end of the session can one be otherwise?
CHAMBERLAIN. Is all going on there--as usual?
DIST. V. Yes...yes. I don't find being in opposition makes as much
difference as I expected, as regards work. One misses the permanent
official who always did it for one. Wonderful creatures--who first
invented them? Pitt, or was it Pepys? Oh, no, he was one of them. A
product, perhaps, of the seventeenth century.
CHAMBERLAIN. In Tudor times Prime Ministers were permanent, weren't they?
DIST. V. Their heads weren't. Executions took the place of elections in
those days. And there's something to be said for it.
CHAMBERLAIN. Yes. There was more dignity about it; it gave a testimonial
of character; the other doesn't.
DIST. V. Still, electoral defeat is very refreshing. Rejection by one's
own constituents is sometimes a blessing in disguise: it saves one from
undue familiarity.... That has never happened to you, has it?
CHAMBERLAIN. It depends what one means by--constituents. In the strict
sense--no.
(_And now there is a pause, for something has been said that is not
merely conversation. Very charmingly, and with a wonderful niceness of
tone, the Distinguished Visitor accepts the opening that has been given
him.)_
DIST. V. Chamberlain, I have been wanting to come and see you for a long
time.
CHAMBERLAIN. Thank you. So I--guessed.
DIST. V. I wrote to you--a letter which you did not answer. Perhaps it did
not seem to require an answer. But I hoped for one. So, after not hearing,
I made up my mind to come and see you.
CHAMBERLAIN. That was very kind of you.
DIST. V. No, it wasn't; it was natural. We've worked together--so long.
And I wanted to assure myself that there was, personally--that there is
now--no cloud between us; no ill-feeling about anything. If I thought that
remotely possible, I should regret it more than I can say. Speaking for
myself----
CHAMBERLAIN. If you had not thought it possible--should you have come?
DIST. V. I cannot conceive how that would have made any difference.
CHAMBERLAIN. Still, if you had not thought it possible, you would hardly
have asked the question.
DIST. V. Well, now I have asked it. Speech is an overrated means of
communication--especially between friends; but it has to serve sometimes.
And you, at least, Chamberlain, have never used it as--Talleyrand, was it
not?--recommended that it should be used--for concealment.
CHAMBERLAIN. So you think that--in words at any rate--I've been honest?
DIST. V. I should say pre-eminently.
CHAMBERLAIN. And--loyal?
DIST. V. I have never had differences--political divergences--with any man
more loyal than you, Chamberlain.
CHAMBERLAIN. Thank you. I value that--from you. So the question's
answered. On my side there is no cloud, as you tell me I have nothing with
which to reproach myself.
DIST. V. Thank you for the reassurance. In that case the heavens are
clear.
CHAMBERLAIN. I hope they are properly grateful. Such a testimonial--from
two men looking in opposite directions--is an embracing one.
DIST. V. Opposite? Oh, I had hoped--though we may not see eye to eye in
everything--that still, in the main, we were in general agreement.
CHAMBERLAIN. Possibly. I daresay "a half-sheet of note-paper" might still
cover our "general agreement," so long as we only talked about it. That
served us for--two years, did it not? But I wasn't meaning--as to our
political opinions. I meant that you are still looking to the future; I
can only look back.
DIST. V. That, for you, must be a retrospect of deep satisfaction. It has
made much history.
CHAMBERLAIN. Catastrophes make history--sometimes.
DIST. V. You helped to avert them.
CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, for a time. But another may be coming, and I shan't be
here then. And if I were, I should be no use.
DIST. V. Oh, don't say that! Nor can I agree, either. No use? Your good
word is a power we still depend on. No, Chamberlain, we cannot do without
you.
CHAMBERLAIN. You did--when you accepted my resignation.
DIST. V. For a fixed and an agreed purpose. In a way that only bound 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 partyleader. 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 be 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 be goes_). Perfectly!
(_And treating the door with the same perfection of courtesy as be
treats all with whom he comes in contact, be 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, be settles back to the inattention of life to which he
has become accustomed_.)
The Instrument
Dramatis Personae
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, lay's 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.