Delphi Complete Works of Stephen Leacock, page 94
No one spoke.
“Will anybody have some more ground peanuts?”
No one moved.
“Or does anybody want any more of the shredded tan bark? No? Or will somebody have another spoonful of sunflower seeds?”
There was still no sign of assent.
“Very well, then,” said Mr. Bryan, “the banquet, as such, is over, and we now come to the more serious part of our business. I need hardly tell you that we are here for a serious purpose. We are here to do good. That I know is enough to enlist the ardent sympathy of everybody present.”
There was a murmur of assent.
“Personally,” said The Lady Pacifist, “I do nothing else.”
“Neither do I,” said the guest who has been designated The Philanthropist, “whether I am producing oil, or making steel, or building motor-cars.”
“Does he build motor-cars?” whispered the humble person called The Man in the Street to his fellow, The General Public.
“All great philanthropists do things like that,” answered his friend. “They do it as a social service so as to benefit humanity; any money they make is just an accident. They don’t really care about it a bit. Listen to him. He’s going to say so.”
“Indeed, our business itself,” The Philanthropist continued, while his face lighted up with unselfish enthusiasm, “our business itself—”
“Hush, hush!” said Mr. Bryan gently. “We know—”
“Our business itself,” persisted The Philanthropist, “is one great piece of philanthropy.”
Tears gathered in his eyes.
“Come, come,” said Mr. Bryan firmly, “we must get to business. Our friend here,” he continued, turning to the company at large and indicating the Negro President on his right, “has come to us in great distress. His beautiful island of Haiti is and has been for many years overwhelmed in civil war. Now he learns that not only Haiti, but also Europe is engulfed in conflict. He has heard that we are making proposals for ending the war — indeed, I may say are about to declare that the war in Europe must stop — I think I am right, am I not, my friends?”
There was a general chorus of assent.
“Naturally then,” continued Mr. Bryan, “our friend the President of Haiti, who is overwhelmed with grief at what has been happening in his island, has come to us for help. That is correct, is it not?”
“That’s it, gentlemen,” said the Negro President, in a voice of some emotion, wiping the sleeve of his faded uniform across his eyes. “The situation is quite beyond my control. In fact,” he added, shaking his head pathetically as he relapsed into more natural speech, “dis hyah chile, gen’l’n, is clean done beat with it. Dey ain’t doin’ nuffin’ on the island but shootin’, burnin’, and killin’ somethin’ awful. Lawd a massy! it’s just like a real civilised country, all right, now. Down in our island we coloured people is feeling just as bad as youse did when all them poor white folks was murdered on the Lusitania!”
But the Negro President had no sooner used the words “Murdered on the Lusitania,” than a chorus of dissent and disapproval broke out all down the table.
“My dear sir, my dear sir,” protested Mr. Bryan, “pray moderate your language a little, if you please. Murdered? Oh, dear, dear me, how can we hope to advance the cause of peace if you insist on using such terms?”
“Ain’t it that? Wasn’t it murder?” asked the President, perplexed.
“We are all agreed here,” said The Lady Pacifist, “that it is far better to call it an incident. We speak of the ‘Lusitania Incident,’” she added didactically, “just as one speaks of the Arabic Incident, and the Cavell Incident, and other episodes of the sort. It makes it so much easier to forget.”
“True, quite true,” murmured The Eminent Divine, “and then one must remember that there are always two sides to everything. There are two sides to murder. We must not let ourselves forget that there is always the murderer’s point of view to consider.”
But by this time the Negro President was obviously confused and out of his depth. The conversation had reached a plane of civilisation which was beyond his reach.
The genial Mr. Bryan saw fit to come to his rescue.
“Never mind,” said Mr. Bryan soothingly. “Our friends here, will soon settle all your difficulties for you. I’m going to ask them, one after the other, to advise you. They will tell you the various means that they are about to apply to stop the war in Europe, and you may select any that you like for your use in Haiti. We charge you nothing for it, except of course your fair share of the price of this grape juice and the shredded nuts.”
