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diff --git a/78736-0.txt b/78736-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a0c8477 --- /dev/null +++ b/78736-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2544 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78736 *** + + + + + Dethronements + + + + + + + [Illustration] Of this edition of _Dethronements_ + have been printed 750 numbered Copies only + for sale. + + [Illustration] Copy Number 349 + + + + + Dethronements + + Imaginary Portraits of Political + Characters, done in Dialogue + + Laurence Housman + _Author of “Angels & Ministers”_ + + [Illustration: colophon] + + + Jonathan Cape + Eleven Gower Street, London + + + + + _First published 1922 + All rights reserved_ + + + + + Preface + + +The written dialogue, as interpretative of character, is but a form +of portraiture, no more personally identified with its subject than +drawing or painting; nor can it claim to have more verisimilitude +until it finds embodiment on the stage. Why then, in this country +at any rate, is its application to living persons only considered +legitimate when associated with caricature? So sponsored, in the +pages of _Punch_ and the composition of Mr. Max Beerbohm, it +has become an accepted convention too habitual for remark. Yet +caricature and verbal parody may be as critical both of personality +and character as dialogue more seriously designed, and may have as +important an influence not merely upon a public opinion, but upon its +moral judgment as well. + +The defection of _Punch_ was felt by Gladstone to be a serious +set-back to the fortunes of his Home Rule policy; and Tenniel’s +cartoon of “the Grand old Janus,” saying “Quite right!” to the police +who were bludgeoning an English mob, and “Quite wrong!” to the police +who were bludgeoning an Irish one, was a personal jibe which hit him +hard. + +The customary device, where contemporaries are concerned, of +disembowelling the victim’s name, and leaving it a skeleton of +consonants, is a formal concession which in effect concedes nothing. +Nor is there any reason why it should; for the only valid objection +to the medium of dialogue is in cases where its form might mislead +the reader into mistaking fiction for fact, and the author’s +invention for the _ipsissima verba_ of the characters he portrays. I +hope that this book will attract no readers so unintelligent. Having +chosen dialogue for these studies of historical events because I find +in it a natural and direct means to the interpretation of character, +my main scruple is satisfied when I have made it plain that they have +no more authenticity because they happen to be written in dramatic +form, than they would have were they written as political essays. +These are imaginary conversations which never actually took place; +and though I think they have a nearer relation to the minds of the +supposed speakers than have King’s speeches to the person who utters +them, they must merely be taken as a personal reading of characters +and events, tributes to men for all of whom I have, in one way or +another, a very great respect and admiration; and not least for the +one whom, with a reticence that is symbolical of the part he played +in the downfall of “The Man of Business,” I have here left nameless. + + + + + Contents + + + PAGE + + THE KING-MAKER 13 + (Brighton--October, 1891) + + THE MAN OF BUSINESS 35 + (Highbury--August, 1913) + + THE INSTRUMENT 71 + (Washington--March, 1921) + + + + + The King-maker + + + + + Note + + +Readers of this dialogue may need to be reminded, for clearer +understanding, of the following sequence of events. On November +15th, 1890, a _decree nisi_ was pronounced in the undefended divorce +suit O’Shea _v._ O’Shea and Parnell. On November 24th, Gladstone, +in a letter to John Morley, stated that Parnell’s retention of the +Irish leadership would be fatal to his own continued advocacy of +the Irish cause. In December, the majority of the Irish Party threw +over Parnell in order to placate the “Nonconformist conscience,” +and retain the co-operation of the Liberal Party under Gladstone’s +leadership. During the months following, Parnell and his adherents +suffered a series of defeats at by-elections in Ireland. In June +1891, immediately on the _decree nisi_ being made absolute, Parnell +married Katharine O’Shea. On October 6th he died. + + + + + Dramatis Personæ. + + + CHARLES STEWART PARNELL + (_Dethroned “King” of Ireland_). + + KATHARINE PARNELL + (_His wife: divorced wife of + Captain O’Shea_). + + A MAN (_Ex-valet to Captain O’Shea_). + + A SERVANT. + + + + + The King-maker + + + _Brighton. October 1891._ + + _In a comfortably furnished sitting-room, with windows + looking upon the sea-parade, a Woman of distinguished + beauty sits reading beside the fire, so intently + occupied that she pays no heed to the entry of the + Servant, who unobtrusively lights the gas, draws down + the blinds, and closes the curtains. Then taking up + a tea-tray, served for two, she retires, and the + reader is left alone. But not for long. The slam of + the street-door causes an attention which the coming + and going of the Servant has failed to arouse; and + now, as the door opens, the brightened interest of + her face tells that, without seeing, she knows who is + there. Quietly, almost furtively, she lets fall the + paper she has been reading, and turns to her husband + eyes of serene welcome, meeting confidently the sharp + interrogation of his glance._ + +PARNELL. What are you doing? + +KATHARINE. I was reading. + +PARNELL. Yes? What? + +KATHARINE. Those papers you just brought in. + +PARNELL. And I told you not to. + +KATHARINE (_smiling_). I was wilful and disobeyed. + +PARNELL (_picking up the paper, and looking at it with contemptuous +disgust_). Why did you? + +KATHARINE. Isn’t “wilful” a sufficient answer, my dear? + + (_And with a covert look of amusement she watches him tear + and throw the paper into the fire._) + +Why do you try to make me a coward? You aren’t one yourself. + +PARNELL. That gutter-stuff! (_And the second paper joins its fellow +in the flames._) + +KATHARINE. Now wasn’t that just a bit unnecessary? After all, they +are helping to make history. That is public opinion--the voice of the +people, you know. + +PARNELL. Not _our_ people! + +KATHARINE. Oh? Have you brought back any better news--from there? + +PARNELL. Nothing special. The result of the election was out. + +KATHARINE. You didn’t wire it. How much were we to the bad? + +PARNELL. A few hundred. What does more or less matter? It’s--it’s the +priests who are winning now. + +KATHARINE. With divided congregations as the result. + +PARNELL. Yes. But I’d rather they won than the politicians. They are +honest, at any rate. Poor fools! + +KATHARINE. So it’s the real country we are seeing now? + +PARNELL. Yes. That’s the material I’ve had to work with! + +KATHARINE. Wonderful--considering. + +PARNELL. And now--now one gets to the root! But I always knew it. + +KATHARINE. So you are not disappointed? + +PARNELL. No; only defeated. Yet I did think once that I was going to +win. + +KATHARINE. So you will. + +PARNELL. When I’m dead, no doubt ... some day. You can’t fight for a +winning cause, and not know that. + +KATHARINE. But you are not going to die yet, dearest. + +PARNELL (_with a deep sigh of dejection_). Oh! Wifie, I’m so tired, +so tired! + +KATHARINE. Well, who has a better right? Be tired, my dear! Give +yourself up to it: let everything else go, and just rest! You _are_ +tired out. That’s what I’ve been telling you. + +PARNELL. Too much to do yet. Even dying would take more time than I +can spare just now. + +KATHARINE. But you must spare time to live, my dear--if you really +wish to. + +PARNELL. Wish? I never wished it more--for now I _am_ living. I’m +awake. Doubts are over. + +KATHARINE. King ... look at me! Don’t take your eyes away, till I’ve +done.... One of those papers said (what others have been saying) that +it was I ... I ... need I go on? + +PARNELL (_with grim tenderness_). Till you’ve done: you said.... + +KATHARINE. I--that have ruined you. + +PARNELL. That’s just what they would say, of course. It’s so easy: +and pleases--so many. + +KATHARINE. All the same--by mere accident--mayn’t it be true? It +_has_ happened, you know, sometimes, that love and politics haven’t +quite gone together. + +PARNELL. Love and politics never do. Do you think I’ve loved any of +my party-followers: that any of them have loved me? + +KATHARINE. Doesn’t--O’Kelly? + +PARNELL. He’s gone now--with the rest. + +KATHARINE. Didn’t Mr. Biggar? + +PARNELL. Dead.... No. + +KATHARINE. Still, you love--Ireland. + +PARNELL. Not as she is to-day--so narrow and jealous, so stupid, so +blind! Has she anything alive in her now worth saving? That Ireland +has got to die; and, though it doesn’t sound like it, this is the +death-rattle beginning. Ireland is going to fail, and deserves to +fail. But another Ireland won’t fail. She’s learning her lesson--or +_will_ learn it, in the grave. Something like this was bound to come; +but if it were to come again twenty years on, it wouldn’t count. +She’d know better. + +KATHARINE. Twenty years! We shall be an old couple by then. + +PARNELL. In the life of a