Delphi Complete Works of Stephen Leacock, page 385
“You off back north already?” I said. “I thought your machinery wouldn’t be ready for six weeks.”
“It won’t,” he added. “Dan and I (meet our mine superintendent) are taking a trip to Florida.”
COOKING FOR VICTORY
“OH, MRS. BEETON, is it really you? I am so delighted to meet you. How terribly well you look, and — if you don’t mind my saying so — how nice and plump. Of course it must be the good feeding.”
And with that we sat down to talk in Mrs. Beeton’s double drawing-room. It seemed so wonderful to be actually talking to Mrs. Beeton, that famous Mrs. Beeton of Mrs. Beeton’s Cook Book. I had imagined that she must have been dead and gone — perhaps cooked — long ago. Yet here she was, sitting in the drawing-room in front of me, and absolutely unmistakable — the full, matronly figure, the dark dress fitting close to what was called in her day the bust, the neatly parted hair, the bangles, the pince-nez — oh, Mrs. Beeton certainly, wherever she came from.
“I’m especially glad to meet you now,” I went on, “because there are so many things I want to ask you. In war-time, it seems to me, careful cooking and the economy of food would mean a tremendous lot.”
Mrs. Beeton gravely bowed her head. “In war-time,” she said, “as I frequently tell Mr. Beeton, the services of women are the mainstay of the nation.” . . .
“And what does Mr. Beeton say?”
“He doesn’t say anything,” she said, “I shouldn’t wish him to.”
“Mr. Beeton, I suppose, must be of great help to you in collaboration?”
“None whatever,” she said calmly— “or practically none. Of course he eats everything first, particularly now when there’s such a danger of poisoning.”
Then to my surprise she called: “Alfred!”
I was aware of something in a dressing-gown shuffling around in the other half of the room and a voice said, “Yes, my dear!”
“Go up and bring me down from my writing-table my Cooking for War-time, the 1943 Revision.”
I heard something start shuffling up the stairs. Then Mrs. Beeton called, as if by an afterthought.
“Alfred, one minute!”
“Yes, my dear.”
“Had you finished what you were eating?”
“Yes, quite finished.”
“You ate it all?”
“Virtually, yes, virtually.”
“And are you still all right? You are? Then go on up and get the book.”
“It is a very interesting experiment,” she said. “You see, in war-time it is simply impossible to let people keep their aluminum pots and saucepans merely because they prevent poisoning . . . we need the metal . . . so I have been having Alfred’s breakfast cooked in different kinds of cheap metal, to see which are free from poison. This morning I tried galvanized iron. Ah, here he comes with the book . . .”
Mr. Beeton shuffled in, his long Victorian dressing-gown up to his ears. He had a mild face, quite empty.
“Let me introduce Mr. Beeton, my husband,” said Mrs. Beeton.
Mr. Beeton came forward with an outstretched hand and a sort of feeble cheeriness.
“I rather think” — he began.
“You don’t need to, Alfred,” said Mrs. Beeton, “and now run along like a good boy for I have some important business here. Ask Cook for some beans that you are to eat — she knows which ones—”
“And now—” said Mrs. Beeton— “I know just what you’re thinking of — war-time recipes. You see, I have been working on it. I have a list of Recipes Directed to the War-Time Effort for conserving the natural food supply by (a) using minimum quantities, (b) using the cheapest ingredients, (c) making things go as far as possible, (d) preserving the flavor, taste and appetizing quality of dishes.”
“That’s it,” I said, “exactly,” and I took out a pad and pencil as I spoke— “and I’d like to write some of them down for the newspaper I represent.”
“Very good,” said Mrs. Beeton and began turning over the leaves of the big book. “Let me see — what shall we try? Now here — terrapin — tarragon — turtle soup — do you like turtle soup?”
“I do,” I said.
“So do I, very much, in fact I adore it. It’s too rich for Alfred but I used to serve it all the time. Let’s see what it says. ‘Take a fresh turtle, take one gill of old sherry or madeira.’ ”
“But stop,” I said, “I’m afraid there are no turtles on the market now” —
“No, I forgot, of course not — but this, pâté de foie sandwiches. ‘Take one gill of fine old brown sherry, one ounce of pâté, and a sandwich. Insert the pâté in the sandwich, and drink the sherry before serving.’
