and puts it into the fire. Then, with rather icy politeness:)_
I am much obliged to you; and I wish you a good evening.
(_A little crestfallen, but with quiet self possession, the man accepts
the termination of the interview_.)
MAN. Good evening, sir. (_He moves to the door_.)
PARNELL. Stop!
(_The man turns as the other goes towards him, and they meet face to
face_.)
You haven't given yourself a very good character, coming here, my man; but
you might have done worse. Anyway, you've washed your hands of it now.
Don't do things like that again.
MAN. No, sir.
(_And as he stands hesitating, Parnell opens the door_.)
Thank you, sir.
(_The man goes. Parnell closes the door after him, comes meditatively
across, and sits down. There is a long pause_)
KATHARINE. What are you--thinking?
PARNELL. A year ago! ... If he had come to me with that a year ago--what
should I have done?
KATHARINE. You would have done just the same.
PARNELL. Torn it up? And put it in the fire?--I'm not so sure.
KATHARINE. But I am. Hadn't he the same right as I had, to live his own
life?
PARNELL. My dear, I said "a year ago." That means before the case came
on. That would have stopped it--for good.... If I had had it--I might have
been tempted.
(_Watching him, she sees him smile_.)
KATHARINE (_rather tremulously_). Are you glad--that you didn't have
it?
PARNELL. And use it? Yes: I am--glad!
KATHARINE (_throwing herself into his arms_). Oh, my dear! Why, that
means everything. You're glad! You're glad!
PARNELL (_clasping her_). Oh, my own love, my own dear sweet!
KATHARINE. You regret--nothing?
PARNELL. Nothing. Haven't I made you sure of that--yet?
KATHARINE. Oh, my King!--my King!
(_And just then the paper in the grate kindling into flame, he points to
it_.)
PARNELL. Look! there goes--our proof.
KATHARINE. It doesn't matter.
PARNELL. It never did.
KATHARINE. That's what I mean.
PARNELL. But, politically, it might have made a world of difference.
KATHARINE. Yes--to the world; not to us. We wanted to be as we are, didn't
we?
PARNELL. As we are, and as we were--how long is it?--eleven years ago.
There's been no change since. When I go back to my star, I shall have
found what I came for. That's what matters most. Souls either find or lose
themselves--live or die. I lived: I shouldn't have done, on this earth,
but for you--but for you.
(_There is a pause. He sits meditating_.)
KATHARINE. And of what--now?
PARNELL. The next generation--possibly the next but one: you and I gone,
and Ireland free. In this last year we may have done more for that--than
we could ever have planned. We've given them a bone to bite on: and
there's meat on it--real meat. And because of that, they call you my ruin,
eh? I look rather like one, I suppose, just now. But as I came home
to-night, all my mind was filled with you; and I knew that to me you were
worth far more than all the rest. And then suddenly I thought--what am I
worth to you?
KATHARINE. This--that if now you told me to go--because it was for your
good--I'd go--glad--yes glad that you'd made me do for you, at last,
something that was hard to do--for the first time, dearest, for the first
time!
PARNELL (_deeply moved_). That so? Not an accident, then, eh?
KATHARINE (_embracing him_). Oh, my dear, my dear, my dear!
PARNELL. How true to life love makes everything!--so clear and straight--
looking back now. Through you I've learned this truth at any rate--that
there are two things about which a man must never compromise--first his
own soul, the right to be himself--no matter what others may think or do.
KATHARINE. And the other?
PARNELL. His instinct, of trust or distrust, in the character of others. I
hadn't any real doubt, but I compromised with instinct to gain my end: did
things I didn't believe were any good--accepted the word of men I didn't
trust. Home Rule itself was a compromise that I made myself accept. But I
never really believed in it. For you can't limit the liberty of a nation,
if it's really alive. Then came the smash--that woke me. And that I was
awake at last our love came to be the proof...Something different has got
to be now. Ireland will have to become more real--more herself, more of a
rebel than ever she has been yet. If, thirty years hence, my failure shall
have helped to bring that about--an Ireland really free--then I've won....
