IN PARLIAMENT
See, where her court an agelong Silence keeps!
Tread softly, Strange—here a Nation sleeps.
MAINWARING: _Elegy on the House of Commons_.
To be a member of Parliament was in those days, of course, a more
exacting claim upon one’s time and convenience than it is now. The
meaningless tyranny of tradition still made it impossible to be
represented in any circumstances by a proxy, and no effort had been made
to relieve the burden of legislation except the institution, once a
week, of “voting night”: the second and third readings of all bills,
which had previously been liable to surprise the House at any odd
moment, were now restricted to Wednesday evening, between the hours of
nine and eleven. Sunday was, I believe, the day originally chosen, but
it was found that this would interfere with too many private
engagements. But the duty of presence in person still hung about our
necks; and it is with some pride that I can boast never to have missed a
voting night during the six years of my experience as a representative
of the nation. On the other side, it must be admitted that the writing
of a letter to the newspapers every month was then not a duty, but only
an honourable understanding. Still, it will easily be conceived how the
burdens of my new dignity interfered with the leisure of my quiet life
at Greylands.
Every morning a large crate would arrive, containing the records of all
the speeches made in the House the previous day. I always made a point
of having them all turned on; and if I were called away from the room to
interview the cook or for some similar purpose I would always leave
Porstock behind me to hear what was said and to report on anything which
had struck him: if this seemed sufficiently important, the dictaphone
would have to be reversed till the important passage was reached again.
Then, if I were down to speak myself the next day, I would have to shut
myself up for an hour or so in the dictaphone room, till a perfect
record could be secured. Even a question that had to be asked would be a
matter of anxious care. I cannot imagine how the Ministers of those days
can have found time for all their engagements, when questions had to be
answered into the dictaphone, before the invention of the present
mechanical process. Really, we are spoilt nowadays!
Nor were the incidental duties of a Member of Parliament inconsiderable.
Now I would be writing my autograph in the prizes to be distributed at
my old school; now I would be at the telephone opening a bazaar; now I
would be trudging out, in all weathers, to the wireless installation at
the back of the house to unveil a statue, to lay a foundation-stone, or
(for I was still known as a sportswoman) to kick off at some Manchester
football match. Now and again my secretaries would come in to consult me
as to how they were to answer some troublesome constituent, whose letter
they did not feel capable of answering on their own responsibility.
There were Committees, too, of the House, one of them (the Kitchen
Committee) actually demanding my personal presence. I also became, as
was natural, directress of a good many companies, and it became
necessary to build on a board-room at Greylands in which to entertain
their Committees.
But, although the life of an M.P. was already a busy one, it was not
even then an eventful one. Day followed day, and the press of business
which had at first seemed so strange and so insupportable fell, as
things will, under the enchantment of routine. But there was one period,
in the spring of 1956, when the calm waters of Party politics were
suddenly disturbed, and that through my agency. The “duodecimal crisis”
which was a matter of so much talk and notoriety at the time, is almost
forgotten nowadays, and I hope I shall be pardoned for dealing with it
somewhat fully, since I was myself the centre of the storm.
The facts were, briefly, as follows. In 1929 the Conservative Government
appointed a Commission to enquire into the possibility of introducing
into England the decimal system of coinage, weights, measures, etc. Its
sittings were interrupted by the accession of the Labour Government in
the early thirties, which, among its first and most unpopular actions,
drastically cut down the expenses allowed to the members of Royal
Commissions. “It comes to this,” said Professor Drywater of Aberdeen,
“that if I want to serve my country I shall have to serve it at my own
expense.” Under the Independent Government the Commissions were revived,
but little interest was shown in this particular enquiry. It was when
the Conservatives returned to power in ’44 that the stimulus of public
interest made the Commissioners redouble their efforts, and in less than
ten years they had produced a series of recommendations which are still
on record[10]. The shilling was only to count ten pennies, the
half-sovereign and the “fiver” being retained at their present value in
shillings as the units of gold coinage. There were to be ten inches to
the foot, three and a third feet to the yard, and a thousand yards to
the mile. The hundredweight would contain its exact 100 pounds, and the
ton would weigh twenty-five hundredweight, or a hundred quarters—and so
on. The scruple, the noggin, the chaldron, the hogshead, the gill, the
pipe, and the rod, pole or perch disappeared altogether.
Mr. Holroyd was not of that narrow, factious spirit which would refuse
to adopt a measure because that measure had been first suggested by an
opponent. It was characteristic of the man that, when he was elevated to
the peerage, he selected FAS EST ET AB HOSTE DOCERI for his family
motto. The programme was adopted, not in the form of a private member’s
Bill, but with the full backing of the Front Bench. The whole weight of
the Tory opposition was immediately thrown into the scale against it.