The President nodded.
“I am going to ask our friend on my right” — and here Mr.
Bryan indicated The Lady Pacifist— “to speak first.”
There was a movement of general expectancy and the two obsequious guests at the foot of the table, of whom mention has been made, were seen to nudge one another and whisper, “Isn’t this splendid?”
“You are not asking me to speak first merely because I am a woman?” asked The Lady Pacifist.
“Oh no,” said Mr. Bryon, with charming tact.
“Very good,” said the lady, adjusting her glasses. “As for stopping the war, I warn you, as I have warned the whole world, that it may be too late. They should have called me in sooner. That was the mistake. If they had sent for me at once and had put my picture in the papers both in England and Germany, with the inscription ‘The True Woman of To-day,’ I doubt if any of the men who looked at it would have felt that it was worth while to fight. But, as things are, the only advice I can give is this. Everybody is wrong (except me). The Germans are a very naughty people. But the Belgians are worse. It was very, very wicked of the Germans to bombard the houses of the Belgians. But how naughty of the Belgians to go and sit in their houses while they were bombarded. It is to that that I attribute — with my infallible sense of justice — the dreadful loss of life. So you see the only conclusion that I can reach is that everybody is very naughty and that the only remedy would be to appoint me a committee — me and a few others, though the others don’t really matter — to make a proper settlement. I hope I make myself clear.”
The Negro President shook his head and looked mystified.
“Us coloured folks,” he said, “wouldn’t quite understand that. We done got the idea that sometimes there’s such a thing as a quarrel that is right and just.” The President’s melancholy face lit up with animation and his voice rose to the sonorous vibration of the negro preacher. “We learn that out of the Bible, we coloured folks — we learn to smite the ungodly—”
“Pray, pray,” said Mr. Bryan soothingly, “don’t introduce religion, let me beg of you. That would be fatal. We peacemakers are all agreed that there must be no question of religion raised.”
“Exactly so,” murmured The Eminent Divine, “my own feelings exactly. The name of — of — the Deity should never be brought in. It inflames people. Only a few weeks ago I was pained and grieved to the heart to hear a woman in one of our London streets raving that the German Emperor was a murderer. Her child had been killed that night by a bomb from a Zeppelin; she had its body in a cloth hugged to her breast as she talked — thank heaven, they keep these things out of the newspapers — and she was calling down God’s vengeance on the Emperor. Most deplorable! Poor creature, unable, I suppose, to realise the Emperor’s exalted situation, his splendid lineage, the wonderful talent with which he can draw pictures of the apostles with one hand while he writes an appeal to his Mohammedan comrades with the other. I dined with him once,” he added, in modest afterthought.
“I dined with him, too,” said Dr. Jordan. “I shall never forget the impression he made. As he entered the room accompanied by his staff, the Emperor looked straight at me and said to one of his aides, ‘Who is this?’ ‘This is Dr. Jordan,’ said the officer. The Emperor put out his hand. ‘So this is Dr. Jordan,’ he said. I never witnessed such an exhibition of brain power in my life. He had seized my name in a moment and held it for three seconds with all the tenaciousness of a Hohenzollern.
“But may I,” continued the Director of the World’s Peace, “add a word to what has been said to make it still clearer to our friend? I will try to make it as simple as one of my lectures in Ichthyology. I know of nothing simpler than that.”
Everybody murmured assent. The Negro President put his hand to his ear.
“Theology?” he said.
“Ichthyology,” said Dr. Jordan. “It is better. But just listen to this. War is waste. It destroys the tissues. It is exhausting and fatiguing and may in extreme cases lead to death.”