(_The words come quietly, confidently; but it is the voice of an
exhausted man, whose physical resources are nearly at an end. For a long
time he sits quite still, holding his wife's hand, saying nothing, for he
has nothing more to say. A high screen behind the couch on which they rest
cuts off the gaslight; only the firelight plays fitfully upon the two
faces. Suddenly the brightness falls away, and over that foreshadowing of
death, now only three days distant, the scene closes_.)
The Man of Business
Dramatis Personae
JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN (_Ex-Minister_)
JESSE COLLINGS (_His Friend_)
A DISTINGUISHED VISITOR
A NURSE
The Man of Business
SCENE: _Highbury. August_ 1913.
_Between double-doors, opening from living-room to conservatory, sits
the shadow of the once great and powerful Minister, State Secretary for
the Colonies. To the dark, sombre tones of the heavily furnished chamber
the gorgeous colours of the orchids, hanging in trails and festoons under
their luminous dome of glass, offer a vivid contrast. Yet even greater is
that which they present to the drawn and haggard features of the
catastrophically aged man whose public career is now over. In wheeled
chair, with lower limbs wrapped in a shawl and supported by a foot-rest,
he sits bent and almost motionless; and when he moves head or hand, it is
head or hand only, and the motion is slow, painful, and hesitating, as
though mind functioned on body with difficulty, uncertain of its ground.
Nevertheless, when the door opens, and the small squat figure of a very
old and dear friend advances towards him, his face lights instantly. With
tender reverence and affection the newcomer takes hold of his hand, lifts,
presses it, lays it back again. And when he has seated himself, the Shadow
speaks_.
CHAMBERLAIN. Well, Collings? Well?
JESSE COLLINGS. Well, my dear Chamberlain, how are you? I'm a little late,
I'm afraid.
CHAMBERLAIN. I hadn't noticed. Time doesn't matter to me now.
JESSE COLLINGS. No; but I like to be punctual. It's my nature.
CHAMBERLAIN. Habit...Habit and nature are different things, Collings. I've
been finding that out.
(_At this, for a diversion, Collings, readjusting his pince-nez, tilts
his head bird-like, and takes a genial look at his friend_)
JESSE COLLINGS. Joe, you are looking better to-day.
CHAMBERLAIN. Well, even looks are not to be despised, I suppose, when one
has nothing else left.
JESSE COLLINGS. Come, come!
CHAMBERLAIN. Yes?
JESSE COLLINGS. Nothing else left, indeed! Don't--don't be so _down_,
Chamberlain.
CHAMBERLAIN. Dear old friend!... Just now you called me "Joe." You don't
often do that. Why did you?
JESSE COLLINGS. A reversion to old habits, I suppose. One does as one gets
older.
CHAMBERLAIN. Yes.
JESSE COLLINGS (_genially making conversation, which he sees to be
advisable_). I was reading only the other day that, as we get on in
years and begin to forget other things, our childhood comes back to us.
CHAMBERLAIN. Yes?
JESSE COLLINGS. Now I wonder if that's true?
CHAMBERLAIN. I wonder.
JESSE COLLINGS. Mine hasn't begun to come back to me.
CHAMBERLAIN. You aren't old yet.
JESSE COLLINGS. I'm over eighty.
CHAMBERLAIN. Good for another twenty years. And once you were my senior.
We weren't quite boys together, Collings; but we've been good friends.
JESSE COLLINGS. Thank God for that!--Joe.
CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, I do. More now than I used to.
JESSE COLLINGS. All the same, you haven't so much cause to thank Him as we
have.
CHAMBERLAIN. No?
(_The listless monotone makes the little old man fear that he is not
succeeding_.)
JESSE COLLINGS. Is my talk tiring you?