“Now that,” she said, “would be excellent for war workers in offices, just as a snack, every half hour or so, while waiting for meals. Here’s a similar one,” she went on, again turning the leaves, “that would be excellent to stave off fatigue. ‘Lobster jelly in aspic — take a gill or more of old brown sherry, one cold broiled lobster and a pot of melted aspic. Remove the lobster’s claws and dip them in the aspic. Drink the sherry while dipping them.’ And now here’s something that would be terribly good, I think, for men on active service, especially men at sea, who suffer from lack of appetite . . . it’s really delicious. Quail a la King — take a pint of Burgundy, one quail, and a few leaves of mace, thyme, rosemary, with either asparagus tips or French petits pois.”
“Oh, but I’m afraid, Mrs. Beeton,” I interrupted, “you had rather mistaken my meaning. I wasn’t thinking so much of delicacies, and luxuries and things to tempt the appetite. I was thinking more of plain food for the home, how to cook plain wholesome dishes at a minimum cost.”
“Ah, but you should have said so,” said Mrs. Beeton cheerfully — and I realized that whatever she might or might not be, she was at least a comfortable, cheerful sort of person, a result, no doubt, of much catering to the male appetite. “Plain food, of course, but that’s the very thing we are all most interested in. Let me see . . .” She readjusted her glasses and ran the leaves again through her fingers, muttering the headings as the pages went past . . . plain joints and cuts . . . dog meat . . . meat for the nursery . . . servants’ meals . . . feeding cats. “Ah, yes, now this for example — Irish Stew.”
Mrs. Beeton sat back triumphantly, her face all smiles, her book poised for reading.
“Irish Stew!” she repeated enthusiastically. “Do you like it?”
“Very much indeed,” I said, “and surely that must cost very little.”
“Nothing!” said Mrs. Beeton. “Practically nothing, when it’s made according to my recipe — just a few simple things and a few ingredients that are found in every kitchen. Now, suppose we work this out together. You check it off with your pencil. Of course, you can alter the quantities if you like. Are you ready? Take about a gill of old brown sherry . . . wait,” she said, “we’ll judge that by itself; nothing like accuracy. I’ll have Cook bring it.”
Mrs. Beeton reached out and pulled an old-fashioned bell-rope that hung beside her. To my surprise a cook appeared, looking like Mrs. Beeton herself, just out of an old-fashioned book — the full white apron, the queer white cap.
“You rang, ma’am?” she said.
“I did,” said Mrs. Beeton. “I want you to bring about a gill — or no, two gills; we must work it out separately — of sherry.”
“The old brown ma’am?” asked the cook.
“Yes, the old brown, and, oh, Cook — just a minute — has Mr. Beeton eaten his beans?”
“Yes ma’am,” said the cook, “all but a few.”
“Give those to Fido,” said Mrs. Beeton.
“I have,” said the cook; “she won’t touch them.”
“H’m,” said Mrs. Beeton thoughtfully. “Has Mr. Beeton gone upstairs yet?”
“No, ma’am, he’s just sitting there.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Beeton cheerfully, “digestion! I always have him sit very still when I’m experimenting. That’ll do, Cook, and thank you.”
“Now,” Mrs. Beeton went on, resuming her cheerful and efficient manner, “the use of sherry in Irish stew is a thing of which many people are ignorant. But it’s most economical as the Irish stew goes ever so much further if mixed with sherry . . . indeed you hardly need any stew. Now, try that sherry. Excellent, isn’t it?”
The good lady beamed over her sherry glass . . .
“No doubt you agree that a brown sherry is better in any recipe than a dry sherry . . . The only question is whether a gill is enough. However, let’s see what follows. Irish Stew. Take a dozen eggs.”
“A dozen eggs?” I protested. “But surely no one could afford a dozen, and anyway eggs are not in a stew.”