The learned gentleman sat back in his seat and took a refreshing drink of rain water from a glass beside him, while a murmur of applause ran round the table. It was known and recognised that the speaker had done more than any living man to establish the fact that war is dangerous, that gunpowder, if heated, explodes, that fire burns, that fish swim, and other great truths without which the work of the peace endowment would appear futile.
“And now,” said Mr. Bryan, looking about him with the air of a successful toastmaster, “I am going to ask our friend here to give us his views.”
Renewed applause bore witness to the popularity of The Philanthropist, whom Mr. Bryan had indicated with a wave of his hand.
The Philanthropist cleared his throat.
“In our business—” he began.
Mr. Bryan plucked him gently by the sleeve.
“Never mind your business just now,” he whispered.
The Philanthropist bowed in assent and continued:
“I will come at once to the subject. My own feeling is that the true way to end war is to try to spread abroad in all directions goodwill and brotherly love.”
“Hear, hear!” cried the assembled company.
“And the great way to inspire brotherly love all round is to keep on getting richer and richer till you have so much money that every one loves you. Money, gentlemen, is a glorious thing.”
At this point, Mr. Norman Angell, who had remained silent hitherto, raised his head from his chest and murmured drowsily:
“Money, money, there isn’t anything but money. Money is the only thing there is. Money and property, property and money. If you destroy it, it is gone; if you smash it, it isn’t there. All the rest is a great illus—”
And with this he dozed off again into silence.
“Our poor Angell is asleep again,” said The Lady Pacifist.
Mr. Bryan shook his head.
“He’s been that way ever since the war began — sleeps all the time, and keeps muttering that there isn’t any war, that people only imagine it, in fact that it is all an illusion. But I fear we are interrupting you,” he added, turning to The Philanthropist.
“I was just saying,” continued that gentleman, “that you can do anything with money. You can stop a war with it if you have enough of it, in ten minutes. I don’t care what kind of war it is, or what the people are fighting for, whether they are fighting for conquest or fighting for their homes and their children. I can stop it, stop it absolutely by my grip on money, without firing a shot or incurring the slightest personal danger.”
The Philanthropist spoke with the greatest emphasis, reaching out his hand and clutching his fingers in the air.
“Yes, gentlemen,” he went on, “I am speaking here not of theories but of facts. This is what I am doing and what I mean to do. You’ve no idea how amenable people are, especially poor people, struggling people, those with ties and responsibilities, to the grip of money. I went the other day to a man I know, the head of a bank, where I keep a little money — just a fraction of what I make, gentlemen, a mere nothing to me but everything to this man because he is still not rich and is only fighting his way up. ‘Now,’ I said to him, ‘you are English, are you not?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ he answered. ‘And I understand you mean to help along the loan to England with all the power of your bank.’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I mean it and I’ll do it.’ ‘Then I’ll tell you what,’ I said, ‘you lend one penny, or help to lend one penny, to the people of England or the people of France, and I’ll break you, I’ll grind you into poverty — you and your wife and children and all that belongs to you.’”
The Philanthropist had spoken with so great an intensity that there was a deep stillness over the assembled company. The Negro President had straightened up in his seat, and as he looked at the speaker there was something in his erect back and his stern face and the set of his faded uniform that somehow turned him, African though he was, into a soldier.
“Sir,” he said, with his eye riveted on the speaker’s face, “what happened to that banker man?”
“The fool!” said The Philanthropist. “He wouldn’t hear — he defied me — he said that there wasn’t money enough in all my business to buy the soul of a single Englishman. I had his directors turn him from his bank that day, and he’s enlisted, the scoundrel, and is gone to the war. But his wife and family are left behind; they shall learn what the grip of the money power is — learn it in misery and poverty.”
“My good sir,” said the Negro President slowly and impressively, “do you know why your plan of stopping war wouldn’t work in Haiti?”
“No,” said The Philanthropist.
“Because our black people there would kill you. Whichever side they were on, whatever they thought of the war, they would take a man like you and lead you out into the town square, and stand you up against the side of an adobe house, and they’d shoot you. Come down to Haiti, if you doubt my words, and try it.”
