I interrupted him at this point. He had cited his well-known fact to me several times. The son of a Liberal Cabinet Minister married the daughter of a well-known Conservative who had been a Cabinet Minister. It may be my stupidity but I cannot see how that union proves that financiers control politics. I am not, and never shall be either a money king or a gold bug, but in mere dread of hearing Gorman produce his well-known fact again I took up the task of defending the class to which Ascher belongs.
“After all, Gorman,” I said, “you ought to be a little grateful. You know perfectly well that there wouldn’t be any politics if financiers and other capitalists did not pay for them.”
“That’s just what I say,” said Gorman.
“No,” I said. “That’s not what you say. You say that financiers poison politics. But there’s the greatest difference between paying for a performance and poisoning the performers. Take a theatre for instance——”
“Talking of theatres,” said Gorman, “there’s a rattling good circus going on in New York at present. I’ll take you two men to see it some night.”
But I was not going to let Gorman ride away in this manner from an argument in which he was being worsted.
“Do let me finish what I am saying,” I said. “All your Parliaments and legislative assemblies are simply national theatres kept up for the amusement of the people. Somebody has to put up the money to keep them going. The ordinary man won’t do it. You can’t even get him to vote without hypnotising him first by means of a lot of speeches and newspaper articles and placards which stare at him from hoardings. Even after you’ve hypnotised him you have to drag him to your polling booth in motor cars. He wouldn’t go if you didn’t. As for paying for your show, you know perfectly well that there’d be no money for the running of it if it weren’t for a few financiers and rich men.”
One of Gorman’s most delightful characteristics is that he bears no malice when an argument goes against him.
“Begad, you’re right,” he said. “Right all the way along. At the present moment I’m on my way to America to get money for the Party. There’s a man I have my eye on out in Detroit, a fellow with millions, and an Irishman. I mean to get a good subscription out of him. That’s why I’m on this ship.”
“Curious,” I said. “I’m after money too. I have some investments in Canadian railway shares—nothing much, just a few thousands, but a good deal to me. I’m a little uneasy——”