nation twenty years is nothing. No. Ireland +was shaped for failure: she has it in her. It had got to come out. +Subjection, oppression, starvation, haven’t taught her enough: she +must face betrayal too, of the most mischievous kind--the betrayal of +well-meaning fools. After that, paralysis, loss of confidence, loss +of will, loss of faith--in false leaders. Then she’ll begin to learn. + +KATHARINE. Do you mean that everything _has_ failed now? + +PARNELL. Yes; if _I_ fail. I’m not thinking of myself as +indispensable: it’s the principle. That’s what I’ve been trying to +make them understand. But they won’t, they won’t! Independence, +defiance--they don’t see it as a principle, only as an expedient. +They may make it a cry, they may feel it as their right; but when to +insist on it looks like losing a point in the game--then they give +up the principle, to become parasites! That’s what is happening now. +It’s the slave in the blood coming out--the crisis of the disease. +That’s why I’m fighting it: and will, to the death! And when--when +we are dead--some day: she’ll come to her senses again--and see! +Then--this will have helped. + +KATHARINE. But will it? + +PARNELL. Why? Don’t you believe that Ireland will be free some day? + +KATHARINE. I did when she chose you for her leader. + +PARNELL (_bitterly_). A dead leader, one whom she can’t hurt, may do +better for her. + +KATHARINE. Don’t say “dead”! + +PARNELL. I shan’t be alive in twenty years, my dear. And it may take +all that. + +KATHARINE. Without you it will take more. + +PARNELL. It won’t be “without me.” That’s what I mean. They may +beat me to-day; but I shall still count. Think of all Ireland’s +failures! Grattan’s Parliament counts; “Ninety-eight” counts; +Fitzgerald counts; O’Connell counts; her famines, her emigrations, +her rebellions--all count. + +KATHARINE. Does Butt count? + +PARNELL. He wasn’t a failure: he didn’t try to do anything. If +Ireland needs more failures, to make a case for her conviction, shall +I grudge mine? Yes, all her failures count: they get into the blood! +Why, even the silly statues in her streets mean more than statues can +mean here. Prosperity forgets; adversity remembers. Even hatred has +its use: it grips, and drives men on. + +KATHARINE. Did you need--hatred, to do that for you? + +PARNELL. Yes: till I got love!... Reason, conviction aren’t enough. +Morley said a good thing the other day. The English, he said, meant +well by Ireland: but they didn’t mean it much. + +KATHARINE. I suppose that’s true of some? + +PARNELL. Quite true: and what is the most that it amounts to? +Compromise. Morley’s an authority on compromise. And yet I like him: +I get on with him. But he’s too thick with Gladstone to be honest +over this. Curious _his_ having to back the conventions, eh? + +KATHARINE. Why does he? + +PARNELL. Because the political salvation of his party and its leader +comes before Ireland. He means well by her: but he doesn’t mean it so +much as all that. Still he’s the only one of them who doesn’t pretend +to look on me as a black sheep. He too has to work with his material. +That’s politics. The Nonconformist conscience means votes--so it +decides him: just as the priests decide me.... They would decide him +in any case, I mean. And so--so it goes on.... “Look here upon this +picture, and on this”: Ireland trying to please England; England +trying, now and then, to please Ireland! I don’t know which is the +more ludicrous; but I know that both equally must fail. And they’ve +got to see it!--and some day they will. It won’t be “Home Rule” +then.... + + (_So for a while he sits and thinks, his hand in hers. Then + he resumes._) + +My ruin? What would my ruin matter anyway? Put it, that the making +public of our claim--our right to each other--is to be allowed by +any possibility to affect the cause of a nation--the justice of that +cause: doesn’t that fact, if true, show that the whole basis of the +political principles they have so boasted, and on which we have so +blindly relied, was utterly and fantastically false and rotten? +Haven’t we, providentially, given the world the proof that it needed +of its own lie? + +KATHARINE. We didn’t give it, my dear. + +PARNELL. Well, their proof has satisfied them, anyhow: as they +are acting on it. Oh! When I see what poor, weak things nations +really are--so inadequately equipped for the shaping of their +own destinies--I wonder whether in truth the history we read +is not the wrong history--mere side history, to which a false +significance has been given, because so much blood and treasure +have been expended on it, which just a little expenditure of common +sense might have spared.... Think of all the silly accidents and +blunders, in Ireland’s great chapter of accidents, which have +counted for so much--even in these last few years!... The Phœnix +Park business--an assassination, for which perhaps only a dozen men +were responsible--and at once, for that one act, more suppression +and hatred and coercion are directed against a whole nation: Crimes +Acts, packed juries, judges without juries, arrests without charge, +imprisonments without trial. So logical, isn’t it? What a means for +putting a foreign Government right in the eyes of the people who deny +its moral authority!... And then--Pigott, that shallow fraud, driven +to suicide by those who were at first so eager to believe him: and +the exposure of his silly forgery turns elections, makes Home Rule +popular! Coming by such means, would it be worth it?... Gladstone, +honourably hoodwinking himself all those years, accepting you as +our secret go-between--and you making no pretence, my dear! Oh, I +suppose it was the right and gentlemanly thing for him to pretend +not to know. It was also, it seems, good politics. Chamberlain knew +too--must have known; for Chamberlain’s no fool; and yet to his +friend, the deceived husband, said nothing! It wasn’t politics; not +then. Now--now it’s the great stroke, and Home Rule goes down under +it.... Is that history, or is it “Alice in Wonderland”?... If you +are my ruin now, you were also my ruin then, when you were helping +me to think that I could win justice for a nation from politicians +like these: win it by any means except by beating them, bringing them +to their knees, making them red with the blood of a people always in +revolt, till their reputation stinks to the whole world! And when +they do at last climb down and accept the inevitable, then their main +thought will be only how to save their own face--and make it look a +little less like the defeat they know it to be! + +KATHARINE. My dear, you are so tired. Do rest! + +PARNELL. I _am_ resting: for now--thanks to you--I have got at the +truth! Political history is a thing made up of accidents; but not +so the fate of men or of nations whose will is set to be free. No +accident there! That you were tied to a man you wouldn’t live with, +who wouldn’t live with you--was an accident. But our love was no +accident; it was waiting for us before we knew anything. You and I +had each a star which shone at the other’s birth. + +KATHARINE. Your star was mine, dearest. I hadn’t one of my own. + +PARNELL. Well, if nations wish to be fooled, let them go to the devil +their own way, not laying the blame of their own folly on others! But +having got _you_--would I ever have let you go for any power under +Heaven? Why (as soon as you were free) did I marry you? I knew that, +politically, it was a blunder: that over there it would go against +us--prove the case. Half Ireland cared nothing for the verdict of an +English jury. But when we married, they had to believe it then.... +Well, I wanted them to believe it. I know my love would have waited, +had I asked her. And it wasn’t--it wasn’t honour, my dear; it was +much more pride: for I am a proud man, that I own: and not less since +I have won you. + +KATHARINE. If you hadn’t been proud, dearest, you would never have +got my love. + +PARNELL. Oh, yes, I should. Those who love, don’t love for qualities +good or bad. They love them in the person they love--that’s all. You +have qualities which I didn’t care about till I found them in you. +To love is to see life--new! + +KATHARINE. And whole. Some day--alone by ourselves--we will! + +PARNELL. Don’t we already? + +KATHARINE. Yes, if only--these other things didn’t interfere. But I +promised; so they must. + +PARNELL. My dear, when they have quite broken me--they will in +time--then I’ll come. + +KATHARINE. You promise to go right away? + +PARNELL. I promise, sweetheart. + + (_Moving toward each other they are about to embrace, when + the door opens, and the Servant enters carrying a card + upon a tray._) + +SERVANT. If you please, sir. + + (_Parnell takes the card; there is a pause while he looks + at the name._) + +PARNELL. Will you say I am engaged. + + (_The Servant goes. Parnell hands the card to his wife._) + +I don’t know the man. Do you? + +KATHARINE. No. And yet I seem to remember. Yes; Willie had a +man-servant of that name. + + (_The Servant returns, bearing a folded note upon her + tray._) + +SERVANT. If you please, sir, I was to give you this. + +PARNELL (_having read the note_). Is the man still there? + +SERVANT. Yes, sir. + + (_There is a