“We always mix the gravy, the liquid part first,” explained Mrs. Beeton. “Take a dozen eggs, or more as required, and beat them in French Burgundy; stir in bay leaves, rosemary, and a liberal quantity of truffles.”
“But surely,” I protested again, “no one could have all those things now. What is the meat part?”
“It’s economy in the long run,” said Mrs. Beeton. “After that come the potatoes and plain vegetables and all that but, if you like, I’ll skip that to go right to the meat . . . let me see. Yes, here . . . take a young boiled lamb and throw away all of it but the ribs; dip these ribs in the stew as already prepared and serve with melted butter and anchovy sauce laced with brandy.”
But at that moment Cook appeared in the doorway.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” she said.
“Well,” said Mrs. Beeton, “what is it?”
“It’s master. He seems took rather bad. He’s fallen off his chair.”
“Tut, tut,” said Mrs. Beeton quietly, “the beans, of course. But some of our experiments are bound to fail; we must simply persevere and persevere. Cook,” she continued, “you must run across the street to the doctor’s and ask him to come over, and to bring his stomach pump, the large one . . .”
“And now,” she said, turning to me, “I’m afraid I must ask you to excuse me. Illness in the house always depresses me. I shall take a walk. Good morning.”
GOOD NEWS! A NEW PARTY!
(“THE OLD-TIME POLITICAL parties, gentlemen, have had their day. What we need is new life, new energy and, above all, if I may say so, a new Working of the Spirit.” — From any soapbox, Halifax to California.)
It is a great pleasure — indeed it gives me a thrill — to be able to announce to the public through the kindly medium of this volume that at last the New Party has come! The hope, the promise, contained in such words as those above is fulfilled. The thing is here. I saw its inception. I was present at it myself no later than last night. All that is now needed is to keep it incepted . . .
Now, please, don’t ask me for details, for names and places and all that; everything will appear in the full publicity of the newspapers.
It came about this way. I’m not in politics but I have many friends who are — some on one side, some on the other, some on both . . . naturally I hear of the new movements. So when Hoggitt called on the phone to me to come down and join him at the Piccadilly I knew that the big stuff was on.
I found him there at a table and he began to talk, right away and with the greatest enthusiasm, about the new Party. You know Hoggitt. He’s all right. He’s got a sort of fierce way of talking, but he’s all right. He’s a big dark fellow and he always seems to be threatening but he isn’t — that is, he is in a way, but he’s all right. Anyway I’d no sooner sat down than he was talking full speed of the Party — with a sort of inspiration.
“It’s the real thing,” he said, “it’s based on human sympathy and equality — where’s that damn waiter? We’re aiming at what the old parties never had — social cohesion — I’d like to fire that fellow — and the right of every man to a voice . . . gimme that check and don’t talk back to me. . .”
He was still muttering at the waiter when we left . . .
“We’ll drive along to the meeting,” he said.
But, of course, we couldn’t get a taxi; we waited — say, we must have waited four minutes; anyway Hoggitt said, “Oh come along. There’s no use waiting for a taxi; these taxi fellers just go beyond all limits . . . and money! What they’re making now! I don’t know what they get, but, by gosh, a mighty comfortable living, I’ll say! It’s a scandal.”
So we walked. In any case it was only four blocks and I was glad because it gave Hoggitt a chance to explain to me all about the new party. I must say it sounded fine — no more of that miserable intrigue and crookedness of the old parties . . . things done in the dark . . . no more leaning on the “interests” for money; just straight honesty. Hoggitt said that when we got to the hall he’d introduce me to the chairman, but not to pay too much attention to him as they were going to ease him out. Of course he doesn’t know it. They’ll keep him while they still need him. Hoggitt said he’s not sufficiently genial — that was it — or, no, I’ve got it wrong — too genial.
The meeting was in a pretty big hall. There must have been well over a hundred, most of them smoking and standing round. They looked all right, too. I’ve been to a good many political meetings but I couldn’t see anything wrong with them. Some of them looked mighty decent fellers, you know — educated — not like what you’d imagine at all. It seemed a kind of free and easy crowd. The chairman was just going to the platform so I only had time to shake hands with him, a middle aged looking man, quite well dressed — in fact I couldn’t see a thing wrong with him.