“Thank you,” said The Philanthropist, resuming his customary manner of undisturbed gentleness, “I don’t think I will. I don’t think somehow that I could do business in Haiti.”
The passage at arms between the Negro President and The Philanthropist had thrown a certain confusion into the hitherto agreeable gathering. Even The Eminent Divine was seen to be slowly shaking his head from side to side, an extreme mark of excitement which he never permitted himself except under stress of passion. The two humble guests at the foot of the table were visibly perturbed. “Say, I don’t like that about the banker,” squeaked one of them. “That ain’t right, eh what? I don’t like it.”
Mr. Bryan was aware that the meeting was in danger of serious disorder. He rapped loudly on the table for attention. When he had at last obtained silence, he spoke.
“I have kept my own views to the last,” he said, “because I cannot but feel that they possess a peculiar importance. There is, my dear friends, every prospect that within a measurable distance of time I shall be able to put them into practice. I am glad to be able to announce to you the practical certainty that four years from now I shall be President of the United States.”
At this announcement the entire company broke into spontaneous and heartfelt applause. It had long been felt by all present that Mr. Bryan was certain to be President of the United States if only he ran for the office often enough, but that the glad moment had actually arrived seemed almost too good for belief.
“Yes, my friends,” continued the genial host, “I have just had a communication from my dear friend Wilson, in which he tells me that he, himself, will never contest the office again. The Presidency, he says, interfered too much with his private life. In fact, I am authorised to state in confidence that his wife forbids him to run.”
“But, my dear Jennings,” interposed Dr. Jordan thoughtfully, “what about Mr. Hughes and Colonel Roosevelt?”
“In that quarter my certainty in the matter is absolute. I have calculated it out mathematically that I am bound to obtain, in view of my known principles, the entire German vote — which carries with it all the great breweries of the country — the whole Austrian vote, all the Hungarians of the sugar refineries, the Turks; in fact, my friends, I am positive that Roosevelt, if he dares to run, will carry nothing but the American vote!”
Loud applause greeted this announcement.
“And now let me explain my plan, which I believe is shared by a great number of sane, and other, pacifists in the country. All the great nations of the world will be invited to form a single international force consisting of a fleet so powerful and so well equipped that no single nation will dare to bid it defiance.”
Mr. Bryan looked about him with a glance of something like triumph. The whole company, and especially the Negro President, were now evidently interested. “Say,” whispered The General Public to his companion, “this sounds like the real thing? Eh, what? Isn’t he a peach of a thinker?”
“What flag will your fleet fly?” asked the Negro President.
“The flags of all nations,” said Mr. Bryan.
“Where will you get your sailors?”
“From all the nations,” said Mr. Bryan, “but the uniform will be all the same, a plain white blouse with blue insertions, and white duck trousers with the word PEACE stamped across the back of them in big letters. This will help to impress the sailors with the almost sacred character of their functions.”
“But what will the fleet’s functions be?” asked the
President.
“Whenever a quarrel arises,” explained Mr. Bryan, “it will be submitted to a Board. Who will be on this Board, in addition to myself, I cannot as yet say. But it’s of no consequence. Whenever a case is submitted to the Board it will think it over for three years. It will then announce its decision — if any. After that, if any one nation refuses to submit, its ports will be bombarded by the Peace Fleet.”
Rapturous expressions of approval greeted Mr. Bryan’s explanation.
“But I don’t understand,” said the Negro President, turning his puzzled face to Mr. Bryan. “Would some of these ships be British ships?”
“Oh, certainly. In view of the dominant size of the
British Navy about one-quarter of all the ships would be
British ships.”
“And the sailors British sailors?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Bryan, “except that they would be wearing international breeches — a most important point.”
“And if the Board, made up of all sorts of people, were to give a decision against England, then these ships — British ships with British sailors — would be sent to bombard England itself.”