pause._) + +PARNELL. Show him in. + + (_As the Servant goes he hands the note to Katharine, and + watches while she reads it._) + +So--you remember him? + +KATHARINE. Only the name.... I may have seen him, now and then. + + (_And then enters a smooth-shaven man, sprucely dressed, + with the irreproachable manners of a well-trained + servant. First, with a murmured apology, he bows to + the lady; then, having respectfully waited till the + silence becomes marked, says_:) + +MAN. Good evening, sir. + +PARNELL (_glancing again at the note_). You are a valet? + +MAN. Yes, sir. + +PARNELL. Are you wanting a place? + +MAN. No, sir. I have a place. + +PARNELL. Well? + +MAN. That gentleman, sir--my last employer, dismissed me without a +character. + + (_His reference is to the note which Parnell still holds + open in his hand._) + +PARNELL. Well? + +MAN. That’s all, sir. + +PARNELL. Then what have you come here for? + +MAN. To give you this, sir. + + (_He draws out and presents a letter, rather soiled by + keeping, which has already been opened. There is a + pause, while Parnell looks first at the address, then + runs his eye over the contents._) + +PARNELL. May I show it to--this lady? + +MAN. Oh, yes, sir. + +PARNELL. Whom, I take it, you recognise? + +MAN. Yes, sir. (_And meeting her glance, he bows once more._) + + (_Parnell hands over the letter, and while Katharine reads + there is a pause._) + +PARNELL. Did you bring me this expecting money for it? + +MAN. No, sir. + +PARNELL. I see it has a date. You could have let me have it before? + +MAN. Yes, sir. + +PARNELL. More than--six months ago? + +MAN. More than a year ago, sir. + +PARNELL. Quite so. And you did not? + +MAN (_eyeing him steadfastly_). No, sir. I was still comfortable in +his service then, sir. + +PARNELL (_ironically, after a pause of scrutiny eye to eye_). I am +singularly obliged to you.... How did you come by it, may I ask? + +MAN. Well, sir, he’d been dining out, sir. Left it in his +pocket--hadn’t posted it. + +PARNELL. I see.... Had your dismissal anything to do with this? + +MAN. Oh, no, sir. That only happened quite recently. + +PARNELL. And then--he dismissed you without a character, you say? Do +you think you deserved one? + +MAN. From him, sir?--yes, sir. + +PARNELL (_coldly amused_). That is a good answer. Have you been put +to any expense coming here? + +MAN. Just my return fare, sir. + +PARNELL. And were you expecting me to----? + +MAN. No, sir; I could have sent it in the post, if I’d wished. + +PARNELL (_surprised_). Do you mean, then, that I may keep this letter? + +MAN. Yes, sir. + +PARNELL. I may do what I like with it? + +MAN. Just what you like, sir. + +PARNELL. Thank you. + + (_After a pause of meditation he very deliberately tears + up the letter and puts in 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 Personæ + + + JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN + (_Ex-Minister_). + + JESSE COLLINS (_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, Collins? Well? + +JESSE COLLINS. 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 COLLINS. No; but I like to be punctual. It’s my nature. + +CHAMBERLAIN. Habit.... Habit and nature are different things, +Collins. I’ve been finding that out. + + (_At this, for a diversion, Collins, readjusting his + pince-nez, tilts his head bird-like, and takes a + genial look at his friend._) + +JESSE COLLINS. 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 COLLINS. Come, come! + +CHAMBERLAIN. Yes? + +JESSE COLLINS. 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 COLLINS. A reversion to old habits, I suppose. One does as one +gets older. + +CHAMBERLAIN. Yes. + +JESSE COLLINS (_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 COLLINS. Now I wonder if that’s true? + +CHAMBERLAIN. I wonder. + +JESSE COLLINS. Mine hasn’t begun to come back to me. + +CHAMBERLAIN. You aren’t old yet. + +JESSE COLLINS. I’m over eighty. + +CHAMBERLAIN. Good for another twenty years. And once you were my +senior. We weren’t quite boys together, Collins; but we’ve been good +friends. + +JESSE COLLINS. Thank God for that!--Joe. + +CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, I do. More now than I used to. + +JESSE COLLINS. 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 COLLINS. Is my talk tiring you? + +CHAMBERLAIN. Not at all.... Please go on! + +JESSE COLLINS. 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 COLLINS. Why, I needn’t even have said that; when here--it’s +_sitting_ up I find you. + +CHAMBERLAIN. Sitting _out_. + +JESSE COLLINS. 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 COLLINS. You are, when you say that! + +CHAMBERLAIN. No, Collins. 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 COLLINS. 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 COLLINS (_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 COLLINS. We mean to run it, Chamberlain! You’ll see! + +CHAMBERLAIN. I know you do, Collins. You are loyalty itself. + +JESSE COLLINS. There are others too. I’m not the only one. + +CHAMBERLAIN. You are the best of them. + +JESSE COLLINS. No, I won’t admit that. + +CHAMBERLAIN. Name? + +JESSE COLLINS. 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 COLLINS. Don’t you think so yourself? + +CHAMBERLAIN. Not now. I did once. + +JESSE COLLINS. 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, Collins. If I could +have gone on having faith in myself, I shouldn’t be--as I am now. + +JESSE COLLINS. But what--what made you lose it? + +CHAMBERLAIN. Can’t you guess? + + (_Collins 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 COLLINS (_cautiously, rather reluctantly_). I suppose I do. + +CHAMBERLAIN (_watching to see the effect of his news_). He’s coming +to-day: to see me. + +COLLINS (_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 Collins. He helps + himself to a half-sentence, and stops._) + +JESSE COLLINS. 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 COLLINS. 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 COLLINS. 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, Collins: 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 COLLINS. What mistake? + +CHAMBERLAIN. Collins, 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 COLLINS. 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 COLLINS. 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 failed. Presently he + resumes_:) + +When two men, whose qualifications I used rather to despise, beat me +at business, Collins--it was a facer! + +JESSE COLLINS. 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 COLLINS. And you? + +CHAMBERLAIN. Perhaps I shall succumb to his charm. I’ve done so +before now. + +JESSE COLLINS. 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 COLLINS. 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 COLLINS. 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, Collins: 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 COLLINS. 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 COLLINS (_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, Collins!)---- + +JESSE COLLINS. 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 COLLINS (_warmly_). But you’ve always been honourable. + +CHAMBERLAIN. So has he. Don’t be sentimental, Collins! 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, Collins (I suppose I’m +prejudiced), I’d rather he hadn’t asked himself here--just now: not +just now. + + (_There is a pause, and Collins feels that he must say + something; but finding nothing of any value to say, he + merely commentates with a query._) + +JESSE COLLINS. What has “just now” to do with it? + +CHAMBERLAIN. “Just now,” dear Collins, 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 COLLINS (_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, Collins. 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 COLLINS. I don’t think we shall live to see that! + +CHAMBERLAIN. I shall not; you may. + +JESSE COLLINS (_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 Collins, 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 may take him away now! + + (_Jesse Collins rises, and stands by his friend with moist + eyes._) + +JESSE COLLINS. Good-bye, my dear Joe, and--God bless you. + +CHAMBERLAIN. Yes ... good-bye! + + (_Hands press and part, and Jesse Collins 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. + +DIST. V. In politics one tries not to look like anything; but how at +the 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 party-leader. I broke away; +so you had to break me. From your point of view you were right. I +thought I knew the game better than you. I made a mistake. + +DIST. V. Do you mean, then, that you intended to break _me_? + +CHAMBERLAIN. Oh, no. But I meant to--persuade you. + +DIST. V. My view is that you did--very thoroughly. Surely I went a +long way--conceded a great deal. + +CHAMBERLAIN. “Half a sheet of note-paper” was the measure of it. +Yes, that speech was a great success, and you remained our leader. +But your halving of that sheet was the beginning of--my defeat, your +victory. + +DIST. V. I don’t recognise either. At this moment we are both +defeated, in a sense: out of office, that is to say. + +CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, but you will come