Anyway he got up to talk, but they didn’t listen much; they went on talking in groups round the room. Hoggitt said that’s the way they do; they find they can get through more business if they don’t listen. Hoggitt says that’s the curse of Washington and Ottawa — one of them; he named quite a few.
The chairman was talking about the name of the party. He said, “Gentlemen, you’ll be glad to know we’ve succeeded in getting a name for our party. You remember last week our difficulty over the proposal to christen the party the Forward Party . . .”
There was noise and applause which Hoggitt explained to me was because some of the members — people of fine old families who’d never moved since they came to America — thought that the Backward Party would be better, a finer ideal.
“We tried,” the chairman went on, “both the name Forward Party and the name Backward Party, and, as you recall, the name Backwards-and-Forwards Party. We wanted something that would mean progressive and yet mean conservative . . . but we couldn’t get it . . . We left, as you will remember, a committee sitting on it and they sat, at the Piccadilly, all that night but failed to find it. I’m glad to say that there has since come in the brilliant suggestion of a member — I won’t name him — but you all know him, who gives us the title The Non-Party Party . . .”
Great applause . . . and cries . . . “Carried! Carried!”
Hoggitt explained to me on the side that the name came from Prof. Woodstick, Professor of Greek, who’s in the party. In fact some of them call him the “brains of the party.” Hoggitt thinks they’ll probably have to drop him. People don’t like the idea of brains running a party. Look at Washington or at Ottawa — at the successful parties. Still I’ll say in favor of Professor Woodstick, he doesn’t look educated . . .
The chairman came and sat with us, while a man — I didn’t catch his name — was talking on what shall we do to get the farmer’s vote. It seems he’s a member of the platform committee (subsection farming), but Mr. Mills the chairman says they’ll probably have to shift him off. He looks too countrified. Anyway nobody listened much. He was talking mostly about his own little place out near Knowlton — no, I’ve got that wrong — out past Knowlton; he said he wouldn’t call it exactly a farm, but we could call it a farm if we liked, so I called it a farm. It appears he grows a lot of stuff on it, more lettuce, for instance, than his wife can eat, in fact, nearly enough for the horse . . . Well, you know what farm talk is at political meetings; he asked how many had seen the new type of dry silo? They hadn’t . . .
But what he got to at length was the committee platform to catch the farm interest. I saw right away it was certainly good— “to give to all farmers a proper aggregate share of their own produce.” That’s the very thing to attract farmers. Someone wanted to insert the word “just” make it read a “just share.” But it was explained that the Liberals gave them that. They’ve had that since 1896.
There was a lot of unanimity and good feeling over that but on the other hand a lot of difficulty over the question of labor. The man who got up to talk (I didn’t catch his name, something like Fitkin, or Delbosse — a name like that) — anyway, he said he was a lawyer and couldn’t pretend to speak of labor but he said he had the deepest sympathy for labor but all the same it was hard even for a lawyer to get a formula to satisfy labor. A lot of the labor men now, he explained, are mighty well educated and it’s hard to put anything past them; difficult to find words for a platform that they wouldn’t see through. He’d made, he said, a conscientious attempt at some honest direct statement but everything seemed to have the same fault of giving away its meaning. He had had with him on the committee, he said, the Reverend Canon Sip . . .
There was applause at that, because everybody knows the Canon, and he was sitting right there anyway. Hoggitt explained that they had tried to keep him away but they failed; Hoggitt says it’s all right to talk of popularity but the Canon makes a bad impression — too damn simple and friendly, Hoggitt said. “It won’t go over with the plain people . . .”
Well, he’d had with him, the lawyer said, Canon Sip and their friend Mr. Vault who as they all knew was a bank manager, or rather an ex-bank manager, whom we were all glad to see back again with us, but with all that the three of them could do, it was hard to find any adequate words that wouldn’t right away show what was meant. It was no use, he said, to advocate a “just reward” for labor. That might be all right for farmers, probably too much, but labor would see through it right away. But he was glad to say that Canon Sip had suggested a labor platform that he believed would carry the country. “We propose to give to labor everywhere an entire freedom from work.”
