"No," said Leicester quietly, "they don't, at least not many. But they are inspired by the same motive as the actor is."
"And that?"
"Self, my dear fellow, self. The bonâ fide actor is generally poor, and he seeks money and popularity. The politician does not always want money, but he wants fame. He wants to lift his head above the crowd, he wants to be mentioned in the newspapers, he wants to be singled out as he passes along the stage of life. Does the actor care a fig about the welfare of the spectators? All he wants is their money and their applause. Does the politician care a fig about the welfare of the voter? Still, it's great fun."
"Come, come, Mr. Leicester," said Mr. Lowry, "it wouldn't do for the people down at Taviton to hear you say such things."
"Exactly," said Leicester; "the people like to be fooled. Therefore the best thing is to fool them. Besides, is it not all a part of one great show? We are puppets on the stage of life, and we have to play our part. And each plays it with his eye on the audience."
"Personally," said Purvis, "I should not spend time and money for such a purpose. I know it may sound like boasting; but I would give up politics to-morrow but for the good of my country."
"Some time ago," said Leicester mockingly, "I was invited to speak at a political meeting, to assist the candidature of a young politician, who is supposed to be filled with very noble sentiments. I went and listened to this young politician. During his speech a man interrupted. The speaker tried to answer him, and failed. The man continued his interruption. At last some one shouted, 'Don't trouble about him, he hasn't got a vote.' Immediately this young, high-souled politician said, 'I came to speak to electors, not to men who have no vote, and therefore no stake in the country.' Exactly. But think a moment. Who was this interrupter? He was a man with a life to live. He had his burdens to bear and his battles to fight. But he was not a voter, he could not help to send him to Parliament, therefore——" and Leicester shrugged his shoulders.
During this speech Purvis looked more and more angry. The blood mounted to his face and he shifted in his seat. Moreover, he saw that the eyes of the others were upon him, which did not add to his comfort.
"Yes, it's great fun," went on Leicester, "this acting on the great stage of life while the audience cheers or groans, as the case may be. But as to motives—well, let them pass."
"But, Mr. Leicester," said Olive, who had keenly enjoyed the conversation, partly because she was not sure whether Leicester was serious or only joking, "are you not forgetting that there are conscientious artists? Are there not artists who live for their art and care nothing about praise or blame?"