CHAMBERLAIN. Not at all.... Please go on!
JESSE COLLINGS. I only want to say what I said just now: Don't be down,
dear friend. Your record will stand the test better than that of others.
Your work is still going on; it hasn't finished just because you are--laid
up.
CHAMBERLAIN. "Laid up" is a kind way of putting it, Collins.
JESSE COLLINGS. Why, I needn't even have said that; when here--it's
_sitting_ up I find you.
CHAMBERLAIN. Sitting _out_.
JESSE COLLINGS. Well, "sitting out," if you like, for the time being. But
do you imagine that this phrase or that phrase (true for the moment)
states the case, counts, is worth troubling about?
CHAMBERLAIN. Do I imagine? No, I don't. I don't imagine anything. I was
never a man of imagination.
JESSE COLLINGS. You are, when you say that!
CHAMBERLAIN. No, Collings. When I've done anything, it has been because
I've had it in my hands to do.... My hands are empty now. Some men manage
to think with their heads only; others do it--with their stomachs you
might almost say. I've never been able to think properly unless I had hold
of things--had them here in my hands.... Look at them, now! (_With a
slow, faint gesture he indicates their helplessness; then continues:_)
I was the man of business,... and now, I'm out of business; so I can't
think.
JESSE COLLINGS. But that business, as you call it, Chamberlain, which you
made so many of us understand for the first time--I was a "Little
Englander" myself, once--that's still going on.
CHAMBERLAIN (_bitterly_). Yes, it's a fine business!
JESSE COLLINGS (_startled)._ Don't you still believe in it?
CHAMBERLAIN. As a business? Yes. But it's going to fail all the same.
There's nobody to run it now.
JESSE COLLINGS. We mean to run it, Chamberlain! You'll see!
CHAMBERLAIN. I know you do, Collings. You are loyalty itself.
JESSE COLLINGS. There are others too. I'm not the only one.
CHAMBERLAIN. You are the best of them.
JESSE COLLINGS. No, I won't admit that.
CHAMBERLAIN. Name?
JESSE COLLINGS. The best? Probably some one we don't yet even know. The
best are still to come. Time's with us.
CHAMBERLAIN. Is it?
JESSE COLLINGS. Don't you think so yourself?
CHAMBERLAIN. Not now. I did once.
JESSE COLLINGS. You always said so.
CHAMBERLAIN. I said it as long as I believed it: till the stars in their
courses turned against me. That broke me, Collings. If I could have gone
on having faith in myself, I shouldn't be--as I am now.
JESSE COLLINGS. But what--what made you lose it?
CHAMBERLAIN. Can't you guess?
(_Collings shakes his head, remains valiantly incredulous; and there is
a pause_.)
I saw somebody else--whose cards weren't so good--playing with a better
hand. It was the hand beat me. My head's all right still, though it
sleeps. But I've lost my hand. Look at it! (_Again the gesture
illustrative of defeat_.) Threw it away. You know who I mean?
JESSE COLLINGS (_cautiously, _rather reluctantly_). I suppose I do.
CHAMBERLAIN (_watching to see the effect of his news_).
He's coming to-day: to see me.
COLLINGS (_surprised_). Coming here?
CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, it's all been nicely arranged--just a call in passing.
To-morrow's papers will describe it as "a pathetic meeting." Well, when a
man has to meet his executioner on friendly terms, I suppose it is
"pathetic" for one of them.
(_All this is very disconcerting to poor Collings. He helps himself to a
half-sentence, and stops._)
JESSE COLLINGS. Did he himself----?
CHAMBERLAIN. Propose it? Oh, yes--in the most charming way possible. Isn't
it amazing how a man with charm can do things that nobody else dare? I
never managed to charm anybody.
JESSE COLLINGS. You made friends--and kept them.
CHAMBERLAIN. So does he. He has been successful all round: art, politics,
letters, society--he has friends in all. I've only been successful in
business.
