us more closely.
CHAMBERLAIN. I thought so then. But it has turned out differently.
DIST. V. Has it? I should not have said so. Am I not to count on you
still?
CHAMBERLAIN. As a diminishing force? Yes; I shan’t disappoint you.
DIST. V. Oh! (_Deprecatingly, as of something that need not have been
said._) But not that at all!
CHAMBERLAIN (_rubbing it in_). Necessarily: one who, as I said,
can only look backward. Forward, I am nothing. Believe me, I have
measured myself at last. This is no miscalculation--like the other.
DIST. V. The other?
CHAMBERLAIN. My resignation.
DIST. V. Was that one?
CHAMBERLAIN. It certainly had not the effect I intended.
DIST. V. Surely you were not then intending to force me against my
own judgment?
CHAMBERLAIN. No; but I thought you, and the rest, would follow.
DIST. V. I think we did: I think we still do. But sometimes, with
followers, following takes time.
CHAMBERLAIN. It will take more than my time. That is where I
miscalculated.
DIST. V. But, my dear Chamberlain--if one may be personal--you are
maintaining your strength, are you not? The doctors--are hopeful?
CHAMBERLAIN. The regulation paragraphs are supplied to the papers, if
that’s what you mean.
DIST. V. But I had this from members of your own family.
CHAMBERLAIN. Quite so; it is they who supply them.
DIST. V. Then, if the source is so authoritative, surely it must be
true.
CHAMBERLAIN. Are newspaper paragraphs in such cases--ever true?
DIST. V. Perhaps I am no judge. As you know, I seldom read them.
CHAMBERLAIN. Aren’t the probabilities that they will always overstate
the case--as far as possible?
DIST. V. That is a course which, as an old politician,--speaking
generally--I must own has its advantages. So often, when things are
uncertain, one has to act as if one were sure.
CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, you’ve done that--sometimes. Sometimes you haven’t.
I shouldn’t call you an old politician, though. Being old is the
thing you’ve always managed to avoid. And yet, you’ve been in at a
good many political deaths first and last.
DIST. V. That, in itself, is an ageing experience.
CHAMBERLAIN. Yes?... I wonder.
DIST. V. Oh, but surely!
CHAMBERLAIN. _I_ wasn’t sure; but I take your word for it.
DIST. V. In politics, somehow, the deaths seem always to exceed the
births: those who go have become more intimate: one has got to know
them. Yes, the departures do certainly overshadow the arrivals.
CHAMBERLAIN. Yet sometimes they must have come to you as a relief.
DIST. V. My dear Chamberlain, don’t say that! It isn’t true.
CHAMBERLAIN. Oh! I wasn’t thinking of myself just then.
DIST. V. You were thinking, then, of somebody?
CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, I was. I was thinking of George Wyndham. What a
beautiful fellow he was! so clever, so handsome, so charming: a
man cut out for success, by the very look of him. And then, all at
once, down and out: the old pack had got him! How they hunted him!
“Devolution!” Wouldn’t they be glad to get that now?
DIST. V. At the time it was impossible.
CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, you accepted that, I know.... It broke his
heart.... Did you go and see him--when he was dying?
DIST. V. I used to go and see him when I could--yes, frequently; we
had been great friends. Not immediately--a month or two before, was
the last time, I think.
CHAMBERLAIN. And so with him, too, you could say that you remained
friends to the last! You have had a wonderful career: friends,
enemies, they all loved you. Gladstone (who hadn’t as a rule much
love for his political opponents) made an exception in your case.
DIST. V. Yes, I owed a great deal to his generous friendship. It gave
me confidence.
CHAMBERLAIN. Harcourt, too, always spoke of you with affection.
DIST. V. Oh, yes; we had a brotherly feeling about Rosebery, you know.
CHAMBERLAIN (_ignoring his diversion_). Randolph hadn’t though. He
was bitter.
DIST. V. Randolph was a performer who just once exceeded his promise,
and then could never get back to it. That was his tragedy. Strange
how, when he lost his following, his brilliancy all went with it.
CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, it was strange, in one so independent of others.
He had a great faculty, at one time, for not caring, for being (or
seeming) ruthless. It’s a gift that a politician must envy. It hasn’t
been my way to lose my heart in politics: it’s not safe. But--you
charmed me.
(_There is an implication here that the quiet tone has not
obscured. And so the direct question comes_:)
DIST. V. Chamberlain, I must ask. What is there between us?