Readers of _Punch_ will remember the cartoon of Lord Hopedale defending,
in classical costume, the walls of Troy Weight against a serried rank of
circular shields. The issue was a critical one; the battle was to be
fought, not on the merits of the case, but as a test of Party strength.
The by-elections had, for some time, been looking ominous; urgent
“whips” were broadcasted by the Mechanics of either party; the Tories
appealed to popular prejudice by asserting that they were fighting for
the tankards of old England; and in many constituencies, it is believed,
the whole proposal was obscurely identified with some measure of
Temperance reform.
In an evil hour for my party, I had studied (it will be remembered) the
Theory of Statistics at Oxford, and had sat at the feet of that erratic
genius, Arthur Tonks. It was his favourite thesis that the whole
civilized world was groaning under what he called “the decimal
illusion.” Through a disastrous legacy of barbarism, he would tell us,
we had all agreed to fix our “round number,” after which we started out
on “double figures,” at the number of fingers with which Providence had
endowed us. “Ladies,” he would tell us, “we are not barbarians, and we
do not count on our fingers.” By his way of it, the multiple of three
and four, which we have thrust on, as “twelve,” into the teens, ought to
have been the round number of our calculations. He had therefore
composed a system of counting of his own, which ran “one, two, three,
four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, tonk, tink, ten,” and was printed
for short as 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, *, &, 10. By this system, which
at Oxford he always hoped to see universally adopted, and later, in his
retirement, came to believe had actually been universally adopted, the
whole business of calculation was to be infinitely simplified. His was
the passion of a fanatic: he would date a letter, not “Sept. 22,” but as
“Sept. 1*” (pronounced “tonkteen”), or tell you that the Battle of
Waterloo had been fought in A.D. 1513, or announce his nine-thirty
lecture as due to begin at “tink twenty-six.”
How saddening a feature it is of that strange process we call
“education,” that while we are still in the pupil’s status we laugh at
our tutors and make fun of their pet fads, and yet in later life, when
those tutors are dead and can no longer accept our tardy homage, come
back to the fads we once derided and make them our own! In this matter
of coinage reform, I was determined that we would have no half-measures:
we would not blunderingly imitate the clumsy practice of Continental
nations. If we were to have reform at all, we would have reform on the
right lines; “tonk” and “tink” should find their way into every
schoolboy’s arithmetic book. If there were to be ten pennies to the
shilling, then a penny should be change for tinkpence, and twopence
should be change for tonkpence: if we were to have ten inches to the
foot, then an inch short should be tink inches and two inches short
should be tonk inches. I wrote a letter expounding and defending this
principle to all the daily papers, all of which refused to print it,
except the _Manchester Guardian_, which had little circulation in the
metropolis. However, I was in a position to snap my finger at the
dailies: Juliet Savage was now editing the _Spectator_, and she was at
one with me in my present determination. Together we organized a violent
campaign, reviving as we did so delightful memories of the _Bilston Hall
Rocket_ in early days. Poor Miss Montrose, long since gone to her rest,
how she must have felt for Mr. Holroyd, attacked by the same two
venomous pens that had once marred the peace of her quiet seminary!
My protest, which I had not communicated before to any of my
Parliamentary colleagues, took the political world by surprise. The
first I heard of it was a letter from Sir Hubert Gunter, the Chief
Mechanic of the Democratic Party:
DEAR LADY PORSTOCK,—
_I hope none of our people have been worrying you about your very
interesting letter to the “Spectator,” which I have not yet had time
to read. The truth is, a silly report has grown up to the effect
that you intended, not merely to abstain from voting on the Weights
and Measures Bill, but to associate yourself with the Opposition. I
hate troubling you, but you know what an awkward moment it is for
many of us—a short letter to the papers denying the imputation
would, we all feel, have a good effect. I enclose a draft of such a
letter for your signature, and beg to remain_,
_Sincerely yours_,
HUBERT GUNTER
My reply to this letter was one which was intended to leave my meaning
open to no possible doubt:
DEAR SIR HUBERT,—
_I can quite understand that my letter, appealing, as it does,
primarily to the mathematician, should have failed to arouse your
curiosity. But I am sorry to say that you have not been in any way
misinformed as to the scope of my opposition. The subject is one on
which I feel very strongly, and I am prepared, if necessary, to
jeopardize my political career by seeking re-election in the
interests of whatever party seems to me to represent most faithfully
the highest aspirations of our great country._
_Yours sincerely_,
OPAL PORSTOCK
This letter drew a reply, not from Sir Hubert, but from a far more
responsible quarter. Mr. Holroyd was absent at this time, conducting
