CHAIRMEN
This ought to be a very long chapter, in spite of the fact that it has
been done supremely well before. But I have not read M. Paul Blouet’s
able work, nor have my experiences been his, so that I approach this
very interesting part of my subject with a light heart. Let me at the
outset declare that I by no means disapprove of chairmen, as so many
of my colleagues do. A chairman who knows his business, and confines
his share of the proceedings to a few well-chosen sentences, and the
appearance of his name on the bills, is a jewel of price, and I have
often been very glad to meet him. But I must admit that he is rare,
and the difficulty that a secretary is always in when inviting a local
celebrity to take the chair at a lecture is his inability to know
whether the L.C. will not consider it a part of his functions to make a
long rambling speech while the audience is waiting impatiently to hear
the lecturer. As for the latter, he doesn’t count, of course, but I
have often wondered what the chairman would have thought could he have
known what was beneath my placidly smiling exterior, as I sat facing
the audience, while the hands of the clock crept slowly round. And then
the crowning outrage at about 8.25.
“But you don’t come to hear me, you come to hear the lecturer, and so
I won’t stand between you and him any longer. But this I must say.”
And then another five minutes of vapid twaddle. It is impossible to
do justice to such people as that, and still more impossible for a
lecturer to realise that there are people who really like that sort of
thing. At least one would think so, judging by what they say aloud,
but what they think, who can tell? However, between a chairman of that
kind and no chairman at all there is a wide gap, and I cannot say that
I ever grew to like the growing practice of expecting the lecturer to
walk on the platform and begin his lecture as soon as eight o’clock
strikes. And yet there is a further great advantage in this, you miss
the absolutely nauseating votes of thanks at the end. What puny-minded
person ever devised that method of giving pain to a poor man who has
done them no intentional harm, to say nothing of making him and others
lose their train very often, I have never been able to ascertain, but
he was no friend of mine, whoever he was.
I suppose as I am writing about chairmen I ought to begin with
instances where there were none, in order to fulfil modern literary
requirements. Such instances, at any rate, will not take up much
time, but I very well remember the first experience I ever had of
the system. It was at Moseley or King’s Heath or Rotton Park, one of
those suburbs of Birmingham, at any rate, which used to be famous for
their Institutes, and to which we lecturers used to look forward for
a consecutive list of seven or eight engagements. On arrival at the
hall I saw no one except a bluff caretaker, who conducted me to a bare
room, and brought me a chair. I asked him if there were no officials
connected with the place whom I might expect to see before the lecture.
He replied that there was no one there except himself and the audience.
“They’re in their seats all right,” he said; “and if you go on up those
stairs when the clock strikes eight, you’ll find ’em before you. An’ a
jolly good audience, too, they are.”
“But surely,” I demurred, “this isn’t usual. Do the lecturers never see
anybody but the caretaker? And who do I look to for my fee?”
“Oh!” he laughed, “you’ll see the treasurer all right after the
lecture. But that’s eight striking. This way, sir.”
I went in the direction indicated, and found myself facing a packed
concourse of people, who gave me a rousing cheer. I began my lecture
straight away, and was at once on the best possible terms with my
audience, so that the hour and three-quarters passed like half an
hour. But immediately the lights were turned up the hall began to
empty, and by the time I was back in the little bare waiting-room again
I think the caretaker and I were almost the only persons left in the
building. He advanced towards me with a beaming smile, holding out an
envelope, which he said the treasurer had asked him to hand me, because
he was in a great hurry to get somewhere else.
“I suppose you can guess what’s in it,” he murmured, with a grin of
pure good-fellowship.
I found it contained my cheque and a note “with the treasurer’s
compts.,” and that was all. Still, although it was amply sufficient, I
couldn’t help feeling that it was just a little too business-like, and
said so. I was not at all surprised to hear that one lecturer who was a
very big gun indeed, and whose fee was three times mine, felt himself
so slighted, and his dignity so hurt, that upon meeting with similar
treatment, he promptly refused to deliver his lecture, and departed
as he had come. That, to my mind, was utterly indefensible conduct,
punishing as it did a large number of quite innocent people. Besides
the folly of it, for the lecturer would without doubt be blamed for
non-appearance, and would have no chance of setting his side of the
case before the audience.
