But what must the Brandertons, and the
Molsons, and the Hancocks, and all the rest of them, be saying? They
must utterly despise him.
But worse was to follow. Edward came to his peroration, and a few
remarks on current politics (of which he was entirely ignorant) brought
him to his Country, England, Home and Beauty. He turned the tap of
patriotism full on; it gurgled in a stream. He blew the penny trumpets
of English purity, and the tin whistles of the British Empire, and he
beat the big drum of the Great Anglo-Saxon Race. He thanked God he was
an Englishman, and not as others are. Tommy Atkins, and Jack Tar, and
Mr. Rudyard Kipling, danced a jig to the strains of the _British
Grenadiers_; and Mr. Joseph Chamberlain executed a _pas seul_ to the air
of _Yankee Doodle_. Lastly, he waved the Union Jack.
The hideous sentimentality, and the bad taste and the commonness made
Bertha ashamed: it was horrible to think how ignoble must be the mind of
a man who could foul his mouth with the expression of such sentiments.
Finally Edward sat down. For one moment the audience were silent--for
the shortest instant; and then with one throat, broke into thunderous
applause. It was no perfunctory clapping of hands; they rose as one man,
and shouted and yelled with enthusiasm.
“Good old Teddy,” cried a voice. And then the air was filled with: _For
he’s a jolly good fellow_. Mrs. Branderton stood on a chair and waved
her handkerchief; Miss Glover clapped her hands as if she were no longer
an automaton.
“Wasn’t it perfectly splendid?” she whispered to Bertha.
Every one on the platform was in a frenzy of delight. Mr. Bacot warmly
shook Edward’s hand. Mrs. Mayston Ryle fanned herself desperately. The
scene may well be described, in the language of journalists, as one of
unparalleled enthusiasm. Bertha was dumbfounded.
Mr. Bacot jumped to his feet.
“I must congratulate Mr. Craddock on his excellent speech. I am sure it
comes as a surprise to all of us that he should prove such a fluent
speaker, with such a fund of humour and--er--and common sense. And what
is more valuable than these, his last words have proved to us that his
heart--his heart, gentlemen--is in the right place, and that is saying a
great deal. In fact I know nothing better to be said of a man than that
his heart is in the right place. You know me, ladies and gentlemen, I
have made many speeches to you since I had the honour of standing for
the constituency in ’85, but I must confess I couldn’t make a better
speech myself than the one you have just heard.”
“You could--you could!” cried Edward, modestly.
“No, Mr. Craddock, no; I assert deliberately, and I mean it, that I
could not do better myself. From my shoulders I let fall the mantle, and
give it----“
Here Mr. Bacot was interrupted by the stentorian voice of the landlord
of the _Pig and Whistle_ (a rabid Conservative).
“Three cheers for good old Teddie!”
“That’s right, my boys,” repeated Mr. Bacot, for once taking an
interruption in good part, “Three cheers for good old Teddy!”
The audience opened its mighty mouth and roared, then burst again into,
_For he’s a jolly good fellow_! Arthur Branderton, when the tumult was
subsiding, rose from his chair and called for more cheers. The object of
all this enthusiasm sat calmly, with a well-satisfied look on his face,
taking it all with his usual modest complacency. At last the meeting
broke up, with cheers, and _God save the Queen_, and _He’s a jolly good
fellow_. The committee and the personal friends of the Craddocks retired
to the side-room for light refreshment.
The ladies clustered round Edward, congratulating him. Arthur Branderton
came to Bertha.
“Ripping speech, wasn’t it?” he said. “I had no idea he could jaw like
that. By Jove, it simply stirred me right through.”
Before Bertha could answer, Mrs. Mayston Ryle sailed in.
“Where’s the man?” she cried, in her loud tones. “Where is he? Show him
to me.... My dear Mr. Craddock, your speech was perfect. I say it.”
“And in such good taste,” said Miss Hancock, her eyes glowing. “How
proud you must be of your husband, Mrs. Craddock!”
“There’s no chance for the Radicals now,” said the Vicar, rubbing his
hands.
“Oh, Mr. Craddock, let me come near you,” cried Mrs. Branderton. “I’ve
been trying to get at you for twenty minutes.... You’ve simply
extinguished the horrid Radicals; I couldn’t help crying, you were so
pathetic.”
“One may say what one likes,” whispered Miss Glover to her brother, “but
there’s nothing in the world so beautiful as sentiment. I felt my heart
simply bursting.”
“Mr. Craddock,” added Mrs. Mayston Ryle, “you’ve pleased me! Where’s
your wife, that I may tell her so?”
“It’s the best speech we’ve ever had down here,” cried Mrs. Branderton.
“That’s the only true thing I’ve heard you say for twenty years, Mrs.
Branderton,” replied Mrs. Mayston Ryle, looking very hard at Mr. Atthill
Bacot.