back. I shan’t. + +DIST. V. But--in all its essentials--what you stand for will. + +CHAMBERLAIN. As a hang-fire, perhaps, while parties temporise and +readjust themselves to a new balance. But never the same thing again. +The time for it has gone. I missed it. + +DIST. V. You mustn’t be depressed, Chamberlain. Great policies, new +orientations, need careful nursing--testing too. Conditions are +changing very rapidly. + +CHAMBERLAIN. Mine are getting worse. I have two nurses now--night and +day: and I obey orders. + +DIST. V. You do well to remind me. You shouldn’t have let me tire you. + + (_And so saying he rises._) + +CHAMBERLAIN. You don’t. You used to, now and then, when we +didn’t agree. You had the deliberate mind, your own fixed rate +of progression: one couldn’t hurry you. And your semitones, and +semicircles, and semi-quavers used sometimes to worry me, I own. They +don’t now: having become a monotone myself, I acquiesce. _I’m_ the +slow one, now: you’ve set me my pace.... Here I sit, stock still. + +DIST. V. (_lightly diverting the conversation from its impending +embarrassment_). With your old associates still round you, I see! + + (_And he touches a trail of blossom admiringly, as he + continues_:) + +They, at least, in their reflected glory, look flourishing; for they, +too, have had a share in your career, have they not? + +CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, they helped me to get into _Punch_, I suppose, +if not into Parliament. Yet, I never thought of it, till it +happened--’twas a mere accident. Would you like to take one with you? + +DIST. V. I don’t usually so efface myself, but I will with pleasure. +This one is quite exquisite. May I? Thanks (_and the glory of it goes +to his buttonhole_). I notice, too, that it has a scent. + +CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, that is a new kind, hard to rear. There are very +few of it in England yet, and nowhere growing so well as they do here. + +DIST. V. That is so like you, Chamberlain--you are the born expert; +everything you touch--it’s in your blood. Whatever you have done, you +have done successfully. + +CHAMBERLAIN. So I have your word for it. I was saying to Collins this +morning that as a type of the really successful man you had beaten me. + +DIST. V. I--a type of success? My dear Chamberlain! In my wildest +dreams, I aim only at safety; and if my hesitations have sometimes +distressed you, they have been far more distressing to myself. You +yourself, in a moment of friendly candour, once described me (so I +was told) as the champion stick-in-the-mud. + +CHAMBERLAIN. So I did, and it’s true. But I said “champion.” If you +hadn’t been such a champion at it, the mud would have swallowed +you up alive. Instead of that, you have made it a tower of defence +against your enemies. That’s why I regard you not only as so +successful, but so British. + +DIST. V. May I, at least, claim that even for self-defence I have not +slung it at my opponents? + +CHAMBERLAIN. No. Why waste it? It’s your use, not your misuse of it +that I so admire. If you hadn’t been such a wonderful politician, you +might have been a great statesman. + +DIST. V. Doesn’t that rather indicate failure? + +CHAMBERLAIN. No. Sometimes the political world has no use for +statesmen--except to down them. Sometimes it prefers politicians, +and perhaps rightly. Every age makes its own peculiar requirements; +and those who find out when the political line is the better one to +follow, are the successful ones. You and I have been--politicians; +let’s be honest and own it. And now my particular politics are +over. Circumstances have emptied me out. That’s different from mere +failure. Great statesmen have been failures; we’ve seen them go down, +you and I--too big, too far-seeing for their day. But they went down +_full_, with all the weight of their great convictions and principles +still to their credit. I’m empty. Time has played me out. That’s the +difference. + +DIST. V. I am confident that history will give a different verdict. + +CHAMBERLAIN. Will it? When exactly does history begin to get written? +Is a man’s reputation for statesmanship safe, even after a hundred +years? What about Pitt? Can one be so sure of him now? His European +policy may have been a blunder; his great work in Ireland may yet +have to be reversed. + +DIST. V. In reversed circumstances, that may become logical. But +what has held good for a hundred year, I should incline to regard as +statesmanship. + +CHAMBERLAIN. “Held good”? Fetters a man can’t break “hold good”; but +they make a prisoner of him all the same. Policies have done that to +nations before now. But would you, on that score, say of them that +they have held good? + +DIST. V. But let me understand, my dear Chamberlain, what exactly in +Pitt’s policy you now question? + +CHAMBERLAIN. Nothing: I can’t see far enough ahead to question +anything. I only say, when does history begin to get written? We +don’t know. + +DIST. V. What more can one do than direct it for the generation in +which one lives? That, it seems to me, is our main responsibility. + +CHAMBERLAIN. Well, that’s what you and I have done. How? Mainly +by pulling down bigger men than ourselves. Randolph, Parnell, +Gladstone--we got the better of them, didn’t we? Have you never +wondered why men of genius get sent into the world--only to be +defeated? Gladstone was a bigger man than the whole lot of us; but +we pulled him down--and I enjoyed doing it. Parnell, for all his +limitations, was a great man. Well, we got him down too. And I +confess that gave me satisfaction. You helped to pull Randolph down; +but you didn’t enjoy doing it. That’s where you and I were different. + +DIST. V. I helped? + +CHAMBERLAIN. Yes; it had to be done. And you were sorry for him while +you did it--just as you were sorry for Wyndham. + +DIST. V. But I did nothing! + +CHAMBERLAIN. Quite so. He came down here to fight us in the Central +division, and the Conservatives were keen for it. It was touch and +go: Unionists were not in such close alliance then; he might have +succeeded. You did nothing; wouldn’t back him. (Quite right, from my +point of view.) Randolph went down: never the same man again. + +DIST. V. But, my dear Chamberlain, we had our agreed compact. + +CHAMBERLAIN. An official understanding, certainly. But that didn’t +prevent me from going to the Round-Table conference. That also was +touch and go; it might have succeeded. Where would our compact have +been, then? + +DIST. V. The Round-Table was merely an interrogation covering +a forlorn hope. It failed because you remained loyal to your +convictions. + +CHAMBERLAIN. It failed because one day two of us lost our +tempers--one bragged, the other bullied. That was the real reason. If +Gladstone had given me a large enough hand over his first Bill, d’you +suppose I shouldn’t have been a Home Ruler? I was to begin with, +remember. + +DIST. V. Standing for a very different Bill, I imagine. + +CHAMBERLAIN. Which you would still have opposed. But I should have +won. + +DIST. V. Certainly, if we had lost you, it would have made a +difference. + +CHAMBERLAIN. I was younger then: I’d more push in me. But you would +have let me go, all the same. Yes, I’ve always admired your courage +when the odds were against you.... So, when the time for it came, you +pulled me down too. It had to be done.... And here I am. + +DIST. V. My dear Chamberlain, you distress me deeply! + +CHAMBERLAIN. Of course I do. D’you think I haven’t distressed myself +too? Do I look like a man who hasn’t been through anything? + +DIST. V. Then--there is a cloud between us, after all. + +CHAMBERLAIN. No. I see you clearly; I see myself clearly. There’s no +cloud about it; it’s all sharp, and clear, and hard--hard as nails. +And I’ve been able to put it into words--that now you understand. +Poor Randolph! Do you remember how his tongue stumbled, and tripped +him, the last time he spoke in the House? And I saw you looking on, +pitying him. You’d got a kind side to you, for all your efficiency. +Men like you for that--that charm.... It’s been a great asset to you. +Parnell, how he tried all his life to make a speech and couldn’t. +But what he said didn’t matter--there was the man! What a force he +might have been--was! What a Samson, when he pulled the whole Irish +Party down--got them all on top of him to pull with him. What d’you +think he was doing then? Trying to give his Irish nation a soul! It +looked like pride, pique, mere wanton destruction; but it was a great +idea. And if ever they rise to it--if ever the whole Irish nation +puts its back to the wall as Parnell wanted it to do then--shakes off +dependence, alliance, conciliation, compromise, it may beat us yet! +They were afraid of defeat. That’s why we won. A cause or a nation +that fears no defeat--nor any number of them--that’s what wins in the +long run. But does any such nation--any such cause exist? I’m not +sure.... I’m not really sure of anything now, only this: that it’s +better not to live too long after one has failed. To go on living +then--is the worst failure of all. + + (_As he thus talks himself out, his auditor’s solicitous + concern has continually increased; and now when, for + the first time, the voice