JESSE COLLINGS. My dear friend, aren't you forgetting yourself? You came
_out_ of business.
CHAMBERLAIN. No, I only changed to business on a larger scale--carried it
on under a bigger name. That's how I found myself. I had to make things
into a business in order to make a success of them. That was my method,
Collings: glorify it as much as you like. And up to a point it was good
business, I don't deny. That's how we ran local politics, invented the
Caucus: Corporation Street is the result. That's how we managed to run
Unionism: made a hard and fast contract of it, and made them stick to it.
That's how I ran the Colonies--and the Boer War. That's how I was going to
run the Empire on a Preferential Tariff. That came just too late. I'd made
a mistake.
JESSE COLLINGS. What mistake?
CHAMBERLAIN. Collings, the Boer War wasn't good business. It might have
been; but it lasted too long. Any modern war that isn't over in six months
now is a blunder, you'll find. They were able to hold out too long. That
did for me. There have been bees in my bonnet ever since--all because of
it. Boers first; then Bannerman; then--Balfour. Just once my business
instinct betrayed me, and I was done!
JESSE COLLINGS. But--wasn't the war necessary?
CHAMBERLAIN. To put the "business" on a sound footing? Yes, I thought so;
it looked like it. No, it wasn't! But before I quite knew, there'd come a
point where we couldn't go back; and so we just had to go on--and on.
D'you know what was the cleverest thing said or done during that war?...
You'd never guess ... but it's true. Campbell-Bannerman's "methods of
barbarism" speech. We downed him for it at the time, but it caught on--it
stuck. And it was on the strength of it (with C.-B. as their hope for the
future) that the Boers were persuaded to make peace: saved our face for
us. They might have gone on, till we got sick of it, and the world too.
JESSE COLLINGS. I don't--I can't think you are right, Chamberlain. You are
forgetting things.
CHAMBERLAIN. No--I've had difficulty about thinking so myself; but, it has
come to me.
(_And so he sits and meditates over the point in his career where as a
business man he first jailed. Presently he resumes_:)
When two men, whose qualifications I used rather to despise, beat me at
business, Collings--it was a facer!
JESSE COLLINGS. Bannerman; and--the other?
CHAMBERLAIN. Comes to see me to-day. But it won't be a business meeting.
He'll not say anything about it--if he can help.
JESSE COLLINGS. And you?
CHAMBERLAIN. Perhaps I shall succumb to his charm. I've done so before
now.
JESSE COLLINGS. Have you and he--had words ever?
CHAMBERLAIN. Differences of opinion, of course. "Words"? How should we? He
was always so wonderfully accommodating, so polite, so apologetic even.
Nobody ever had a finer contempt for his party than he--not even old
Dizzy, or Salisbury, or Churchill. So he could always say the handsome
thing to one--behind its back--even when he was making burnt-offerings to
its prejudices.
JESSE COLLINGS. And when you left him?
CHAMBERLAIN. When I left him he did the thing beautifully. So genuinely
sorry to lose me; so sure of having me with him again, before long. How
could I have gone out and worked against him after that? But it's what--as
a business politician--I ought to have done.
JESSE COLLINGS. If you had--should we have won, straight away?
CHAMBERLAIN. We should have won the party, and the party-machine too. For
the rest it wouldn't have mattered waiting a year or two. Yes, we should
have won. But here's this, Collings: we should have won then; we shan't
win now. Times are changing: the time for it is over. Something else is
coming along--what, I don't know. My old fox-scent has gone: wind's
against me. The Colonies are growing up too fast. They won't separate, but
they mean to stand on their own feet all the same: in their own way--not
mine. We ought to have got them when they were a bit younger: we could
have done it then. Once it flattered them to be called "Dominions "; now
they are going to be "Sovereign States." And he--he doesn't mind. He is
never for big constructive ideas--only for contrivances: takes things as
they come, makes the best of them--philosophically--and gets round them;
and sometimes does it brilliantly.