“Will anybody have some more ground peanuts?”
No one moved.
“Or does anybody want any more of the shredded tan bark? No? Or will somebody have another spoonful of sunflower seeds?”
There was still no sign of assent.
“Very well, then,” said Mr. Bryan, “the banquet, as such, is over, and we now come to the more serious part of our business. I need hardly tell you that we are here for a serious purpose. We are here to do good. That I know is enough to enlist the ardent sympathy of everybody present.”
There was a murmur of assent.
“Personally,” said The Lady Pacifist, “I do nothing else.”
“Neither do I,” said the guest who has been designated The Philanthropist, “whether I am producing oil, or making steel, or building motor-cars.”
“Does he build motor-cars?” whispered the humble person called The Man in the Street to his fellow, The General Public.
“All great philanthropists do things like that,” answered his friend. “They do it as a social service so as to benefit humanity; any money they make is just an accident. They don’t really care about it a bit. Listen to him. He’s going to say so.”
“Indeed, our business itself,” The Philanthropist continued, while his face lighted up with unselfish enthusiasm, “our business itself—”
“Hush, hush!” said Mr. Bryan gently. “We know—”
“Our business itself,” persisted The Philanthropist, “is one great piece of philanthropy.”
Tears gathered in his eyes.
“Come, come,” said Mr. Bryan firmly, “we must get to business. Our friend here,” he continued, turning to the company at large and indicating the Negro President on his right, “has come to us in great distress. His beautiful island of Haiti is and has been for many years overwhelmed in civil war. Now he learns that not only Haiti, but also Europe is engulfed in conflict. He has heard that we are making proposals for ending the war — indeed, I may say are about to declare that the war in Europe must stop — I think I am right, am I not, my friends?”
There was a general chorus of assent.
“Naturally then,” continued Mr. Bryan, “our friend the President of Haiti, who is overwhelmed with grief at what has been happening in his island, has come to us for help. That is correct, is it not?”
“That’s it, gentlemen,” said the Negro President, in a voice of some emotion, wiping the sleeve of his faded uniform across his eyes. “The situation is quite beyond my control. In fact,” he added, shaking his head pathetically as he relapsed into more natural speech, “dis hyah chile, gen’l’n, is clean done beat with it. Dey ain’t doin’ nuffin’ on the island but shootin’, burnin’, and killin’ somethin’ awful. Lawd a massy! it’s just like a real civilised country, all right, now. Down in our island we coloured people is feeling just as bad as youse did when all them poor white folks was murdered on the Lusitania!”
But the Negro President had no sooner used the words “Murdered on the Lusitania,” than a chorus of dissent and disapproval broke out all down the table.
“My dear sir, my dear sir,” protested Mr. Bryan, “pray moderate your language a little, if you please. Murdered? Oh, dear, dear me, how can we hope to advance the cause of peace if you insist on using such terms?”
“Ain’t it that? Wasn’t it murder?” asked the President, perplexed.
“We are all agreed here,” said The Lady Pacifist, “that it is far better to call it an incident. We speak of the ‘Lusitania Incident,’” she added didactically, “just as one speaks of the Arabic Incident, and the Cavell Incident, and other episodes of the sort. It makes it so much easier to forget.”
“True, quite true,” murmured The Eminent Divine, “and then one must remember that there are always two sides to everything. There are two sides to murder. We must not let ourselves forget that there is always the murderer’s point of view to consider.”
But by this time the Negro President was obviously confused and out of his depth. The conversation had reached a plane of civilisation which was beyond his reach.
The genial Mr. Bryan saw fit to come to his rescue.
“Never mind,” said Mr. Bryan soothingly. “Our friends here, will soon settle all your difficulties for you. I’m going to ask them, one after the other, to advise you. They will tell you the various means that they are about to apply to stop the war in Europe, and you may select any that you like for your use in Haiti. We charge you nothing for it, except of course your fair share of the price of this grape juice and the shredded nuts.”