CHAMBERLAIN. Nothing--nothing now at all--or very little.
DIST. V. No, no; you are too sincere to pretend to misunderstand me
like that.
CHAMBERLAIN. In politics can one afford to be quite--sincere? Openly,
I mean?
DIST. V. You have been--far more than others I could name.
CHAMBERLAIN. That is a friendly judgment. Others wouldn’t say so. If
a man stays in politics till he ceases to be important, while others
remain important, there’s bound to be a change of relations.
DIST. V. In our case I don’t admit that it has happened.
CHAMBERLAIN. Don’t you? You were our party-leader. I broke away;
so you had to break me. From your point of view you were right. I
thought I knew the game better than you. I made a mistake.
DIST. V. Do you mean, then, that you intended to break _me_?
CHAMBERLAIN. Oh, no. But I meant to--persuade you.
DIST. V. My view is that you did--very thoroughly. Surely I went a
long way--conceded a great deal.
CHAMBERLAIN. “Half a sheet of note-paper” was the measure of it.
Yes, that speech was a great success, and you remained our leader.
But your halving of that sheet was the beginning of--my defeat, your
victory.
DIST. V. I don’t recognise either. At this moment we are both
defeated, in a sense: out of office, that is to say.
CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, but you will come back. I shan’t.
DIST. V. But--in all its essentials--what you stand for will.
CHAMBERLAIN. As a hang-fire, perhaps, while parties temporise and
readjust themselves to a new balance. But never the same thing again.
The time for it has gone. I missed it.
DIST. V. You mustn’t be depressed, Chamberlain. Great policies, new
orientations, need careful nursing--testing too. Conditions are
changing very rapidly.
CHAMBERLAIN. Mine are getting worse. I have two nurses now--night and
day: and I obey orders.
DIST. V. You do well to remind me. You shouldn’t have let me tire you.
(_And so saying he rises._)
CHAMBERLAIN. You don’t. You used to, now and then, when we
didn’t agree. You had the deliberate mind, your own fixed rate
of progression: one couldn’t hurry you. And your semitones, and
semicircles, and semi-quavers used sometimes to worry me, I own. They
don’t now: having become a monotone myself, I acquiesce. _I’m_ the
slow one, now: you’ve set me my pace.... Here I sit, stock still.
DIST. V. (_lightly diverting the conversation from its impending
embarrassment_). With your old associates still round you, I see!
(_And he touches a trail of blossom admiringly, as he
continues_:)
They, at least, in their reflected glory, look flourishing; for they,
too, have had a share in your career, have they not?
CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, they helped me to get into _Punch_, I suppose,
if not into Parliament. Yet, I never thought of it, till it
happened--’twas a mere accident. Would you like to take one with you?
DIST. V. I don’t usually so efface myself, but I will with pleasure.
This one is quite exquisite. May I? Thanks (_and the glory of it goes
to his buttonhole_). I notice, too, that it has a scent.
CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, that is a new kind, hard to rear. There are very
few of it in England yet, and nowhere growing so well as they do here.
DIST. V. That is so like you, Chamberlain--you are the born expert;
everything you touch--it’s in your blood. Whatever you have done, you
have done successfully.
CHAMBERLAIN. So I have your word for it. I was saying to Collins this
morning that as a type of the really successful man you had beaten me.
DIST. V. I--a type of success? My dear Chamberlain! In my wildest
dreams, I aim only at safety; and if my hesitations have sometimes
distressed you, they have been far more distressing to myself. You
yourself, in a moment of friendly candour, once described me (so I
was told) as the champion stick-in-the-mud.
CHAMBERLAIN. So I did, and it’s true. But I said “champion.” If you
hadn’t been such a champion at it, the mud would have swallowed
you up alive. Instead of that, you have made it a tower of defence
against your enemies. That’s why I regard you not only as so
successful, but so British.
DIST. V. May I, at least, claim that even for self-defence I have not
slung it at my opponents?
CHAMBERLAIN. No. Why waste it? It’s your use, not your misuse of it
that I so admire. If you hadn’t been such a wonderful politician, you
might have been a great statesman.
DIST. V. Doesn’t that rather indicate failure?