breaks with exhaustion + and emotion, the other, half-rising from his seat, + interposes with gentle but insistent urgency._) + +DIST. V. My dear Chamberlain, you are overtaxing your strength; you +are doing yourself harm. You ought not to go on. Stop, I do beg of +you! + +CHAMBERLAIN. Stop? Why stop? What does it matter now? + + (_But even as he speaks, mind and will cease to contest + the point where physical energy fails. His manner + changes, his voice becomes dull and listless of tone._) + +Oh, yes ... yes. You are quite right. It’s time. I’m under orders +now. Would you mind--the bell? + + (_Then, as the other is about to rise, he perceives that + the Nurse has already entered, and now stands, + unobtrusive but firm, awaiting the moment to reassert + her sway._) + +Oh, it’s not necessary. There’s the Nurse come again, to remind me +that I mustn’t tire myself in tiring you. + + (_And so, under the presiding eye of professional + attendance, the Visitor rises and advances to take his + leave._) + +Thank you--for coming. Thank you--for hearing me so patiently.... +You always did that, even though it made no difference.... I +wonder--shall I ever see you again? + +DIST. V. You shall. I promise. + +CHAMBERLAIN. I wonder. + +DIST. V. I assure you, I shall make a point of it. Believe me, I +am very grateful for this opportunity you have given me; and even +more am I grateful for all your long loyalty in the past. Through +all differences, through all difficulties, I have felt that you +were indeed a friend. So, till we meet again, my dear Chamberlain, +good-bye! + + (_The two hands meet and part, while the Nurse moves + forward to resume her professional duties. The + Distinguished Visitor begins to retire._) + +CHAMBERLAIN. Good-bye.... You can find your way? + +DIST. V. (_turning gracefully as he goes_). Perfectly! + + (_And treating the door with the same perfection of + courtesy as he treats all with whom he comes in + contact, he goes to take his leave of other members of + the family. The door closes; the Nurse is punching the + pillows; Chamberlain speaks_:) + +CHAMBERLAIN. So that’s the end, eh?... Charming fellow! + + (_And so saying, he settles back to the inattention of life + to which he has become accustomed._) + + + + + The Instrument + + + + + Dramatis Personæ + + + WOODROW WILSON + (_Ex-President of + the United States + of America_). + + MR. TUMULTY (_His + Secretary_). + + A GRACIOUS PRESENCE. + + AN ATTENDANT. + + + + + The Instrument + + + SCENE: _Washington. March 4th, 1921._ + + _Through the large windows of this rather stiffly composed + sitting-room Washington conveys an ample and not + unimpressive view of its official character. The + distant architecture, rising out of trees, is almost + beautiful, and would be quite, if only it could manage + to look a little less self-satisfied and prosperous. + Outside is a jubilant spring day; inside something + which much more resembles the wintering of autumn. + For though this is an entry over which the door has + just opened and closed, it is in fact an exit, final + and complete, from the stage of world-politics, made + by one who in his day occupied a commanding position + of authority and power. That day is now over. In the + distance an occasional blare of brass and the beat + of drums tells that processions are still moving + through the streets of the capital, celebrating the + inauguration of the new President. It is the kind of + noise which America knows how to make; a sound of + triumph insistent and strained, having in it no beauty + and no joy._ + + _The Ex-President moves slowly across the room, bearing + heavily to one side upon his stick, to the other + upon the proudly protecting arm of his friend, Mr. + Secretary Tumulty. Into the first comfortable chair + that offers he lets himself down by slow and painful + degrees, lays his stick carefully aside, then begins + very deliberately to pull off his gloves. When that is + done, only then allowing himself complete relaxation, + he sinks back in his chair, and in a voice of resigned + weariness speaks._ + +EX-PRES. So ... that’s over! + +TUMULTY. It hasn’t tired you too much, I hope? + +EX-PRES. Too much for what, my dear Tumulty? I’ve time to be tired +now. What else, except to be tired, is there left for me to do? + +TUMULTY. Obey doctor’s orders. + +EX-PRES. He let me go. + +TUMULTY (_shrewdly_). You would have gone in any case. + +EX-PRES. Yes. + + (_Tumulty adjusts the cushions at his back._) + +Thank you. + +TUMULTY (_seating himself_). Well, Governor, now you’ve seen him in +place, what do you think of him? + +EX-PRES. Oh, I find him--quite--what I expected him to be. I think he +means well. + +TUMULTY. A new President always does. + +EX-PRES. (_slowly pondering his words_). Yes ... that’s true ... +“means well.” + +TUMULTY (_tactfully providing diversion_). The big crowd outside was +very friendly, I thought. + +EX-PRES. Yes ... couldn’t have been friendlier.... It let me alone. + +TUMULTY. Well, of course, they’d come mainly to see the new President. + +EX-PRES. Of course. So had I. Yes, I believe Harding’s a good man. He +was very kind, very considerate. I feel grateful. + +TUMULTY (_with rich emotion_). That’s how a good many of us are +feeling to you, Governor: to-day very specially. It’s what I’ve come +back to say. + +EX-PRES. That’s very good of you. We’ve had--differences of opinion; +but you’ve always been loyal. + +TUMULTY. I think, President---- Forgive me; the word slipped out. + +EX-PRES. No matter. + +TUMULTY. I think there’s been more loyalty--at heart--than you know. +Behind all our differences, in the party (as, with such big issues, +couldn’t be avoided)--well; they didn’t cut so deep as they seemed +to. They were all proud of you, even though we couldn’t always agree. +Of course there’ve been exceptions. + +EX-PRES. I don’t want to judge the exceptions now (as perhaps I have +done in the past) more hardly than I judge myself.... Tumulty, I’ve +failed. + +TUMULTY (_extenuatingly_). In a way--yes: for a time, no doubt. + +EX-PRES. Absolutely. + +TUMULTY. I don’t agree. + +EX-PRES. Because you don’t know. + +TUMULTY. Governor, I know a good deal. + +EX-PRES. Oh, yes; you’ve been a right hand to me--all through. Others +weren’t. So I had to leave them alone, and--be alone. When I made +that choice, it seemed not to matter: my case was so strong--and I +had such faith in it! It was that did for me! + +TUMULTY. Chief, I’m not out to argue with you--to make you more tired +than you are already. But if I don’t say anything, please don’t think +I’m agreeing with you. + +EX-PRES. I’m accustomed to people not agreeing with me, Tumulty.... +Yes: too much faith--not in what I stood for, but in myself: +perhaps--though there I’m not so sure--perhaps too little in others. +To some I gave too much: and the mischief was done before I knew. + +TUMULTY. You don’t need to name him, President. + +EX-PRES. I don’t need to name anyone now. Sometimes a man may know +his own points of weakness too well--guard against them to excess, be +over-cautious because of them; and then, trying to correct himself, +just for once he’s not cautious enough. But where I failed was in +getting the loyalty and co-operation of those who didn’t agree with +me so thoroughly as you did. And I ought to have done it; for that +is a part of government. Your good executive is the man who gets all +fish into his net. I failed: I caught some good men, but I let others +go. There was fine material to my hand which I didn’t recognise, or +didn’t use so well as I should have done. I hadn’t the faculty of +letting others think for me: when I tried, it went badly; they didn’t +respond. So--I did all myself. + +TUMULTY (_airing himself a little_). You always listened to _me_, +Governor. + +EX-PRES. Yes, Tumulty, yes. And you weren’t offended when I--didn’t +pay any attention. + +TUMULTY. When you _had_ paid attention, you mean. + +EX-PRES. Perhaps I do. My way of paying attention has struck others +differently. They think I’m one who doesn’t listen--who doesn’t want +to listen. It’s a terrible thing, Tumulty, when one sees and knows +the truth so absolutely, but cannot convince others. That’s been my +fate: to be so sure that I was right (I’m as sure of that now as +ever) and yet to fail. Here--there--it has been always the same. I +went over to Paris thinking to save the Peace: there came a point +when I thought it was saved: it would have been had the Senate +backed me--it could have been done then. But when I put the case to +which already we stood pledged, I convinced nobody. They did not want +justice to be done. + +TUMULTY. But you had a great following, Governor. You had a wonderful +reception when you got to Paris. + +EX-PRES. Yes: in London too. It seemed then as if people were only +waiting to be led. But I’m talking of the politicians now. There was +no room for conviction there; each must stick to his brief. That’s +what wrecked us. Not one--not one could I get to own that the right +thing was the wise thing to do: that to be just and fear not was the +real policy which would have saved Europe--and the world.... Look +at it now! Step by step, their failure is coming home to them; but +still it is only as failure that they see