The President nodded.
“I am going to ask our friend on my right” — and here Mr.
Bryan indicated The Lady Pacifist— “to speak first.”
There was a movement of general expectancy and the two obsequious guests at the foot of the table, of whom mention has been made, were seen to nudge one another and whisper, “Isn’t this splendid?”
“You are not asking me to speak first merely because I am a woman?” asked The Lady Pacifist.
“Oh no,” said Mr. Bryon, with charming tact.
“Very good,” said the lady, adjusting her glasses. “As for stopping the war, I warn you, as I have warned the whole world, that it may be too late. They should have called me in sooner. That was the mistake. If they had sent for me at once and had put my picture in the papers both in England and Germany, with the inscription ‘The True Woman of To-day,’ I doubt if any of the men who looked at it would have felt that it was worth while to fight. But, as things are, the only advice I can give is this. Everybody is wrong (except me). The Germans are a very naughty people. But the Belgians are worse. It was very, very wicked of the Germans to bombard the houses of the Belgians. But how naughty of the Belgians to go and sit in their houses while they were bombarded. It is to that that I attribute — with my infallible sense of justice — the dreadful loss of life. So you see the only conclusion that I can reach is that everybody is very naughty and that the only remedy would be to appoint me a committee — me and a few others, though the others don’t really matter — to make a proper settlement. I hope I make myself clear.”
The Negro President shook his head and looked mystified.
“Us coloured folks,” he said, “wouldn’t quite understand that. We done got the idea that sometimes there’s such a thing as a quarrel that is right and just.” The President’s melancholy face lit up with animation and his voice rose to the sonorous vibration of the negro preacher. “We learn that out of the Bible, we coloured folks — we learn to smite the ungodly—”
“Pray, pray,” said Mr. Bryan soothingly, “don’t introduce religion, let me beg of you. That would be fatal. We peacemakers are all agreed that there must be no question of religion raised.”
“Exactly so,” murmured The Eminent Divine, “my own feelings exactly. The name of — of — the Deity should never be brought in. It inflames people. Only a few weeks ago I was pained and grieved to the heart to hear a woman in one of our London streets raving that the German Emperor was a murderer. Her child had been killed that night by a bomb from a Zeppelin; she had its body in a cloth hugged to her breast as she talked — thank heaven, they keep these things out of the newspapers — and she was calling down God’s vengeance on the Emperor. Most deplorable! Poor creature, unable, I suppose, to realise the Emperor’s exalted situation, his splendid lineage, the wonderful talent with which he can draw pictures of the apostles with one hand while he writes an appeal to his Mohammedan comrades with the other. I dined with him once,” he added, in modest afterthought.
“I dined with him, too,” said Dr. Jordan. “I shall never forget the impression he made. As he entered the room accompanied by his staff, the Emperor looked straight at me and said to one of his aides, ‘Who is this?’ ‘This is Dr. Jordan,’ said the officer. The Emperor put out his hand. ‘So this is Dr. Jordan,’ he said. I never witnessed such an exhibition of brain power in my life. He had seized my name in a moment and held it for three seconds with all the tenaciousness of a Hohenzollern.
“But may I,” continued the Director of the World’s Peace, “add a word to what has been said to make it still clearer to our friend? I will try to make it as simple as one of my lectures in Ichthyology. I know of nothing simpler than that.”
Everybody murmured assent. The Negro President put his hand to his ear.
“Theology?” he said.
“Ichthyology,” said Dr. Jordan. “It is better. But just listen to this. War is waste. It destroys the tissues. It is exhausting and fatiguing and may in extreme cases lead to death.”
The learned gentleman sat back in his seat and took a refreshing drink of rain water from a glass beside him, while a murmur of applause ran round the table. It was known and recognised that the speaker had done more than any living man to establish the fact that war is dangerous, that gunpowder, if heated, explodes, that fire burns, that fish swim, and other great truths without which the work of the peace endowment would appear futile.