I must admit, however, that such behaviour towards a lecturer is most
unusual, and, in any case, it implies a great compliment, for it
assumes that there is no chance of default on the part of the principal
figure in the entertainment. But I must get on to the positive side of
chairmen, and here I find myself embarrassed with riches. Strangely
enough, one of the very last lectures I gave was embittered by an
unwise chairman, who should have known better, since he was the pastor
of the chapel where the lecture was given. My host, who lived near, had
invited a wealthy friend to join us in the drive to the chapel--it was
a bitterly cold, foggy night--and on arrival I was asked at what time
the carriage should call for us, so as not to keep the coachman or the
horse waiting in such inclement weather. Of course I said 9.40, the
lecture being announced to begin at eight, and the coachman drove away.
Right here I find that I was just about to do a very worthy gentleman
a grave injustice. My chairman was his worship the Mayor, but his
functions were usurped by the parson, who led us on to the platform.
The proceedings were opened by the parson giving out a long hymn,
which was sung right through. Then followed a prayer, which lasted
twelve minutes. Then another hymn was sung, and on its completion the
pastor gave us an address about nothing in particular, but really, I
think, for the pleasure of hearing himself speak. After ten minutes
of this he introduced the chairman, who was commendably brief, but
still occupied another five minutes. Then we sang another long hymn,
after which that irrepressible parson introduced me with a great deal
of tiresome eulogy. Eventually I faced the audience at 8.40, the forty
minutes having been worse than wasted, for I was fretted almost beyond
endurance, and so, I am sure, were many of the audience. I did my best
to hurry through the lecture, but with the best will in the world
it was 10.5 when I had finished. I am glad to say that I protested
to the parson, in the interests of the next lecturer, but he only
seemed surprised that anyone should object to what he considered were
essential preliminaries. What my host and his guest said I leave to the
imagination, my host being especially angry because of his coachman and
valuable horse, condemned to endure that bitter fog for over half an
hour to no purpose whatever.
Still, I suppose I must be grateful for small mercies in this case,
for, owing to the Mayor saying that he must needs leave, we were
spared what I am sure would otherwise have been another half-hour’s
piffle, my undaunted parson being fully wound up to make three or four
speeches more. On other occasions I have not been so fortunate. I
have always tried my utmost to keep within the limits of an hour and
a half, believing, as I firmly do, that more than that must bore an
audience, besides rendering some of them liable to lose their trains in
many cases. But alas! I have often found that the persons responsible
for the lecture seemed to have no account of time or thought for
anybody’s convenience, much less comfort. One such occasion I remember
with considerable bitterness. The hall was immense, seating over two
thousand on one floor, and at the back the people’s heads touched
the ceiling. It was not ventilated at all, and packed with people,
and as many of them had been in their places since 7.30, it may be
imagined that the air was pretty thick when I marched on the platform,
escorted by eight of the committee. No time was lost by the chairman in
getting to work, but he had not been speaking for two minutes before I
recognised what I was in for.
I have not the least idea what his speech was about, except that it
had nothing to do with my lecture or lecturing in the abstract. After
about ten minutes of it the audience began to signify their uneasiness
by shuffling their feet, clapping and an occasional “sit down.” The
chairman, however, held steadily on, raising his voice, as it became
necessary, to make it heard above the growing hubbub, until at last
there was a veritable pandemonium of noise, and he had to stop. But he
waited only until the noise subsided, and then cried:
“Ye can mak’ all the noise ye’re a mind to. Ah’m goin’ ta deliver ma
speech if Ah stand here a’ neet.”
Well! One would have thought Bedlam had broken loose. The uproar was
terrific. I began to wonder what _was_ going to happen. But though I
hated that chairman violently, I could not help admiring him for his
pluck and tenacity. Every one of the seven committee men begged him to
sit down, but in vain, and at last, by sheer force of will and lung
power, he did finish his speech, at 8.25. It was a fine exhibition of
pertinacity, but it did me no good, for I was in momentary dread that
the platform would be stormed, so furious had the audience become. But
it was nothing short of wonderful to see how, directly the chairman
had retired, every one settled down in perfect quiet. I could not have
wished for a better hearing. But as soon as I had finished, which I did
at ten o’clock, the hall began to empty with much noise of scuffling
and chatter. That made no sort of difference to the committee. The
chairman at some length called upon Mr. So-and-so to propose a vote
of thanks to the lecturer. Eagerly Mr. So-and-so responded, also at
some length, and when he had resumed his seat the chairman called upon
Mr. Thingumy to second the motion. More speech--I may say that owing
to the hubbub in the hall and the “hushing” of the committee, not a
word of these addresses was heard, not that it seemed to matter to the
speakers--and when the seconder had finished, the motion was put in due
form, declared carried, and I was informed that the meeting unanimously
thanked me for my address.