“It won’t,” he added. “Dan and I (meet our mine superintendent) are taking a trip to Florida.”
COOKING FOR VICTORY
“OH, MRS. BEETON, is it really you? I am so delighted to meet you. How terribly well you look, and — if you don’t mind my saying so — how nice and plump. Of course it must be the good feeding.”
And with that we sat down to talk in Mrs. Beeton’s double drawing-room. It seemed so wonderful to be actually talking to Mrs. Beeton, that famous Mrs. Beeton of Mrs. Beeton’s Cook Book. I had imagined that she must have been dead and gone — perhaps cooked — long ago. Yet here she was, sitting in the drawing-room in front of me, and absolutely unmistakable — the full, matronly figure, the dark dress fitting close to what was called in her day the bust, the neatly parted hair, the bangles, the pince-nez — oh, Mrs. Beeton certainly, wherever she came from.
“I’m especially glad to meet you now,” I went on, “because there are so many things I want to ask you. In war-time, it seems to me, careful cooking and the economy of food would mean a tremendous lot.”
Mrs. Beeton gravely bowed her head. “In war-time,” she said, “as I frequently tell Mr. Beeton, the services of women are the mainstay of the nation.” . . .
“And what does Mr. Beeton say?”
“He doesn’t say anything,” she said, “I shouldn’t wish him to.”
“Mr. Beeton, I suppose, must be of great help to you in collaboration?”
“None whatever,” she said calmly— “or practically none. Of course he eats everything first, particularly now when there’s such a danger of poisoning.”
Then to my surprise she called: “Alfred!”
I was aware of something in a dressing-gown shuffling around in the other half of the room and a voice said, “Yes, my dear!”
“Go up and bring me down from my writing-table my Cooking for War-time, the 1943 Revision.”
I heard something start shuffling up the stairs. Then Mrs. Beeton called, as if by an afterthought.
“Alfred, one minute!”
“Yes, my dear.”
“Had you finished what you were eating?”
“Yes, quite finished.”
“You ate it all?”
“Virtually, yes, virtually.”
“And are you still all right? You are? Then go on up and get the book.”
“It is a very interesting experiment,” she said. “You see, in war-time it is simply impossible to let people keep their aluminum pots and saucepans merely because they prevent poisoning . . . we need the metal . . . so I have been having Alfred’s breakfast cooked in different kinds of cheap metal, to see which are free from poison. This morning I tried galvanized iron. Ah, here he comes with the book . . .”
Mr. Beeton shuffled in, his long Victorian dressing-gown up to his ears. He had a mild face, quite empty.
“Let me introduce Mr. Beeton, my husband,” said Mrs. Beeton.
Mr. Beeton came forward with an outstretched hand and a sort of feeble cheeriness.
“I rather think” — he began.
“You don’t need to, Alfred,” said Mrs. Beeton, “and now run along like a good boy for I have some important business here. Ask Cook for some beans that you are to eat — she knows which ones—”
“And now—” said Mrs. Beeton— “I know just what you’re thinking of — war-time recipes. You see, I have been working on it. I have a list of Recipes Directed to the War-Time Effort for conserving the natural food supply by (a) using minimum quantities, (b) using the cheapest ingredients, (c) making things go as far as possible, (d) preserving the flavor, taste and appetizing quality of dishes.”
“That’s it,” I said, “exactly,” and I took out a pad and pencil as I spoke— “and I’d like to write some of them down for the newspaper I represent.”
“Very good,” said Mrs. Beeton and began turning over the leaves of the big book. “Let me see — what shall we try? Now here — terrapin — tarragon — turtle soup — do you like turtle soup?”
“I do,” I said.
“So do I, very much, in fact I adore it. It’s too rich for Alfred but I used to serve it all the time. Let’s see what it says. ‘Take a fresh turtle, take one gill of old sherry or madeira.’ ”
“But stop,” I said, “I’m afraid there are no turtles on the market now” —
“No, I forgot, of course not — but this, pâté de foie sandwiches. ‘Take one gill of fine old brown sherry, one ounce of pâté, and a sandwich. Insert the pâté in the sandwich, and drink the sherry before serving.’