it--mere human inability +to surmount insuperable difficulties: the greed, the folly, the +injustice, the blindness, the cruelty of it they don’t see. And the +people don’t teach it them. They can’t. No nation--no victorious +nation--has gotten it at heart to say, “We, too, have sinned.” Lest +such a thing should ever be said or thought, one of the terms of +peace was to hand over all the blame; so, when the enemy signed the +receipt of it, the rest were acquitted. And in that solemn farce +the Allies found satisfaction! What a picture for posterity! And +when they point and laugh, I shall be there with the rest. It’s our +self-righteousness has undone us, Tumulty; it’s that which has made +us blind and hard--and dishonest: for there has been dishonesty +too. Because we were exacting reparations for a great wrong, we +didn’t mind being unjust to the wrongdoer. And so, in Paris, we spent +months, arguing, prevaricating, manœuvring, so as to pretend that +none had had any share in bringing the evil about. When I spoke for +considerate justice, there was no living force behind me in that +council of the Nations. They wanted their revenge, and now they’ve +got it: and look what it is costing them! + + (_And then the door opens, and an Attendant enters, + carrying a covered cup upon a tray. Upon this + intrusion the Ex-President turns a little grimly; but + before he can speak, Tumulty interposes._) + +TUMULTY. You’ll forgive this little interruption, Governor: I got +domestic orders to see that you took it.... You will? + + (_The dictatorial expression softens: with a look of mild + resignation the Ex-President touches the table for the + tray to be set down. And when the Attendant has gone, + he continues_:) + +EX-PRES. No, they wouldn’t believe me when I said that to be +revengeful would cost more than to be forgiving. And still they +won’t believe that the trouble they are now in comes--not from the +destructiveness of the War, but from their own destruction of the +Peace. I had the truth in me; but I failed. I was a voice crying into +the void--a President without a people to back me: a dictator--of +words! And they knew that my time was short, and that I had no power +of appeal--because the heart of my people was not with me! If they +had any doubt before, the vote of the Senate told them. + +TUMULTY. You said “the people,” Governor? + +EX-PRES. The people’s choice, Tumulty. The vote _for_ the Senate, and +the vote _of_ the Senate: where’s the difference? + +TUMULTY. Still, I don’t think you know how many were with you right +through: and I’m not speaking only of our own people. Over there it +was your stand gave hope to the best of them, so long as hope was +possible. But they were all so busy holding their breath, maybe they +didn’t make noise enough. Anyway--seems you didn’t hear ’em. + +EX-PRES. You can’t reproach me with it, Tumulty---- + +TUMULTY (_expostulant_). I’m not doing that, Governor! + +EX-PRES. ----more than I reproach myself. If that were true, then +it was my business to know it. But what I ought to have known I +realised too late. When I heard those shouting crowds--yes, then, +for a while, I thought it did mean--victory. But in the Conference +at Versailles--Paris--I was in another world: the shouting died out, +and I was alone.... I hadn’t expected to be alone--in there, I mean. +I had reckoned--was it wrong?--on honour counting among those in +high places of authority for more than it did. We went in pledged up +to the hilt: not in detail, not in legal terms, not as politicians, +perhaps; but as men of honour--speaking each for the honour of our +own nation. And that wasn’t enough; for whom people stand pledged +twice over--first in secret, then publicly--it’s difficult to make +them face where honour lies. + +TUMULTY. You mean the secret treaties, Governor. That’s been a puzzle +to many of us: what you knew about them, I mean. + +EX-PRES. Tumulty, I willed not to know them. Rumour of them reached +me, of course. Had I then given them a hearing, I might have been +charged with complicity, the silence which gave consent. Many were +anxious that I should know of them--at a time when opposition would +have been very difficult--premature, outside my province. And so--by +not knowing--I was free: and when I stated the basis of the Peace +terms, I stated them (and I was secure then in my power to do so) +in terms which should in honour have made those secret treaties no +longer tenable. There was my first great error--I acknowledge it, +Tumulty: that I believed in honour. + +TUMULTY (_reluctantly_). Yes ... I see that. But it’s the sort of +thing one can only see after it has happened. You must have got a +pretty deep-down insight into character, Governor, when you came to +the top of things over there, to the top people, I mean. + +EX-PRES. (_after a pause, reflectively_). Yes, it was very +interesting, when one got accustomed to it: highly selected humanity, +representative of things--it was afraid of. There daily sat four of +us--if one counts heads only; but we were, in fact, six, or seven, +or eight characters. And the characters sprang up and choked us. +Patriots, statesmen? oh yes! but also “careerists.” Men whose future +depends on the popular vote can’t always be themselves--at least, it +seemed not; for we should then have ceased to be “representative,” +and it was as representatives that we had come. And so one would +sit and listen, and watch--one person, and two characters. Lloyd +George, when his imagination was not swamped in self-satisfaction, +was quite evangelical to listen to--sometimes. But there he was +representative--not of principles, nor of those visionary sparks +which he struck so easily and threw off like matches, but of a +successful election cry for “hanging the Kaiser” and “making Germany +pay.” And having got his majority, he and his majority had become +one. But for that, he might--he just might ... yet who can tell? That +tied him. I was alone. + +TUMULTY (_coming nobly to the rescue_). Then take this from me, +Governor: for a man all alone you did wonders. + +EX-PRES. I did my best; but I failed. My first mistake was when I +believed in honour; my second, when I let them shut the doors. Yes, +to that he got me to agree. Clever, clever; that was his first win. + +TUMULTY. Who, Governor? + +EX-PRES. (_with a dry laugh_). The man who told me he was on my side. +The reason?--a kindly means of saving faces for those whom he and I +were going to “persuade”--of making the “climb-down” easier for them! +That seemed a helpful, charitable sort of reason, didn’t it? One it +would have been hard to refuse. I didn’t; so the doors were shut to +cover defeat and disappointment over the secret treaties. Then they +had me: three against one! And their weight told--quite apart from +mere argument; for each had behind him the popular voice (and when +one lost it--you may remember--another came, and took his place). +But against me the popular voice had shut its mouth: I, too, was an +electioneer--a defeated one. Of my lease of power then, less than a +year remained. After the Senate elections I was nothing. In Paris +they knew it: and I could see in their eyes that they were glad. Yes, +_he_ was glad, too. + + (_As he speaks, his head sinks in depression. There is a + pause._) + +TUMULTY (_in his best sick-bed manner_). Governor, don’t you think +that you’d better rest now? + +EX-PRES. (_ignoring the remark_). And so the old secret diplomacy, +balancing for power, with war as the only sure end of it, came back +to life; and I--pledged to its secrecies with the rest--I had to +stay dumb. I was a drowning man, then, Tumulty--clutching at straws, +till I became an adept at it. There, perhaps, as you say, I did do +“wonders”--of a kind: all I could, anyway. That was my plight, while +there in Paris we held high court, and banqueted, and drank healths +from dead men’s skulls. Did nobody guess--outside--what was going +on? I gave one signal that I thought was plain enough, when I sent +for the _George Washington_ to bring me home again. But, though I +listened for it then, there seemed no response. People were so busy, +you say, holding their breath; and _that_ I couldn’t hear. + +TUMULTY (_zealous, in a pause, to show his interest_). Well, +Governor, well? + +EX-PRES. And then, rather than let me so go and spoil the general +effect (the one power still left to me!), they began to make +concessions--concessions which, I see now, didn’t amount to much; and +so they persuaded me, and I stayed on, and signed my failure with the +rest. + +TUMULTY (_for a diversion pointing to the covered cup_). Pardon me, +Governor, you must obey orders, you know. They are not mine. + +EX-PRES. (_taking up the cup with a dry smile_). Executive authority +has taught me that obeying orders is much simpler than giving them: +you know when you’ve got them done. (_Removing the cover, he drains +the cup and sets it down again._) There! now let your conscience be +at rest. (_After a pause he resumes_:) Tumulty, when I faced failure, +when I knew that I had failed---- Yes; don’t trouble to contradict +me. I know, dear friend, I know that you don’t agree; and, God bless +you! I also know why.... When I knew _that_, after the whole thing +was over, and I was out again and free, do you suppose I wasn’t +tempted to go out and cry the truth (as some were expecting and +wishing for it to be cried) in the ears of the whole world?