some very important negotiations in the South of France, and Lord Brede,
who led the Party in the Lords, was in charge of certain matters of
vital urgency in California. But it was the Chancellor of the Exchequer
herself who continued the attack:
MY DEAR OPAL,—
_We know one another well enough for me to confess_ at once _that I
don’t like your scheme of playing billy with the multiplication
table: my job is hard enough, without having to go to school again
and do my sums afresh. But you also know me well enough to know that
I should not let such merely_ personal _considerations weigh with me
if I felt that your proposal could be dealt with on its own merits,
as a contribution to that advancement of the human genius which we
all have at heart._
_But you will excuse my saying that this proposal of yours does not
stop short at that. It is not content to revolutionize the whole of
our arithmetical method. It is a challenge to the Government, thrown
down at a most_ anxious _moment. It amounts to a calling in question
of that whole delicate system of Party Government by which the
affairs of the nation have for_ centuries _been conducted. If a
private member is to adopt a line of her own, in complete disregard
of the programme for which his Majesty’s Government stands, you must
see for yourself what a_ dangerous _precedent will be set up. Such a
principle will undermine that whole spirit of loyal co-operation
and_ esprit de corps _to which Ministers have to look for their
support in matters of urgent national moment. I am sure that you are
sufficiently in sympathy with us on more_ important _subjects, such
as the Protection of the Hottentot Industries and the Improvement of
London, to feel that no disagreement over points of_ detail _ought
to prevent us pulling together shoulder to shoulder. As a matter of
personal friendship, I need not remind you how_ prejudicial _an
effect your present attitude might have upon your chances of
obtaining a coupon should you seek election in the Democrat interest
in future Parliaments_.
_What lovely weather we are having!_
_Yours most sincerely_,
PULBROOKE
I have mislaid somehow the copy of the letter which I wrote in answer to
this, but it cannot have been a very satisfactory one, for almost
immediately afterwards my operator was rung up in the middle of the
night to take a message from Lord Brede. He had, I fancy, not been put
in full possession of the facts, but merely asked to send me a strong
remonstrance which would make me repent of the lone hand I was playing:
_Deeply appreciate sincerity of motives which have contributed
difficult situation. Impossible expect agreement great fundamental
principles ensure seeing eye to eye matters of detailed application.
But higher considerations than those mere party surely bid sink
private differences co-operate generously in great cause. Implore
you take no steps likely to jeopardize harmony Ministerial camp
during crisis fraught grave national peril. No one more ready than
Prime Minister or self to give full weight any criticisms
administration when business Empire permits return. Know can depend
strong personal loyalty already evinced hundred unforgettable
instances during past years. Spirit of Gladstone not dead yet.
ac.ac.ac. Brede._
But I had not yet reached the zenith of my notoriety; my revolt was
actually to evoke a personal appeal from Mr. Holroyd himself! I confess
that I felt a twinge of something like remorse when I realized that the
great man, in the midst of his multitudinous affairs, had found time to
write with his own hand (so far as the signature was concerned) to one
whom he must have regarded as an erring disciple:
_In the train, near Cannes._
_June 18, 1956._
MY DEAR LADY PORSTOCK,—
_I am sure you will not think me intrusive if I write to
congratulate you most warmly on the lucid exposition you have given
in the “Spectator” of a most intricate problem, which has always had
great interest for me. The daily papers out here all had
translations of it—I am afraid it will be a long time before our
Press rivals that of the French in its appreciation of scientific
technicalities. If only I had known earlier that you felt so
strongly on the matter, it might have had a profound influence upon
the drafting of the legislative proposal which now lies on the table
of the House of Commons. Certainly, if it had happened a few years
earlier, your claim to be appointed a member of the Royal Commission
could not well have been overlooked._
_But facts are facts, and I am afraid that the measure in question
must seem to you a very half-hearted solution, which has not grasped
the nettle, or plucked the heart out of the controversy. You must
think us slow-coaches! Well, you will pardon an old friend of your
father’s for saying that you are still young, and the young are
always for whole measures—they will not have the wings of aspiration
clipped. I know it is asking a great deal of you when we ask you to
follow the lagging footsteps of us older men: and yet it is a lesson
we all have to learn. I daresay you will remember old Lord Perse? He
once said to me a thing I have never forgotten: “If you can’t get
all you want, want all you can get.” I quite see that our present
proposals can only appear to you in the light of a preliminary
instalment of those great changes you would like to see effected.