“Now that,” she said, “would be excellent for war workers in offices, just as a snack, every half hour or so, while waiting for meals. Here’s a similar one,” she went on, again turning the leaves, “that would be excellent to stave off fatigue. ‘Lobster jelly in aspic — take a gill or more of old brown sherry, one cold broiled lobster and a pot of melted aspic. Remove the lobster’s claws and dip them in the aspic. Drink the sherry while dipping them.’ And now here’s something that would be terribly good, I think, for men on active service, especially men at sea, who suffer from lack of appetite . . . it’s really delicious. Quail a la King — take a pint of Burgundy, one quail, and a few leaves of mace, thyme, rosemary, with either asparagus tips or French petits pois.”
“Oh, but I’m afraid, Mrs. Beeton,” I interrupted, “you had rather mistaken my meaning. I wasn’t thinking so much of delicacies, and luxuries and things to tempt the appetite. I was thinking more of plain food for the home, how to cook plain wholesome dishes at a minimum cost.”
“Ah, but you should have said so,” said Mrs. Beeton cheerfully — and I realized that whatever she might or might not be, she was at least a comfortable, cheerful sort of person, a result, no doubt, of much catering to the male appetite. “Plain food, of course, but that’s the very thing we are all most interested in. Let me see . . .” She readjusted her glasses and ran the leaves again through her fingers, muttering the headings as the pages went past . . . plain joints and cuts . . . dog meat . . . meat for the nursery . . . servants’ meals . . . feeding cats. “Ah, yes, now this for example — Irish Stew.”
Mrs. Beeton sat back triumphantly, her face all smiles, her book poised for reading.
“Irish Stew!” she repeated enthusiastically. “Do you like it?”
“Very much indeed,” I said, “and surely that must cost very little.”
“Nothing!” said Mrs. Beeton. “Practically nothing, when it’s made according to my recipe — just a few simple things and a few ingredients that are found in every kitchen. Now, suppose we work this out together. You check it off with your pencil. Of course, you can alter the quantities if you like. Are you ready? Take about a gill of old brown sherry . . . wait,” she said, “we’ll judge that by itself; nothing like accuracy. I’ll have Cook bring it.”
Mrs. Beeton reached out and pulled an old-fashioned bell-rope that hung beside her. To my surprise a cook appeared, looking like Mrs. Beeton herself, just out of an old-fashioned book — the full white apron, the queer white cap.
“You rang, ma’am?” she said.
“I did,” said Mrs. Beeton. “I want you to bring about a gill — or no, two gills; we must work it out separately — of sherry.”
“The old brown ma’am?” asked the cook.
“Yes, the old brown, and, oh, Cook — just a minute — has Mr. Beeton eaten his beans?”
“Yes ma’am,” said the cook, “all but a few.”
“Give those to Fido,” said Mrs. Beeton.
“I have,” said the cook; “she won’t touch them.”
“H’m,” said Mrs. Beeton thoughtfully. “Has Mr. Beeton gone upstairs yet?”
“No, ma’am, he’s just sitting there.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Beeton cheerfully, “digestion! I always have him sit very still when I’m experimenting. That’ll do, Cook, and thank you.”
“Now,” Mrs. Beeton went on, resuming her cheerful and efficient manner, “the use of sherry in Irish stew is a thing of which many people are ignorant. But it’s most economical as the Irish stew goes ever so much further if mixed with sherry . . . indeed you hardly need any stew. Now, try that sherry. Excellent, isn’t it?”
The good lady beamed over her sherry glass . . .
“No doubt you agree that a brown sherry is better in any recipe than a dry sherry . . . The only question is whether a gill is enough. However, let’s see what follows. Irish Stew. Take a dozen eggs.”
“A dozen eggs?” I protested. “But surely no one could afford a dozen, and anyway eggs are not in a stew.”
“We always mix the gravy, the liquid part first,” explained Mrs. Beeton. “Take a dozen eggs, or more as required, and beat them in French Burgundy; stir in bay leaves, rosemary, and a liberal quantity of truffles.”