“And now,” said Mr. Bryan, looking about him with the air of a successful toastmaster, “I am going to ask our friend here to give us his views.”
Renewed applause bore witness to the popularity of The Philanthropist, whom Mr. Bryan had indicated with a wave of his hand.
The Philanthropist cleared his throat.
“In our business—” he began.
Mr. Bryan plucked him gently by the sleeve.
“Never mind your business just now,” he whispered.
The Philanthropist bowed in assent and continued:
“I will come at once to the subject. My own feeling is that the true way to end war is to try to spread abroad in all directions goodwill and brotherly love.”
“Hear, hear!” cried the assembled company.
“And the great way to inspire brotherly love all round is to keep on getting richer and richer till you have so much money that every one loves you. Money, gentlemen, is a glorious thing.”
At this point, Mr. Norman Angell, who had remained silent hitherto, raised his head from his chest and murmured drowsily:
“Money, money, there isn’t anything but money. Money is the only thing there is. Money and property, property and money. If you destroy it, it is gone; if you smash it, it isn’t there. All the rest is a great illus—”
And with this he dozed off again into silence.
“Our poor Angell is asleep again,” said The Lady Pacifist.
Mr. Bryan shook his head.
“He’s been that way ever since the war began — sleeps all the time, and keeps muttering that there isn’t any war, that people only imagine it, in fact that it is all an illusion. But I fear we are interrupting you,” he added, turning to The Philanthropist.
“I was just saying,” continued that gentleman, “that you can do anything with money. You can stop a war with it if you have enough of it, in ten minutes. I don’t care what kind of war it is, or what the people are fighting for, whether they are fighting for conquest or fighting for their homes and their children. I can stop it, stop it absolutely by my grip on money, without firing a shot or incurring the slightest personal danger.”
The Philanthropist spoke with the greatest emphasis, reaching out his hand and clutching his fingers in the air.
“Yes, gentlemen,” he went on, “I am speaking here not of theories but of facts. This is what I am doing and what I mean to do. You’ve no idea how amenable people are, especially poor people, struggling people, those with ties and responsibilities, to the grip of money. I went the other day to a man I know, the head of a bank, where I keep a little money — just a fraction of what I make, gentlemen, a mere nothing to me but everything to this man because he is still not rich and is only fighting his way up. ‘Now,’ I said to him, ‘you are English, are you not?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ he answered. ‘And I understand you mean to help along the loan to England with all the power of your bank.’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I mean it and I’ll do it.’ ‘Then I’ll tell you what,’ I said, ‘you lend one penny, or help to lend one penny, to the people of England or the people of France, and I’ll break you, I’ll grind you into poverty — you and your wife and children and all that belongs to you.’”
The Philanthropist had spoken with so great an intensity that there was a deep stillness over the assembled company. The Negro President had straightened up in his seat, and as he looked at the speaker there was something in his erect back and his stern face and the set of his faded uniform that somehow turned him, African though he was, into a soldier.
“Sir,” he said, with his eye riveted on the speaker’s face, “what happened to that banker man?”
“The fool!” said The Philanthropist. “He wouldn’t hear — he defied me — he said that there wasn’t money enough in all my business to buy the soul of a single Englishman. I had his directors turn him from his bank that day, and he’s enlisted, the scoundrel, and is gone to the war. But his wife and family are left behind; they shall learn what the grip of the money power is — learn it in misery and poverty.”
“My good sir,” said the Negro President slowly and impressively, “do you know why your plan of stopping war wouldn’t work in Haiti?”
“No,” said The Philanthropist.
“Because our black people there would kill you. Whichever side they were on, whatever they thought of the war, they would take a man like you and lead you out into the town square, and stand you up against the side of an adobe house, and they’d shoot you. Come down to Haiti, if you doubt my words, and try it.”