But may we hope they will have your support, if only as an
instalment? The country at large, I fear, needs educating before it
will greet your own more far-reaching scheme with the consideration,
and, I may say, the sympathy it deserves. But, as you well know, “we
will not cease from mental strife”: we are pledged to make England a
fairer and a happier land than we found it._
_Meanwhile, although your woman’s talent for logic makes you see
ahead of others, I hope you will allow yourself to be guided in this
matter by a man’s intuition. Masculine intuition is so valuable
sometimes! Please remember me most kindly to Lord Porstock; he will
be back in England by now?_
_Yours sincerely_,
JAMES HOLROYD
It was, I confess, not without a tear in my eye and a quivering
typewriter that I answered this kindly letter as follows:
MY DEAR PRIME MINISTER,—
_Thank you very much for your most kind letter, whose complimentary
expressions are, I am afraid, far in excess of anything my poor
intelligence deserves. I quite understand that the line of action I
am adopting is a very unusual one. You, on your side, will
understand that I would not be acting in this way if I did not feel
deeply about the point at issue. That point is not, as I conceive,
merely one of mathematical convenience. It is simply the question
whether the constituents in any electoral division are to send a
representative to Westminster, or a dummy. If the country wished its
political life to be suspended by the sleep of an eternal
compromise, it should not have allowed women into Parliament. I have
been told from several quarters that the subject of my opposition is
unimportant compared with the fact of my opposition; in short, that
I am a test case. I believe it, and I am glad of it; it seems to me
that the nation is drifting perilously near to the position in which
it would be governed by a Cabinet instead of a Parliament._
_Yours sincerely_,
OPAL PORSTOCK
I need hardly say that the Press was very amusing at my expense, but its
comment was not always particularly intelligent. Indeed, the only
sensible criticism I remember was a cartoon in which I was represented
as an exhibit at a freak-show, with six fingers on each hand. But the
greater part of my critics seemed to have entirely missed the point at
issue. They all seemed obsessed with the idea, either that I multiplied
three by four into ten, or that I multiplied five by two into twelve, or
both. The words “tink” and “tonk” naturally caught on with the humorists
of the day; indeed, I believe a revue entitled “Tink tonk” was still
running at the outbreak of the Great War. Some of my serious critics
were even more entertaining, and I was severely reproved by more than
one religiously minded correspondent for upsetting the eternal laws of
number, ordained for us by a wise Providence when it gave us fingers and
toes. But I was not to be moved by any kind of opposition, and the
support of Juliet Savage prevented the public from laughing me out of
court. In the end, as my readers will probably remember, the situation
became so acute that the Prime Minister actually came back from France
and held a Round Table Conference at Chequers. For a time it looked as
if no _modus vivendi_ could be arrived at, but at last statesmanship
triumphed, and a Royal Commission was appointed to investigate the
relative merits of decimal and duodecimal numeration, which is still
sitting to-day.
I need only mention one other of my public activities, which remains a
legitimate boast; it was a Private Member’s Bill, brought forward by
myself, that procured the erection of the great statue of Sherlock
Holmes in Baker Street. I pointed out that London was now the only
European capital which had no statue of the kind, and the plaque on No.
221B Baker Street was a quite inadequate recognition of the famous
detective’s services. The question whether he had ever existed did not
affect, or ought not to affect, the feelings of veneration with which we
regarded him. When the bill passed, I was elected a member of the
Committee which was to decide between the various designs sent in. The
prevailing taste at the moment was Futuribilism, but none of the artists
then in vogue seemed to have treated his subject adequately. Several of
them represented the head merely as a square block of stone, on the
ground that all attempts to imitate the features in sculpture were a
violation of the canons of Art. Another, on the same ground, represented
the figure as strictly globular. I am glad to say that it was at my
instigation the Committee chose the design sent in by Wrightman, then
quite unknown, but destined to become famous as one of the leaders of
the neo-classical school in the sixties. The conception is a noble one,
and if some have found fault with the pipe as out of keeping with the
classical draperies in which the figure is represented, it is not for us
to complain. “We must approach Art,” Burstall used to say, “as a goddess
demanding a sacrifice; and the victim she asks of us is the Actual.”
Well, the old days of Parliament are dead; and we no longer see St.
Stephen’s presenting the appearance it used to present on “voting
nights,” when helico after helico landed in the great square outside and
legislatress after legislatress passed into the building to record her
decision upon the affairs of the nation: when, by a quaint old survival,
they used to bow to one another as they passed, while the opposing
platforms bore them into the opposing lobbies; or when, on the occasion
of some important speech, as many as five hundred auditors would
assemble in the dictaphone room, to catch, in awestruck silence, the
very tones of a Hopedale or a Holroyd before they passed into the
receiver. Those of us who belonged to those older Parliaments will look
back with some regret at the pomp and circumstance which used to attend
legislation in those days; and perhaps even suspect that some of our
modern indifference to political issues is due to the disappearance of
that pageantry which is so dear to English hearts. There is still an
old-world enchantment that lingers about the House itself: and you might
almost fancy that those voiceless figures which sit there now, admirably
as the Tussaud family has caught the likenesses of our present-day
legislators, were the ghosts of a distant past, when the voice of a
Burke would stir his contemporaries to indignation and to endurance, or
the receiving funnels vibrated to the delicate soprano of a Pulbrooke.