The House of Lords, in short, is a living example of the utility of the unworkable, the practicality of the impracticable, and the incredible sanity of the British Constitution. By all the rules of the game, in a Chamber composed of more than 600 people, fully half of whom have no serious political interests, governed apparently by no rules of procedure, and held in check, in fact, by nothing except tradition, the proceedings might be expected to be those of a disorderly rabble. In fact, 80 members is a good attendance, and 50 is nearer the average. The speeches are as a rule so closely reasoned, so admirably informed and of such excellence of style, as to be a source of never-ending envy to members of the Commons. Such a thing as a “constituency” speech is, of course, unknown. There are no “dockyard” members. Nothing need be said with a view to a general election. Nor can a member of the Upper Chamber be imagined making a speech, for the sake of speaking. It is not exactly an inviting atmosphere for such an undertaking. Imagine yourself standing up to address a huge and almost empty chamber, furnished with crimson benches, and tenanted by a smattering of elderly gentlemen all staring with polite fixity at their boots. It really looks as though this undemocratic and almost atavistic body, despite all its anomalies, was in practice something of an example to its elective fellow-House, both in the expeditious transaction of business and in the orderliness of its proceedings. Their very method of voting is indicative of their critical keenness, their impatience with the institutions of this world, their determination to be satisfied with nothing less than perfection. The form of the vote is not, as in the Commons, “Aye” and “No,” but “Content” and “Not Content.”
Usually they are not content.
IRREVERENT INTERVIEWS AND OTHER IRRELEVANCES
WITH LORD BALFOUR AT THE WASHINGTON CONFERENCE
He received me with exquisite courtesy, waved me into a chair, sank into another himself, and sat, with folded hands and an expression compounded of saintly refinement and dignified composure, regarding me gravely through limpid, untroubled eyes, protected from the tarnishing realities of the world by horn-rimmed spectacles. His silky, white hair gleamed softly in the half-light. His moustache reposed over a mouth touched with wistful sadness, but serene and courageous. Rarely have I seen anything more placid and self-possessed. But he had his small irritations. I was one of them.
“Yes,” he began, with the faintest air of hesitation, “yes. It’s good of you to have come—er. Er—most obliging, I’m sure. It’s a pity they didn’t tell me about it. You see, I’d already arranged.... Yes—(really troubled)—most unfortunate! (Brightening.) We might walk a little way together. (Troubled again.) But perhaps that wouldn’t suit you—no. It would? That’s very lucky. Shall we go now?... They’ll give me a hat, I suppose?...”
We found ourselves walking down a prodigious staircase, and I heard him say, “Extraordinary buildings these American hotels! I always wonder on what principle they’re constructed. The groining of the roof, for instance....” Well, to be truthful, I’m not really sure that he said “groining,” for my mind (I confess it with shame) was wandering speculatively among the mysterious “them” by whom all great men are surrounded. “They” are always lurking in the background. “They” do all the interesting things; but when some really unpleasant job comes along “they” always work it off on “him.” You can picture “them” planning out the day. “Now,” they say, “there’s your speech on the Irish question, your report for the League of Nations, the article you promised to write for the Hibbert Journal, new socks and ties, another hat, and that awful check waistcoat you bought to be exchanged for something quieter. We’ll do all that. Then there’s the christening of the Infant Princess Vodkha, and General Thing’s funeral. You’d better take those. They’re very important. Oh, and there’s the Pilgrims’ dinner in the evening. You can go to that, too. Mind you say nothing in your speech that we shall be sorry for afterwards.” I should like to be one of “them,” and feel that I was really pulling my weight in the country.
That, roughly, was the train of my thoughts, when I remembered that an interviewer’s business is to interview and not to acquiesce in excursions into the by-paths of architecture. “They” would never allow that.
“—and I’ve wondered sometimes,” he was saying, “whether the cantilever had anything to do with it. But—but, no doubt, you can tell me that.”
“I can,” I said, “but it would take too long to explain. Besides, the public expects me to put my few moments with you to a better purpose than discussing mechanics. The world is expecting a new era to date from the Washington Conference; and, as the chief British delegate——”