CHAMBERLAIN. No. Sometimes the political world has no use for
statesmen--except to down them. Sometimes it prefers politicians,
and perhaps rightly. Every age makes its own peculiar requirements;
and those who find out when the political line is the better one to
follow, are the successful ones. You and I have been--politicians;
let’s be honest and own it. And now my particular politics are
over. Circumstances have emptied me out. That’s different from mere
failure. Great statesmen have been failures; we’ve seen them go down,
you and I--too big, too far-seeing for their day. But they went down
_full_, with all the weight of their great convictions and principles
still to their credit. I’m empty. Time has played me out. That’s the
difference.
DIST. V. I am confident that history will give a different verdict.
CHAMBERLAIN. Will it? When exactly does history begin to get written?
Is a man’s reputation for statesmanship safe, even after a hundred
years? What about Pitt? Can one be so sure of him now? His European
policy may have been a blunder; his great work in Ireland may yet
have to be reversed.
DIST. V. In reversed circumstances, that may become logical. But
what has held good for a hundred year, I should incline to regard as
statesmanship.
CHAMBERLAIN. “Held good”? Fetters a man can’t break “hold good”; but
they make a prisoner of him all the same. Policies have done that to
nations before now. But would you, on that score, say of them that
they have held good?
DIST. V. But let me understand, my dear Chamberlain, what exactly in
Pitt’s policy you now question?
CHAMBERLAIN. Nothing: I can’t see far enough ahead to question
anything. I only say, when does history begin to get written? We
don’t know.
DIST. V. What more can one do than direct it for the generation in
which one lives? That, it seems to me, is our main responsibility.
CHAMBERLAIN. Well, that’s what you and I have done. How? Mainly
by pulling down bigger men than ourselves. Randolph, Parnell,
Gladstone--we got the better of them, didn’t we? Have you never
wondered why men of genius get sent into the world--only to be
defeated? Gladstone was a bigger man than the whole lot of us; but
we pulled him down--and I enjoyed doing it. Parnell, for all his
limitations, was a great man. Well, we got him down too. And I
confess that gave me satisfaction. You helped to pull Randolph down;
but you didn’t enjoy doing it. That’s where you and I were different.
DIST. V. I helped?
CHAMBERLAIN. Yes; it had to be done. And you were sorry for him while
you did it--just as you were sorry for Wyndham.
DIST. V. But I did nothing!
CHAMBERLAIN. Quite so. He came down here to fight us in the Central
division, and the Conservatives were keen for it. It was touch and
go: Unionists were not in such close alliance then; he might have
succeeded. You did nothing; wouldn’t back him. (Quite right, from my
point of view.) Randolph went down: never the same man again.
DIST. V. But, my dear Chamberlain, we had our agreed compact.
CHAMBERLAIN. An official understanding, certainly. But that didn’t
prevent me from going to the Round-Table conference. That also was
touch and go; it might have succeeded. Where would our compact have
been, then?
DIST. V. The Round-Table was merely an interrogation covering
a forlorn hope. It failed because you remained loyal to your
convictions.
CHAMBERLAIN. It failed because one day two of us lost our
tempers--one bragged, the other bullied. That was the real reason. If
Gladstone had given me a large enough hand over his first Bill, d’you
suppose I shouldn’t have been a Home Ruler? I was to begin with,
remember.
DIST. V. Standing for a very different Bill, I imagine.
CHAMBERLAIN. Which you would still have opposed. But I should have
won.
DIST. V. Certainly, if we had lost you, it would have made a
difference.
CHAMBERLAIN. I was younger then: I’d more push in me. But you would
have let me go, all the same. Yes, I’ve always admired your courage
when the odds were against you.... So, when the time for it came, you
pulled me down too. It had to be done.... And here I am.
DIST. V. My dear Chamberlain, you distress me deeply!
CHAMBERLAIN. Of course I do. D’you think I haven’t distressed myself
too? Do I look like a man who hasn’t been through anything?
DIST. V. Then--there is a cloud between us, after all.
CHAMBERLAIN. No. I see you clearly; I see myself clearly. There’s no
cloud about it; it’s all sharp, and clear, and hard--hard as nails.
And I’ve been able to put it into words--that now you understand.
Poor Randolph! Do you remember how his tongue stumbled, and tripped
him, the last time he spoke in the House? And I saw you looking on,
pitying him. You’d got a kind side to you, for all your efficiency.
Men like you for that--that charm.... It’s been a great asset to you.
Parnell, how he tried all his life to make a speech and couldn’t.