--let all +know that I _had_ failed, and so--that way at least--separate myself +from the Evil Thing which there sat smiling at itself in its Hall of +Mirrors--seeing no frustrate ghosts, no death’s heads at that feast, +as I saw them?... I came out a haunted man--all the more because +those I was amongst didn’t believe in ghosts--not then. People +who have been overwhelmingly victorious in a great war find that +difficult. But they will--some day. + +TUMULTY. Well, Governor, and supposing you had yielded to this +“Temptation,” as you call it, what’s the proposition? + +EX-PRES. This ... I had one power--one weapon, still left to me +unimpaired: to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the +truth, so help me God! And the proposition is just this: whether to +be stark honest, even against the apparent interests of the very +cause you are out to plead, is not in the long run the surest way--if +it be of God--to help it make good: whether defeat, with the whole +truth told, isn’t better than defeat hidden away and disowned, in the +hope that something may yet come of it. You may get a truer judgment +that way in the end; though at the time it may seem otherwise. Yes, I +_was_ tempted to cry it aloud--to make a clean breast of it--to say, +“We, the Governments of the People, the Democracies, the Free Nations +of the world, have failed--have lost the peace which we could have +won, because we would not give up the things which we loved so much +better--profit, revenge, our own too good opinion of ourselves, our +own self-righteous judgment of others.”... I was tempted to it; and +yet it has been charged against me that I would not admit failure +because I wanted to save my face. + +TUMULTY. You have never been much scared by what people _said_, +Governor. That didn’t count, I reckon. + +EX-PRES. No, Tumulty; but this did--that where all seemed dark, +I still saw light. Down there, among the wreckage, something was +left--an instrument of which I thought I saw the full future +possibility more clearly than others. I believe I do still. And my +main thought then was--how best to secure that one thing to which, +half blindly, they had agreed. To win that, I was willing to give up +my soul. + +TUMULTY. It’s the Covenant, you mean, Governor? + +EX-PRES. Yes, the Covenant! That at least was won--seemed +won--whatever else was lost. Some of them were willing to let me have +it only because they themselves believed it would prove useless--just +to save my face for all I had to give up in exchange. And so I--let +them “save my face” for me; let them think that it was so--just to +give this one thing its chance. And so, for that, and for that alone, +I bound myself to the Treaty--stood pledged to do my utmost to see +it through: a different thing, that, from telling the truth. Was I +wrong, Tumulty--was I wrong? + +TUMULTY. No, no, Governor! You did everything a man could--under the +circumstances. + +EX-PRES. I have said that often to myself: and I hope, sometimes, +that it may be true. But a man who gives up anything of the truth, as +he sees it, for reasons however good--can he ever be sure of himself +again?... It’s a new thing for me to ask another man if I have done +wrong. But that’s the way I feel: I don’t myself know. And once, +once, I was so sure--that I was right, and that I should win! + + (_The situation has now become one which the friendly + Tumulty would like to control, but cannot. As a + “soul-stirring revelation of character” he finds it, + no doubt, immensely interesting; but to be thus made + Father Confessor of the man whom he has followed with + humble and dog-like devotion, knocks the bottom out + of his world altogether. Moreover, he has received + “domestic orders,” and is not properly obeying them; + and so, dominated by the stronger will, he glances + apprehensively, now and again, toward the door, hoping + that it may open and bring relief, but himself sits + and does nothing. Meanwhile, insistent and remorseless + at self-examination, the Ex-President continues to + wear himself out._) + +When a man comes really to himself, Tumulty--sees clearly +within--does it help him toward seeing also what lies outside, +beyond, and ahead--make him more sure that, as regards others, he +has done right? I don’t know--I would give my life to know--if what +I did, when all else had failed, was best. The political forces, +prejudices, antagonisms, the powers of evil around me, have been so +dubiously deceiving and dark, that I do not know now whether to have +been uncompromisingly true to principle would have done any good. +Perhaps after to-day I shall know better; perhaps only now have I +become qualified to judge--a free man at last. Only in the secrecy of +my own heart--now finally removed from all the interests, ambitions, +fears, which gather about a man’s public career--I do most earnestly +and humbly pray that in this one thing I did right--not to discredit +myself too utterly in the world’s eyes, so that _that_, at least, +might live. + +TUMULTY (_doing his best_). It _will_ live, Governor! + +EX-PRES. It _may_. But in what hands have I had to leave it? To men +who have no faith in it, to men who dislike it, to men who will try +persistently, sedulously, day in, day out, to turn it back to their +own selfish ends. There, in those hands, its fate will lie--perhaps +for a generation to come. And it is only by faith in the common +people, not in their politicians, that I dare look forward and hope +that the instrument--blunt and one-sided though it be now--may yet +become mighty and two-edged and sharp, a sword in the hand of a +giant--of one whose balances are those of justice, not of power. But +_I_ shan’t see it, Tumulty; it won’t be in my day. If America had +come in, I should! That was the keystone of my policy: that gone, my +policy has failed. That was my faith--is still; for faith can live on +when policies lie dead. Think what it might have been! America, with +that weapon to her hand, could have shaped the world’s future, made +it a democracy of free nations--image and superscription no longer +Cæsar’s--but Man’s. That--that was what I saw! + +TUMULTY. Perhaps they saw it too, Governor. If they did, it might +help to explain matters. + +EX-PRES. The Covenant was the instrument--and would have sufficed. So +organised, America’s voice in all future contentions would have been +too strong, and just, and decisive to be gainsayed. Then life would +have been in it, then it would have prospered and become mighty. It +would have meant--within a generation from now--world-peace. Of that +I had a sure sense: it would have come. To make that possible, what +I had to yield to present jealousies, discords, blindness, was of +no account--only look far enough! For there, in the future, was the +instrument for correcting them--the people’s vote for the first time +internationally applied. And I had in me such faith that America, +secure of her place in the world’s councils, would have wrought to +make justice international, and peace no longer a dream! Was I wrong, +Tumulty, was I wrong? + +TUMULTY (_expanding himself_). No man who believes in America as much +as I do will ever say you were wrong, Governor. + +EX-PRES. But when America stood out--when the Senate refused to +ratify--then I _was_ wrong. For then, what I had backed--all that +remained then--was a thing of shreds and patches. Nobody can think +worse of the Treaty than I do with America out of it, with the +Covenant left the one-sided and precarious thing it now is. Had +we only been in it--the rest wouldn’t have mattered. Call it a +dung-heap, if you like; yet out of it would have sprung life. It +may still; but _I_ shan’t see it, Tumulty; and that vision, which +was then so clear, has become a doubt. Was I wrong--was I wrong to +pretend that I had won anything worth winning? Would it not have been +better to say “I have failed”? + +TUMULTY. Forgive me, Governor: you are looking at things from a +tired-out mind. That’s not fair, you know. + +EX-PRES. But if you knew, oh, if you knew against what odds I fought +even to get that! They knew that they had got me down; and the only +card left me at last was their own reluctance to let a discredited +President go back to his own people and show them his empty hands, +and tell them that he had failed. So a bargain was struck, and this +one thing was given me, that peradventure it might have life--if I, +for my part, would come back here and plead the ratification of the +Treaty which they--and I--had made. Could I have done that with any +effect, had I said that in almost everything I had failed? + +TUMULTY. Chief, I think you did right. But I still feel I’m up a +back street. How could things have come to fail as much as they did? +After all, it was a just war. + +EX-PRES. Tumulty, I have been asking myself whether there can be +such a thing as a “just war.” There can be--please God!