I merely bowed. I could not trust myself to speak, for fear of
prolonging the proceedings. By now the hall was nearly empty, but still
the dreary business went on--the chairman and lanternist had to be
thanked, and, of course, the speaker could not be expected to curtail
the speech he had waited so long to deliver. And so the long evening
wore on until at 10.45 I emerged from the building, thoroughly weary,
and feeling that I had well earned my fee. To many people I know that
what I have stated will appear incredible, but I have no interest in
stating untruths, even if I would do so, and I hope that no one will
think me capable of so doing.
One quaint experience brings a smile even now, although I doubt very
much if the chief performer saw any fun in the matter, and I am sure
I hope that he was none the worse. Everything was very nice indeed as
regards the preliminaries, and I quite fraternised with the secretary,
a charming man. But as we were waiting for the chairman he said:
“I ought to warn you, Mr. Bullen, that our chairman is inclined to be a
little long-winded. He can’t speak for nuts, but he’s the mainstay of
the society, and most generous, and as all he expects in return is that
he shall be chairman, we can’t very well refuse. But I’ll own that he’s
a bit of a trial sometimes. Still, you’ll overlook that, won’t you,
seeing matters are as I tell you?”
I readily assented, more especially when the chairman came in, and I
was introduced to him. He was a fine soldierly-looking man, of about
sixty-five, I should judge, and though he spoke little, what he did say
was full of sense and to the point. Moreover, it was easy to see that
he had the welfare of the Lecture Society very much at heart, and was
anxious above all things that it should be a success. I was greatly
taken with him, so much so, indeed, that I began to feel sure that the
secretary was pulling my leg--it seemed impossible that such a man as
the chairman seemed to be could be as foolish as the secretary’s words
implied. However, eight o’clock struck, and we went on the platform, to
the usual accompaniment of applause, to which I bowed and sat down.
The chairman then advanced to the front of the platform, and began
the most extraordinary speech to which I have ever listened. I was
petrified with astonishment, for the man seemed in some mysterious
way to have changed. He gave utterance to an incoherent jumble of
words, that made me feel dizzy with my attempts to get a clue to their
meaning. Not for long, because I soon concluded that there was no
meaning, but that left other things entirely unexplained. Evidently
the audience were well used to him, for they sat quite still as he
rambled on, obviously prepared to endure him as long as they could.
And then another fact became evident: not only could the poor man only
talk nonsense, but he could not find a place to leave off. And I began
to worry myself seriously as the hands of the clock stole round, and
still the flood of fortuitous words rolled on.
Then I noticed that the lights were being turned out. The hall was lit
by large arc lamps, in pairs, and some unseen friend was switching
them off two by two, until only two were left, and they were in
such a position that the platform was nearly dark. And suddenly the
chairman disappeared! He had fallen off the platform! And the audience
applauded frantically, as if it had been a well-rehearsed effect
most successfully performed. But, stranger still, the unseen friend
switched off the remaining lights, the lanternist flashed on the first
picture, and I plunged into my lecture. I never was listened to with
more attention, nor have I ever been more appreciated, and the end of
the lecture came with a suddenness that surprised me. But there were
no votes of thanks, for--I never saw the chairman again. Nor to this
day do I know whether his sudden descent from the platform injured him
or not, for on my return to the anteroom, fully prepared to condole
or excuse, whatever, in fact, seemed indicated, not a word was said
by the secretary about the occurrence at all. Not that there was any
awkwardness or stiffness about our intercourse, the matter simply
wasn’t mentioned, that was all. But to this day it strikes me as the
funniest as well as the most dramatic ending to a chairman’s speech I
ever heard of or experienced.
But in this case I was warned, and consequently I did not feel at
all annoyed or worried. There was an occasion, not so very long ago,
though, when I was both, because in addition to what I suffered, the
chairman had previously assured me that he knew nothing about the
business, that it was his first time of officiating, and he begged me
to tell him just what he should do. I gave him a very candid outline of
what I considered to be the duties of a chairman, and he promised me
fervently that he would follow my directions implicitly, thanking me
heartily for what he was pleased to call my kindness. So I felt very
satisfied as I whispered to my host, the pastor of the chapel, what had
happened.