But what he said didn’t matter--there was the man! What a force he
might have been--was! What a Samson, when he pulled the whole Irish
Party down--got them all on top of him to pull with him. What d’you
think he was doing then? Trying to give his Irish nation a soul! It
looked like pride, pique, mere wanton destruction; but it was a great
idea. And if ever they rise to it--if ever the whole Irish nation
puts its back to the wall as Parnell wanted it to do then--shakes off
dependence, alliance, conciliation, compromise, it may beat us yet!
They were afraid of defeat. That’s why we won. A cause or a nation
that fears no defeat--nor any number of them--that’s what wins in the
long run. But does any such nation--any such cause exist? I’m not
sure.... I’m not really sure of anything now, only this: that it’s
better not to live too long after one has failed. To go on living
then--is the worst failure of all.
(_As he thus talks himself out, his auditor’s solicitous
concern has continually increased; and now when, for
the first time, the voice breaks with exhaustion
and emotion, the other, half-rising from his seat,
interposes with gentle but insistent urgency._)
DIST. V. My dear Chamberlain, you are overtaxing your strength; you
are doing yourself harm. You ought not to go on. Stop, I do beg of
you!
CHAMBERLAIN. Stop? Why stop? What does it matter now?
(_But even as he speaks, mind and will cease to contest
the point where physical energy fails. His manner
changes, his voice becomes dull and listless of tone._)
Oh, yes ... yes. You are quite right. It’s time. I’m under orders
now. Would you mind--the bell?
(_Then, as the other is about to rise, he perceives that
the Nurse has already entered, and now stands,
unobtrusive but firm, awaiting the moment to reassert
her sway._)
Oh, it’s not necessary. There’s the Nurse come again, to remind me
that I mustn’t tire myself in tiring you.
(_And so, under the presiding eye of professional
attendance, the Visitor rises and advances to take his
leave._)
Thank you--for coming. Thank you--for hearing me so patiently....
You always did that, even though it made no difference.... I
wonder--shall I ever see you again?
DIST. V. You shall. I promise.
CHAMBERLAIN. I wonder.
DIST. V. I assure you, I shall make a point of it. Believe me, I
am very grateful for this opportunity you have given me; and even
more am I grateful for all your long loyalty in the past. Through
all differences, through all difficulties, I have felt that you
were indeed a friend. So, till we meet again, my dear Chamberlain,
good-bye!
(_The two hands meet and part, while the Nurse moves
forward to resume her professional duties. The
Distinguished Visitor begins to retire._)
CHAMBERLAIN. Good-bye.... You can find your way?
DIST. V. (_turning gracefully as he goes_). Perfectly!
(_And treating the door with the same perfection of
courtesy as he treats all with whom he comes in
contact, he goes to take his leave of other members of
the family. The door closes; the Nurse is punching the
pillows; Chamberlain speaks_:)
CHAMBERLAIN. So that’s the end, eh?... Charming fellow!
(_And so saying, he settles back to the inattention of life
to which he has become accustomed._)
The Instrument
Dramatis Personæ
WOODROW WILSON
(_Ex-President of
the United States
of America_).
MR. TUMULTY (_His
Secretary_).
A GRACIOUS PRESENCE.
AN ATTENDANT.
The Instrument
SCENE: _Washington. March 4th, 1921._
_Through the large windows of this rather stiffly composed
sitting-room Washington conveys an ample and not
unimpressive view of its official character. The
distant architecture, rising out of trees, is almost
beautiful, and would be quite, if only it could manage
to look a little less self-satisfied and prosperous.
Outside is a jubilant spring day; inside something
which much more resembles the wintering of autumn.
For though this is an entry over which the door has
just opened and closed, it is in fact an exit, final
and complete, from the stage of world-politics, made
by one who in his day occupied a commanding position
of authority and power. That day is now over. In the
distance an occasional blare of brass and the beat
of drums tells that processions are still moving
through the streets of the capital, celebrating the
inauguration of the new President. It is the kind of
noise which America knows how to make; a sound of
triumph insistent and strained, having in it no beauty
and no joy._
_The Ex-President moves slowly across the room, bearing
heavily to one side upon his stick, to the other
upon the proudly protecting arm of his friend, Mr.
Secretary Tumulty. Into the first comfortable chair
that offers he lets himself down by slow and painful
degrees, lays his stick carefully aside, then begins
very deliberately to pull off his gloves. When that is
done, only then allowing himself complete relaxation,
he sinks back in his chair, and in a voice of resigned
weariness speaks._
EX-PRES. So ... that’s over!
TUMULTY. It hasn’t tired you too much, I hope?