“But surely,” I protested again, “no one could have all those things now. What is the meat part?”
“It’s economy in the long run,” said Mrs. Beeton. “After that come the potatoes and plain vegetables and all that but, if you like, I’ll skip that to go right to the meat . . . let me see. Yes, here . . . take a young boiled lamb and throw away all of it but the ribs; dip these ribs in the stew as already prepared and serve with melted butter and anchovy sauce laced with brandy.”
But at that moment Cook appeared in the doorway.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” she said.
“Well,” said Mrs. Beeton, “what is it?”
“It’s master. He seems took rather bad. He’s fallen off his chair.”
“Tut, tut,” said Mrs. Beeton quietly, “the beans, of course. But some of our experiments are bound to fail; we must simply persevere and persevere. Cook,” she continued, “you must run across the street to the doctor’s and ask him to come over, and to bring his stomach pump, the large one . . .”
“And now,” she said, turning to me, “I’m afraid I must ask you to excuse me. Illness in the house always depresses me. I shall take a walk. Good morning.”
GOOD NEWS! A NEW PARTY!
(“THE OLD-TIME POLITICAL parties, gentlemen, have had their day. What we need is new life, new energy and, above all, if I may say so, a new Working of the Spirit.” — From any soapbox, Halifax to California.)
It is a great pleasure — indeed it gives me a thrill — to be able to announce to the public through the kindly medium of this volume that at last the New Party has come! The hope, the promise, contained in such words as those above is fulfilled. The thing is here. I saw its inception. I was present at it myself no later than last night. All that is now needed is to keep it incepted . . .
Now, please, don’t ask me for details, for names and places and all that; everything will appear in the full publicity of the newspapers.
It came about this way. I’m not in politics but I have many friends who are — some on one side, some on the other, some on both . . . naturally I hear of the new movements. So when Hoggitt called on the phone to me to come down and join him at the Piccadilly I knew that the big stuff was on.
I found him there at a table and he began to talk, right away and with the greatest enthusiasm, about the new Party. You know Hoggitt. He’s all right. He’s got a sort of fierce way of talking, but he’s all right. He’s a big dark fellow and he always seems to be threatening but he isn’t — that is, he is in a way, but he’s all right. Anyway I’d no sooner sat down than he was talking full speed of the Party — with a sort of inspiration.
“It’s the real thing,” he said, “it’s based on human sympathy and equality — where’s that damn waiter? We’re aiming at what the old parties never had — social cohesion — I’d like to fire that fellow — and the right of every man to a voice . . . gimme that check and don’t talk back to me. . .”
He was still muttering at the waiter when we left . . .
“We’ll drive along to the meeting,” he said.
But, of course, we couldn’t get a taxi; we waited — say, we must have waited four minutes; anyway Hoggitt said, “Oh come along. There’s no use waiting for a taxi; these taxi fellers just go beyond all limits . . . and money! What they’re making now! I don’t know what they get, but, by gosh, a mighty comfortable living, I’ll say! It’s a scandal.”
So we walked. In any case it was only four blocks and I was glad because it gave Hoggitt a chance to explain to me all about the new party. I must say it sounded fine — no more of that miserable intrigue and crookedness of the old parties . . . things done in the dark . . . no more leaning on the “interests” for money; just straight honesty. Hoggitt said that when we got to the hall he’d introduce me to the chairman, but not to pay too much attention to him as they were going to ease him out. Of course he doesn’t know it. They’ll keep him while they still need him. Hoggitt said he’s not sufficiently genial — that was it — or, no, I’ve got it wrong — too genial.
The meeting was in a pretty big hall. There must have been well over a hundred, most of them smoking and standing round. They looked all right, too. I’ve been to a good many political meetings but I couldn’t see anything wrong with them. Some of them looked mighty decent fellers, you know — educated — not like what you’d imagine at all. It seemed a kind of free and easy crowd. The chairman was just going to the platform so I only had time to shake hands with him, a middle aged looking man, quite well dressed — in fact I couldn’t see a thing wrong with him.
