THE NEW MACHIAVELLI

3

I was never at any stage a loyal party man. I doubt if party will

ever again be the force it was during the eighteenth and nineteenth

centuries. Men are becoming increasingly constructive and

selective, less patient under tradition and the bondage of initial

circumstances. As education becomes more universal and liberating,

men will sort themselves more and more by their intellectual

temperaments and less and less by their accidental associations.

The past will rule them less; the future more. It is not simply

party but school and college and county and country that lose their

glamour. One does not hear nearly as much as our forefathers did of

the "old Harrovian," "old Arvonian," "old Etonian" claim to this or

that unfair advantage or unearnt sympathy. Even the Scotch and the

Devonians weaken a little in their clannishness. A widening sense

of fair play destroys such things. They follow freemasonry down-

freemasonry of which one is chiefly reminded nowadays in England by

propitiatory symbols outside shady public-houses…

There is, of course, a type of man which clings very obstinately to

party ties. These are the men with strong reproductive imaginations

and no imaginative initiative, such men as Cladingbowl, for example,

or Dayton. They are the scholars-at-large in life. For them the

fact that the party system has been essential in the history of

England for two hundred years gives it an overwhelming glamour.

They have read histories and memoirs, they see the great grey pile

of Westminster not so much for what it is as for what it was, rich

with dramatic memories, populous with glorious ghosts, phrasing

itself inevitably in anecdotes and quotations. It seems almost

scandalous that new things should continue to happen, swamping with

strange qualities the savour of these old associations.

That Mr. Ramsay Macdonald should walk through Westminster Hall,

thrust himself, it may be, through the very piece of space that once

held Charles the Martyr pleading for his life, seems horrible

profanation to Dayton, a last posthumous outrage; and he would, I

think, like to have the front benches left empty now for ever, or at

most adorned with laureated ivory tablets: "Here Dizzy sat," and "On

this Spot William Ewart Gladstone made his First Budget Speech."

Failing this, he demands, if only as signs of modesty and respect on

the part of the survivors, meticulous imitation. "Mr. G.," he

murmurs, "would not have done that," and laments a vanished subtlety

even while Mr. Evesham is speaking. He is always gloomily disposed

to lapse into wonderings about what things are coming to, wonderings

that have no grain of curiosity. His conception of perfect conduct

is industrious persistence along the worn-down, well-marked grooves

of the great recorded days. So infinitely more important to him is

the documented, respected thing than the elusive present.

Cladingbowl and Dayton do not shine in the House, though Cladingbowl

is a sound man on a committee, and Dayton keeps the OLD COUNTRY

GAZETTE, the most gentlemanly paper in London. They prevail,

however, in their clubs at lunch time. There, with the pleasant

consciousness of a morning's work free from either zeal or shirking,

they mingle with permanent officials, prominent lawyers, even a few

of the soberer type of business men, and relax their minds in the

discussion of the morning paper, of the architecture of the West

End, and of the latest public appointments, of golf, of holiday

resorts, of the last judicial witticisms and forensic "crushers."

The New Year and Birthday honours lists are always very sagely and

exhaustively considered, and anecdotes are popular and keenly

judged. They do not talk of the things that are really active in

their minds, but in the formal and habitual manner they suppose to

be proper to intelligent but still honourable men. Socialism,

individual money matters, and religion are forbidden topics, and sex

and women only in so far as they appear in the law courts. It is to

me the strangest of conventions, this assumption of unreal loyalties

and traditional respects, this repudiation and concealment of

passionate interests. It is like wearing gloves in summer fields,

or bathing in a gown, or falling in love with the heroine of a

novel, or writing under a pseudonym, or becoming a masked Tuareg…

It is not, I think, that men of my species are insensitive to the

great past that is embodied in Westminster and its traditions; we

are not so much wanting in the historical sense as alive to the

greatness of our present opportunities and the still vaster future

that is possible to us. London is the most interesting, beautiful,

and wonderful city in the world to me, delicate in her incidental

and multitudinous littleness, and stupendous in her pregnant

totality; I cannot bring myself to use her as a museum or an old

bookshop. When I think of Whitehall that little affair on the

scaffold outside the Banqueting Hall seems trivial and remote in

comparison with the possibilities that offer themselves to my

imagination within the great grey Government buildings close at

hand.

It gives me a qualm of nostalgia even to name those places now. I

think of St. Stephen's tower streaming upwards into the misty London

night and the great wet quadrangle of New Palace Yard, from which

the hansom cabs of my first experiences were ousted more and more by

taxicabs as the second Parliament of King Edward the Seventh aged; I

think of the Admiralty and War office with their tall Marconi masts

sending out invisible threads of direction to the armies in the

camps, to great fleets about the world. The crowded, darkly shining

river goes flooding through my memory once again, on to those narrow

seas that part us from our rival nations; I see quadrangles and

corridors of spacious grey-toned offices in which undistinguished

little men and little files of papers link us to islands in the

tropics, to frozen wildernesses gashed for gold, to vast temple-

studded plains, to forest worlds and mountain worlds, to ports and

fortresses and lighthouses and watch-towers and grazing lands and

corn lands all about the globe. Once more I traverse Victoria

Street, grimy and dark, where the Agents of the Empire jostle one

another, pass the big embassies in the West End with their flags and

scutcheons, follow the broad avenue that leads to Buckingham Palace,

witness the coming and going of troops and officials and guests

along it from every land on earth… Interwoven in the texture

of it all, mocking, perplexing, stimulating beyond measure, is the

gleaming consciousness, the challenging knowledge: "You and your

kind might still, if you could but grasp it here, mould all the

destiny of Man!"