EX-PRES. Too much for what, my dear Tumulty? I’ve time to be tired
now. What else, except to be tired, is there left for me to do?
TUMULTY. Obey doctor’s orders.
EX-PRES. He let me go.
TUMULTY (_shrewdly_). You would have gone in any case.
EX-PRES. Yes.
(_Tumulty adjusts the cushions at his back._)
Thank you.
TUMULTY (_seating himself_). Well, Governor, now you’ve seen him in
place, what do you think of him?
EX-PRES. Oh, I find him--quite--what I expected him to be. I think he
means well.
TUMULTY. A new President always does.
EX-PRES. (_slowly pondering his words_). Yes ... that’s true ...
“means well.”
TUMULTY (_tactfully providing diversion_). The big crowd outside was
very friendly, I thought.
EX-PRES. Yes ... couldn’t have been friendlier.... It let me alone.
TUMULTY. Well, of course, they’d come mainly to see the new President.
EX-PRES. Of course. So had I. Yes, I believe Harding’s a good man. He
was very kind, very considerate. I feel grateful.
TUMULTY (_with rich emotion_). That’s how a good many of us are
feeling to you, Governor: to-day very specially. It’s what I’ve come
back to say.
EX-PRES. That’s very good of you. We’ve had--differences of opinion;
but you’ve always been loyal.
TUMULTY. I think, President---- Forgive me; the word slipped out.
EX-PRES. No matter.
TUMULTY. I think there’s been more loyalty--at heart--than you know.
Behind all our differences, in the party (as, with such big issues,
couldn’t be avoided)--well; they didn’t cut so deep as they seemed
to. They were all proud of you, even though we couldn’t always agree.
Of course there’ve been exceptions.
EX-PRES. I don’t want to judge the exceptions now (as perhaps I have
done in the past) more hardly than I judge myself.... Tumulty, I’ve
failed.
TUMULTY (_extenuatingly_). In a way--yes: for a time, no doubt.
EX-PRES. Absolutely.
TUMULTY. I don’t agree.
EX-PRES. Because you don’t know.
TUMULTY. Governor, I know a good deal.
EX-PRES. Oh, yes; you’ve been a right hand to me--all through. Others
weren’t. So I had to leave them alone, and--be alone. When I made
that choice, it seemed not to matter: my case was so strong--and I
had such faith in it! It was that did for me!
TUMULTY. Chief, I’m not out to argue with you--to make you more tired
than you are already. But if I don’t say anything, please don’t think
I’m agreeing with you.
EX-PRES. I’m accustomed to people not agreeing with me, Tumulty....
Yes: too much faith--not in what I stood for, but in myself:
perhaps--though there I’m not so sure--perhaps too little in others.
To some I gave too much: and the mischief was done before I knew.
TUMULTY. You don’t need to name him, President.
EX-PRES. I don’t need to name anyone now. Sometimes a man may know
his own points of weakness too well--guard against them to excess, be
over-cautious because of them; and then, trying to correct himself,
just for once he’s not cautious enough. But where I failed was in
getting the loyalty and co-operation of those who didn’t agree with
me so thoroughly as you did. And I ought to have done it; for that
is a part of government. Your good executive is the man who gets all
fish into his net. I failed: I caught some good men, but I let others
go. There was fine material to my hand which I didn’t recognise, or
didn’t use so well as I should have done. I hadn’t the faculty of
letting others think for me: when I tried, it went badly; they didn’t
respond. So--I did all myself.
TUMULTY (_airing himself a little_). You always listened to _me_,
Governor.
EX-PRES. Yes, Tumulty, yes. And you weren’t offended when I--didn’t
pay any attention.
TUMULTY. When you _had_ paid attention, you mean.
EX-PRES. Perhaps I do. My way of paying attention has struck others
differently. They think I’m one who doesn’t listen--who doesn’t want
to listen. It’s a terrible thing, Tumulty, when one sees and knows
the truth so absolutely, but cannot convince others. That’s been my
fate: to be so sure that I was right (I’m as sure of that now as
ever) and yet to fail. Here--there--it has been always the same. I
went over to Paris thinking to save the Peace: there came a point
when I thought it was saved: it would have been had the Senate
backed me--it could have been done then. But when I put the case to
which already we stood pledged, I convinced nobody. They did not want
justice to be done.
TUMULTY. But you had a great following, Governor. You had a wonderful
reception when you got to Paris.