JESSE COLLINGS. What will he talk about?
CHAMBERLAIN. Anything that comes into his head: the weather, the garden,
the greenhouses, the theatres. He'll tell me, perhaps, of a book or two
that I ought to read, that he hasn't had time for. He'll say, as you said,
that I'm looking better than he expected. He'll say something handsome
about Austen--quite genuinely meaning it. Then he'll say he's afraid of
tiring me; then he'll go.... Have you noticed how he shakes hands? He
hasn't much of a hand--not a real hand--but he does it, like everything
else, charmingly.
JESSE COLLINGS (_a little crestfallen_). I thought you really liked
him.
CHAMBERLAIN. So I do. Because he has beaten me, is that any reason for
hating him? If it were--after a lifetime of polls and politics, one would
have to be at hate with half the world. No, from his point of view he had
to beat me, and he has done it. What I stick at is that he has proved the
better business man! As I used head and hand--and heart (_and_ heart,
Collings!)--
JESSE COLLINGS. Yes, yes, I know you did.
CHAMBERLAIN. Some people thought I hadn't a heart: "hard as nails" they
called me.... Well, as I used those, so he used his defeats, his doubts,
his indecision, his charm--and left his heart out. That was the real
business-stroke. That did for me.... I liked him: he knew it. Whether he
ever liked me, to this day, I don't know--for certain. If he did, it made
no difference. That's what I call business.
JESSE COLLINGS (_warmly_). But you've always been honourable.
CHAMBERLAIN. So has he. Don't be sentimental, Collings! But some men
manage in public life to give you a certain view of their character: so
that you count on it. And then, on occasion, they play another--and get
wonderful results. If I'd had that gift, I should have used it and done
better. He has used it, and he has done better. I don't whine about it.
But I'd rather, Collings (I suppose I'm prejudiced), I'd rather he hadn't
asked himself here--just now: not just now.
(_There is a pause, and Collings feels that he must say something; but
finding nothing of any value to say, he merely commentates with a
query_.)
JESSE COLLINGS. What has "just now" to do with it?
CHAMBERLAIN. "Just now," dear Collings, only means the next few months or
so--possibly a year. That's all. I had rather he'd waited, and then just
sent a wreath with the right sort of inscription on it. He could have done
that charmingly too. And I haven't got wreaths here for _him_, for I
don't think that even a posy of these would really interest him.
(_And with a weary gesture he points to the orchids, as though they were
things of which, not impossibly, "posies" might be made_.)
JESSE COLLINGS (_a little perplexed by this introduction of wreaths and
flowers into political affairs_). What does really interest him? He's
so interesting himself.
CHAMBERLAIN. You've hit it, Collings. It's himself. Not selfishly. He
stands for so many things that he values--that he thinks good for the
world--necessary for the stability of the social order. He is their
embodiment: he is the most emblematic figure in the modern world that I
know--in this country, at any rate--representing so much that is good in
the great traditions which have got to go. And to stave off that day he
will do almost anything. He would even--if he thought it would enable him
the better to prick some of his bubbles--he would even take office under
Lloyd George.
(_At this point, unobtrusively, a Nurse enters and stands waiting_.)
JESSE COLLINGS. I don't think we shall live to see that!
CHAMBERLAIN. I shall not; you may.
JESSE COLLINGS (_impulsively_). Chamberlain, I don't want to live
after you!
CHAMBERLAIN (_cajolingly_). Oh, yes, you do! Anyway--I want you to.
You will send me a wreath that will be worth having.
(_Whereat his quaint little companion leans forward, and, putting his
two hands pleadingly on the swathed knees, wants to speak but cannot.
Slowly the sick man lets down his own and covers them. And so, hand
resting on hand, he continues speaking:_)
Say what you like about the business man--the man who failed: he has known
how to make friends--good ones. And you, Jesse Collings, have been one of
the best: I couldn't have had a better. There's someone been waiting
behind you to give you a hint that you are tiring me--staying too long.