Anyway he got up to talk, but they didn’t listen much; they went on talking in groups round the room. Hoggitt said that’s the way they do; they find they can get through more business if they don’t listen. Hoggitt says that’s the curse of Washington and Ottawa — one of them; he named quite a few.
The chairman was talking about the name of the party. He said, “Gentlemen, you’ll be glad to know we’ve succeeded in getting a name for our party. You remember last week our difficulty over the proposal to christen the party the Forward Party . . .”
There was noise and applause which Hoggitt explained to me was because some of the members — people of fine old families who’d never moved since they came to America — thought that the Backward Party would be better, a finer ideal.
“We tried,” the chairman went on, “both the name Forward Party and the name Backward Party, and, as you recall, the name Backwards-and-Forwards Party. We wanted something that would mean progressive and yet mean conservative . . . but we couldn’t get it . . . We left, as you will remember, a committee sitting on it and they sat, at the Piccadilly, all that night but failed to find it. I’m glad to say that there has since come in the brilliant suggestion of a member — I won’t name him — but you all know him, who gives us the title The Non-Party Party . . .”
Great applause . . . and cries . . . “Carried! Carried!”
Hoggitt explained to me on the side that the name came from Prof. Woodstick, Professor of Greek, who’s in the party. In fact some of them call him the “brains of the party.” Hoggitt thinks they’ll probably have to drop him. People don’t like the idea of brains running a party. Look at Washington or at Ottawa — at the successful parties. Still I’ll say in favor of Professor Woodstick, he doesn’t look educated . . .
The chairman came and sat with us, while a man — I didn’t catch his name — was talking on what shall we do to get the farmer’s vote. It seems he’s a member of the platform committee (subsection farming), but Mr. Mills the chairman says they’ll probably have to shift him off. He looks too countrified. Anyway nobody listened much. He was talking mostly about his own little place out near Knowlton — no, I’ve got that wrong — out past Knowlton; he said he wouldn’t call it exactly a farm, but we could call it a farm if we liked, so I called it a farm. It appears he grows a lot of stuff on it, more lettuce, for instance, than his wife can eat, in fact, nearly enough for the horse . . . Well, you know what farm talk is at political meetings; he asked how many had seen the new type of dry silo? They hadn’t . . .
But what he got to at length was the committee platform to catch the farm interest. I saw right away it was certainly good— “to give to all farmers a proper aggregate share of their own produce.” That’s the very thing to attract farmers. Someone wanted to insert the word “just” make it read a “just share.” But it was explained that the Liberals gave them that. They’ve had that since 1896.
There was a lot of unanimity and good feeling over that but on the other hand a lot of difficulty over the question of labor. The man who got up to talk (I didn’t catch his name, something like Fitkin, or Delbosse — a name like that) — anyway, he said he was a lawyer and couldn’t pretend to speak of labor but he said he had the deepest sympathy for labor but all the same it was hard even for a lawyer to get a formula to satisfy labor. A lot of the labor men now, he explained, are mighty well educated and it’s hard to put anything past them; difficult to find words for a platform that they wouldn’t see through. He’d made, he said, a conscientious attempt at some honest direct statement but everything seemed to have the same fault of giving away its meaning. He had had with him on the committee, he said, the Reverend Canon Sip . . .
There was applause at that, because everybody knows the Canon, and he was sitting right there anyway. Hoggitt explained that they had tried to keep him away but they failed; Hoggitt says it’s all right to talk of popularity but the Canon makes a bad impression — too damn simple and friendly, Hoggitt said. “It won’t go over with the plain people . . .”
Well, he’d had with him, the lawyer said, Canon Sip and their friend Mr. Vault who as they all knew was a bank manager, or rather an ex-bank manager, whom we were all glad to see back again with us, but with all that the three of them could do, it was hard to find any adequate words that wouldn’t right away show what was meant. It was no use, he said, to advocate a “just reward” for labor. That might be all right for farmers, probably too much, but labor would see through it right away. But he was glad to say that Canon Sip had suggested a labor platform that he believed would carry the country. “We propose to give to labor everywhere an entire freedom from work.”