“Thank you,” said The Philanthropist, resuming his customary manner of undisturbed gentleness, “I don’t think I will. I don’t think somehow that I could do business in Haiti.”
The passage at arms between the Negro President and The Philanthropist had thrown a certain confusion into the hitherto agreeable gathering. Even The Eminent Divine was seen to be slowly shaking his head from side to side, an extreme mark of excitement which he never permitted himself except under stress of passion. The two humble guests at the foot of the table were visibly perturbed. “Say, I don’t like that about the banker,” squeaked one of them. “That ain’t right, eh what? I don’t like it.”
Mr. Bryan was aware that the meeting was in danger of serious disorder. He rapped loudly on the table for attention. When he had at last obtained silence, he spoke.
“I have kept my own views to the last,” he said, “because I cannot but feel that they possess a peculiar importance. There is, my dear friends, every prospect that within a measurable distance of time I shall be able to put them into practice. I am glad to be able to announce to you the practical certainty that four years from now I shall be President of the United States.”
At this announcement the entire company broke into spontaneous and heartfelt applause. It had long been felt by all present that Mr. Bryan was certain to be President of the United States if only he ran for the office often enough, but that the glad moment had actually arrived seemed almost too good for belief.
“Yes, my friends,” continued the genial host, “I have just had a communication from my dear friend Wilson, in which he tells me that he, himself, will never contest the office again. The Presidency, he says, interfered too much with his private life. In fact, I am authorised to state in confidence that his wife forbids him to run.”
“But, my dear Jennings,” interposed Dr. Jordan thoughtfully, “what about Mr. Hughes and Colonel Roosevelt?”
“In that quarter my certainty in the matter is absolute. I have calculated it out mathematically that I am bound to obtain, in view of my known principles, the entire German vote — which carries with it all the great breweries of the country — the whole Austrian vote, all the Hungarians of the sugar refineries, the Turks; in fact, my friends, I am positive that Roosevelt, if he dares to run, will carry nothing but the American vote!”
Loud applause greeted this announcement.
“And now let me explain my plan, which I believe is shared by a great number of sane, and other, pacifists in the country. All the great nations of the world will be invited to form a single international force consisting of a fleet so powerful and so well equipped that no single nation will dare to bid it defiance.”
Mr. Bryan looked about him with a glance of something like triumph. The whole company, and especially the Negro President, were now evidently interested. “Say,” whispered The General Public to his companion, “this sounds like the real thing? Eh, what? Isn’t he a peach of a thinker?”
“What flag will your fleet fly?” asked the Negro President.
“The flags of all nations,” said Mr. Bryan.
“Where will you get your sailors?”
“From all the nations,” said Mr. Bryan, “but the uniform will be all the same, a plain white blouse with blue insertions, and white duck trousers with the word PEACE stamped across the back of them in big letters. This will help to impress the sailors with the almost sacred character of their functions.”
“But what will the fleet’s functions be?” asked the
President.
“Whenever a quarrel arises,” explained Mr. Bryan, “it will be submitted to a Board. Who will be on this Board, in addition to myself, I cannot as yet say. But it’s of no consequence. Whenever a case is submitted to the Board it will think it over for three years. It will then announce its decision — if any. After that, if any one nation refuses to submit, its ports will be bombarded by the Peace Fleet.”
Rapturous expressions of approval greeted Mr. Bryan’s explanation.
“But I don’t understand,” said the Negro President, turning his puzzled face to Mr. Bryan. “Would some of these ships be British ships?”
“Oh, certainly. In view of the dominant size of the
British Navy about one-quarter of all the ships would be
British ships.”
“And the sailors British sailors?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Bryan, “except that they would be wearing international breeches — a most important point.”
“And if the Board, made up of all sorts of people, were to give a decision against England, then these ships — British ships with British sailors — would be sent to bombard England itself.”