But you haven't: you never have. Perhaps, in the future, I shan't see
enough of you; perhaps, from now on, my doctor will have to measure even
my friends for me: three a day before meals. But I shall get life in bits
still--as long as you are allowed to come. Yes, Nurse, you make take him
away now!
(_Jesse Collings rises, and stands by his friend with moist eyes_.)
JESSE COLLINGS. Good-bye, my dear Joe, and--God bless you.
CHAMBERLAIN. Yes ... good-bye!
(_Hands press and part, and Jesse Callings tip-toes meekly out,
apologising for the length of his stay by the softness of his going.
Chamberlain's head drops, his face becomes more drawn, his hands more
rigid and helpless. Without a word, his Nurse arranges his pillows,
preparing him for the sleep to which his unresisting body gradually
succumbs._)
* * * * *
(_Two hours later he is awake again, and the Nurse is removing a tray
from which he has just taken some nourishment. He lifts his head and looks
at her. At this sign that he is about to speak, she pauses. Presently the
words come._)
CHAMBERLAIN. Is he in there, waiting to see me?
NURSE. Yes, sir.
CHAMBERLAIN. Ask him to come in.
NURSE. You want to see him alone, sir? (_There is a pause._)
CHAMBERLAIN. I think only one at a time is enough--better for me: don't
you?
NURSE. It would be less tiring for you, sir.
CHAMBERLAIN. Yes. Ask him to come in.
(_So that being settled, she goes, and he sits waiting. The afternoon
sunlight is making the orchids look more resplendently themselves than
ever. So still, so vivid, so alive, they hang their snake-like heads in
long pendulous clusters; and among them all there is not a single one
which shows the slightest sign of falling-off or decay. Presently the door
is softly opened, and the Nurse, entering only to retire again, ushers in
the Distinguished Visitor, whose brow, venerable with intellect, and grey
with the approach of age, crowns a figure still almost youthful in its
elasticity and grace, and perfect in the deliberate ease and deportment of
its entry into a situation which many would find difficult. As he
approaches the wheeled chair, the kindness, modesty, and distinction of
his bearing prepare the way before him, and his silence has already said
the nicest of nice things, in the nicest possible way, before he actually
speaks. This he does not do till he has already taken and held the hand
which the other has tried to offer_.)
DISTINGUISHED VISITOR. My dear Chamberlain, how very good of you to let me
come?
CHAMBERLAIN. Not too much out of your way, I hope?
DIST. V. On the contrary, I could wish it were more, if that might help to
express my pleasure in seeing you again.
CHAMBERLAIN. Well, what there is of me, you see. You are looking well.
DIST. V. And you--much better than I expected.
CHAMBERLAIN. Did you expect anything?
DIST. V. I was told that you had bad days occasionally, and were unable to
see anybody. I hope I am fortunate, and that this is one of your good
ones?
CHAMBERLAIN. Well, as they've let you see me, I suppose so. I don't find
much difference between my good and bad days. (Won't you sit down?) I'm
still in the possession of my faculties; I sleep well, and I don't have
pain.
DIST. V. (_seating himself_). And my staying with you for a little is
not going to tire you?
CHAMBERLAIN. It's far more likely to tire you, I'm afraid.
DIST. V. No, indeed not! Apart from anything else it is a welcome respite
on the journey. Motoring bores me terribly.
CHAMBERLAIN. Then you had really meant coming this way, in any case?
DIST. V. I had been long intending to; and when, last week, Hewell
proposed itself, all fitted together perfectly.
CHAMBERLAIN. Are they having a house-party?
DIST. v. I think not: I trust not. No, I believe a hint was dropped to
them that it wasn't to be--that I was feeling far too stale for any such
mental relaxation.
CHAMBERLAIN. Are you? You don't look like it.