It is not, therefore, easy to judge of my disgust and annoyance when
after an opening that was a model of what a chairman’s address should
be, this worthy man slid into an anecdote about his one and only
voyage, which had neither point nor wit nor moral, and took twenty-five
minutes in the telling. After which the usual wicked insult about not
standing between the audience and the lecturer because they all wanted
to hear what Mr. Bullen had to tell them. Then the miscreant sat down,
at 8.30, and I got up, boiling with indignation, and extremely hard put
to it to refrain from telling them that it was impossible for me to go
on now. Only my strong sense of justice enabled me to act upon what I
always felt to be right, a refusal to punish all the audience for the
offence of one man.
By the time the lecture was finished I had recovered my equanimity, and
was quite prepared for a long and dreary period of moving, seconding
and carrying votes of thanks. But I was not in the least prepared to
hear my host, the parson, in moving the vote of thanks, include the
chairman, and make a long eulogy of the delightful and most interesting
reminiscence they had all enjoyed from the chairman! So now they were
doubly indebted to him, not merely for presiding at that gathering, but
for giving them so dramatic, so entertaining, so perfectly charming
a description of his own experiences, and he, the parson, earnestly
trusted that he, the chairman, would favour them again at the earliest
opportunity. Of course after that the chairman could do no less than
make another long, rambling speech, in the course of which he repeated
himself six times, and I sat simmering. I had acknowledged the vote
by a bow, I could not trust myself to speak, but as soon as I got the
parson by himself I asked him point-blank what on earth he could have
meant by what he said. His reply was somewhat incoherent, but the gist
of it was that the goodwill of the chairman was important to their
little community, while I didn’t matter. They might, and probably would
never see me again, and anyhow it was of no consequence what I thought.
He put it much nicer than that, but that was the sense of it, and I
could not help acknowledging the force of his contention. So we will
leave it at that.
Here it suddenly occurs to me that some folks will suppose that because
of the few cranks I have endeavoured to sketch, my experiences of
chairmen have been almost uniformly unpleasant. Now nothing could
well be further from the truth. The chairmen whom I have had the good
fortune to meet and to appear on the platform with have been with very
few exceptions gentlemen with a perfect conception of their duties to
the audience and the lecturer, and it has fairly often fallen to my lot
to enjoy the chairman’s speech so thoroughly that I have been sorry
when he has left off. But I suppose that only throws into higher relief
the few cranks about whom I am writing. At any rate, having made my
point clear, I hope, I will give a few more instances of chairmen who
have made me wish them (or myself) elsewhere.
One gentleman in particular I remember who made me feel desperately
uncomfortable, although I am sure that his intentions were as
benevolent as he knew how to make them. He told the intent audience
such things about me as made me go hot and cold all over. If he could
have been believed, I ought never to have been sitting upon that
platform, but enstatued in gold and set upon high, clear for all men
to see and take pattern by. I was the fine flower not only of a
blameless, strenuous and overcoming life, but the quintessence of the
best of the age. Never but once have I had to listen to such encomia
upon myself, and that was at second-hand in a theological college
near Gisborne, New Zealand. A Maori student orated at me, and one of
his fellows translated. But that was not so bad, for somehow we all
understood that at least ninety per cent must be deducted for rhetoric.
This Englishman, however, speaking of me--me who sat suffering there
by his side--ransacked all his obviously great reading for tropes and
metaphors wherewith to enrich his eulogy of me, with the net result
that I never felt more exquisitely uncomfortable.
When at last he had concluded, and I stood up to address my auditors, I
began by bewailing not merely my inability to justify the praises of me
they had heard, but that of any son of Adam to do so. Yet as nothing on
earth is evil unmixed, I had derived some benefit from the exceedingly
severe trial through which I had passed, in that I had learned that it
was still in my power to blush and feel uneasy at undeserved praise.
This was well worth a little inconvenience to learn, for already I
had heard as much flattery as any ordinary person could swallow, and
had hardly turned a hair. I suppose the long years of buffeting and
contumely through which I had passed--for I was over forty years of age
before I ever got any praise for anything--had made that sweet incense
almost savourless to me when it did come. At any rate, I can safely say
that I was so toughened against it that it did me very little harm. I
never grew to look for it as my due, and feel slighted if it were not
paid.
But this chapter is growing to an inordinate length, and I must, for
the sake of appearances, commence a new one, although it will still be
upon the topic of chairmen. But I hope in the next chapter to mingle
a good deal of praise with what has perhaps appeared like censure or
at least sarcasm. It is not really, for I am fully convinced that each
of the gentlemen I have described did his level best to fulfil what he
conceived to be his duty, and it was only because he had somehow got a
wrong idea of what that duty was that he made such obvious blunders.