path: root/78736-0.txt

*** 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 ***