--there must +be sometimes a just _cause_ for war. When one sees great injustice +done, sees it backed by the power of a blindly militarised nation, +marching confidently to victory, then, if justice has any place in +the affairs of men, there is sometimes just cause for war. But can +there be--a just war? I mean--when the will to war takes hold of a +people--does it remain the same people? Does war in its hands remain +an instrument that can be justly used? Can it be waged justly? Can +it be won justly? Can it, having been won, make to a just peace? +No! Something happens: there comes a change; war in a people’s mind +drives justice out.... Can soldiers fight without “seeing red”--can +a nation? Not when nations have to fight on the tremendous scale +of modern war. Then they are like those monstrous mechanisms of +long-range destructiveness, which we so falsely call “weapons of +precision,” but which are in fact so horribly unprecise that, once +let loose, we cannot know what lives of harmlessness, of innocence, +of virtue, they are going to destroy. You find your range, you +fix your elevation, you touch a button: you hear your gun go off. +And over there, among the unarmed--the weak, the defenceless, the +infirm--it has done--what? Singled out for destruction what life or +lives; ten, twenty, a hundred?--you do not know. So with nations, +when once they have gone to war; their imprecision becomes--horrible; +though the cause of your war may be just. + + (_Tumulty gives a profound nod, paying his chief the + compliment of letting it be seen that he is causing + him to think deeply._) + +That’s what happened here. Do you remember, did you realise, Tumulty, +what a power my voice was in the world--till we went in?--that, +because I had the power to keep them back from war (for there my +constitutional prerogative was absolute), even my opponents had to +give weight to my words. They were angry, impatient, but they had +to obey. And, because they could not help themselves, they accepted +point by point my building up of the justice of our cause. They +didn’t care for justice; but I spoke for the Nation then; and, with +justice as my one end, I drove home my point. And then--we went in. +After that, justice became vengeance. When our men went over the +trenches, fighting with short arms, “_Lusitania!_” was their cry: and +they took few prisoners--you know that, Tumulty. + + (_Over that point the Ex-President pauses, though Tumulty + sees no special reason why he should pause._) + +The _Lusitania_ had been sunk, and still we had not gone to war, and +no crowds came to cry it madly outside the White House as they might +have done--if that was how they felt then. The _Lusitania_ lies at +the bottom of the sea. There are proposals for salving her; but I +think that there she will remain. The salving might tell too much. + +TUMULTY. You mean that talk about fuse caps being on board might have +been true? Would it matter now? + +EX-PRES. Yes. It was a horrible thing in any case--disproportionate, +like most other acts of war--and it did immeasurable harm to those +who thought to benefit. But this--I still only guess--might do too +much good--bring things a little nearer to proportion again, which +the Treaty did not try to do.... What I’ve been realising these +last two years is a terrible thing. You go to war, you get up to it +from your knees--God driving you to it--unable, yes, unable to do +else. Your will is to do right, your cause is just, you are a united +nation, a people convinced, glad, selfless, with hearts heroic and +clean. And then war takes hold of it, and it all changes under your +eyes; you see the heart of your people becoming fouled, getting +hard, self-righteous, revengeful. Your cause remains, in theory, +what it was at the beginning; but it all goes to the Devil. And the +Devil makes on it a pile that he can make no otherwise--because +of the virtue that is in it, the love, the beauty, the heroism, +the giving-up of so much that man’s heart desires. That’s where he +scores! Look at all that valiance, that beauty of life gone out to +perish for a cause it knows to be right; think of the generosity of +that giving by the young men; think of the faithful courage of the +women who steel themselves to let them go; think of the increase of +spirit and selflessness which everywhere rises to meet the claim. +All over the land which goes to war that is happening (and in the +enemy’s land it is the same), making war a sacred and a holy thing. +And having got it so sanctified, then the Devil can do with it almost +what he likes. That’s what he has done, Tumulty. If angels led horses +by the bridle at the Marne (as a pious legend tells), at Versailles +the Devil had his muzzled oxen treading out the corn. And of those--I +was one! Yes; war muzzles you. You cannot tell the truth; if you did, +it wouldn’t be believed. And so, finally, comes peace; and over that, +too, the Devil runs up his flag--cross-bones and a skull. + +TUMULTY (_struggling in the narrow path between wrong and right_). +But what else, Governor, is your remedy? We had to go to war; we were +left with no choice in the matter. + +EX-PRES. No, we _had_ no choice. And what others had any +choice?--what people, I mean? But that is what everyone--once we +were at war--refused to remember. And so we cried “_Lusitania!_” +against thousands of men who had no choice in the matter at all. +Remedy? There’s only one. Somehow we must get men to believe that +Christ wasn’t a mad idealist when He preached His Sermon on the +Mount; that what He showed for the world’s salvation then was not a +sign only, but the very Instrument itself. We’ve got to make men see +that there’s something in human nature waiting to respond to a new +law. There are two things breeding in the world--love and hatred; +breeding the one against the other. And there’s fear making hatred +breed fast, and there’s fear making love breed slow. Even as things +now are, it has managed--it has just managed to keep pace; but only +just. If men were not afraid--Love would win. + +That, I’ve come to see, is the simple remedy; but it’s going to be +the hardest thing to teach--because all the world is so much afraid. + + (_And then, the worn, haggard man, having thus talked + himself out, there enters by the benign intervention + of Providence a Gracious Presence, more confident than + he in her own ruling power. She moves quietly toward + them, and her voice, when she speaks, is corrective of + a situation she does not approve._) + +THE PRESENCE. Mr. Tumulty ... my dear. + + (_Resting her hands on the back of the Ex-President’s + chair, she surveys them benevolently but critically. + Then her attention is directed to the covered cup + standing on its tray._) + +Have you taken your---- + +EX-PRES. My medicine? Yes. Your orders came through, and have been +obeyed. + +THE PRESENCE. It wasn’t medicine. I made it myself. + +EX-PRES. Then I beg its pardon--and yours. + +THE PRESENCE. Will you please to remember that your holiday began at +twelve o’clock to-day? I’m not going to allow any overtime now. + +EX-PRES. That settles it, then, Tumulty. And that means you are to +go. I had just been saying, my dear, how much simpler it was to obey +orders than to give and to get them obeyed. + +THE PRESENCE. Getting them obeyed is quite simple. It is merely a +matter of how you give them. + +EX-PRES. You see, Tumulty--it’s all a matter of “how.” + +THE PRESENCE. There’s someone waiting to speak to you on the ’phone: +wants to know how you are. I thought I would come and see first. + +EX-PRES. Who is it? + +THE PRESENCE (_indicating the receiver_). He’s there. + + (_The Ex-President reaches out his hand, and Tumulty from + an adjoining table gives him the instrument. As he + listens, they stand watching him._) + +EX-PRES. Oh, yes.... That’s very kind of him.... Please will you tell +the President, with my best thanks, that I am greatly enjoying my +holiday.... Thank you.... Good-bye. + + (_He gives the instrument back to the waiting Tumulty._) + +TUMULTY (_with swelling bosom_). Governor, that was a great answer! + +EX-PRES. Easily said, Tumulty. But is it true? + + (_But Tumulty’s breast is such a platform for the generous + emotions that he does not really care whether it is + true or not. And therein, between himself and his + hero, lies the difference. Grasping his fallen leader + forcefully by the hand and murmuring his adieux in + a voice of nobly controlled emotion, he obeys the + waiting eye of the Gracious Presence, and goes. And as + she sees him serenely to the door, the Ex-President + looks ruefully at his painfully oversqueezed hand, and + begins rubbing it softly. Even the touch of a friend + sometimes hurts._) + + (_The door closes: the two are alone. She + who-must-be-obeyed stands looking at him with a + benevolent eye._) + + + + + _Printed in Great Britain + by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., + London and Aylesbury._ + + + + +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE: + +Obsolete and alternative spellings were not changed. The book number +on the second page is hand-written. Whether it was written by the +author, or someone else, is unknown. + +Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like +this_. + +‘Make’ was changed to ‘may’ ... you may take him away ... + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78736 *** |