It must not be supposed that Eddy neglected, in the cult of a manly patriotism, the other aspects of life. On the contrary, he induced Billy Raymond, a good-natured person, to give a lecture on the Drama, and after it, took a party to the Savoy Theatre, to see Granville Barker’s Shakespeare, which bored them a good deal. Then he got Jane to give an address on drawings, and, to illustrate it, took some rather apathetic youths to see Jane’s own exhibition. Also he conducted a party to where Mr. Roger Fry was speaking on Post-Impressionism, and then, when they had thoroughly grasped it, to the gallery where it was just then being exemplified. First he told them that they could laugh at the pictures if they choose, of course, but that was an exceedingly stupid way of looking at them; so they actually did not, such was his influence over them at this time. Instead, when he pointed out to them the beauties of Matisse, they pretended to agree with him, and listened tolerant, if bored, while he had an intelligent discussion with an artist friend whom he met.
All this is to say that Eddy had his young men well in hand—better in hand than Datcherd, who was less cordial and hail-fellow-well-met with them, had ever had them. It was great fun. Influencing people in a mass always is; it feels rather like driving a large and powerful car, which is sent swerving to right or left by a small turn of the wrist. Probably actors feel like this when acting, only more so; perhaps speakers feel like this when speaking. Doing what you like with people, the most interesting and absorbing of the plastic materials ready to the hand—that is better than working with clay, paints, or words. Not that Eddy was consciously aware of what he was doing in that way; only about each fresh thing as it turned up he was desirous to make these lads that he liked feel keen and appreciative, as he felt himself; and he was delighted that they did so, showing themselves thereby so sane, sensible, and intelligent. He had found them keen enough on some important things—industrial questions, certain aspects of Socialism, the Radical Party in politics; it was for him to make them equally keen on other things, hitherto apparently rather overlooked by them. One of these things was the Church; here his success was only partial, but distinctly encouraging. Another was the good in Toryism, which they were a little blind to. To open their eyes, he had a really intelligent Conservative friend of his to address them on four successive Tuesdays on politics. He did not want in the least to change their politics—what can be better than to be a Radical?—(this was as well, because it would have been a task outside even his sphere of influence)—but certainly they should see both sides. So both sides were set before them; and the result was certainly that they looked much less intolerantly than before upon the wrong side, because Mr. Oliver, who was a first-rater, gave it his countenance, as he had to Matisse and that tedious thing at the Savoy. Matisse, Shakespeare, Tariff Reform, they all seemed silly, but there, they pleased a good chap and a pleasant friend, who could also appreciate Harry Lauder, old Victor Grayson, Kipling, and the Minimum Wage.
Such were the interests of a varied and crowded life on club nights by the Lea. Distraught by them, Mr. Sidney Pollard wrote to his master in Greece—(address, Poste-Restante, Athens, where eventually his wanderings would lead him and he would call for letters)—to say that all was going to sixes and sevens, and here was a Tariff Reformer let loose on the Club on Tuesday evenings, and a parson to rot about his fancy Socialism on Wednesdays, and another parson holding a mission service in the street last Sunday afternoon, not even about Socialism—(this was Father Dempsey)—and half the club hanging about him and asking him posers, which is always the beginning of the end, because any parson, having been bred to it, can answer posers so much more posingly than anyone can ask them; and some captain or other talking that blanked nonsense about National Service, and giving round his silly buttons as if they were chocolate drops at a school-feast, and leading them on to go to an idiot Moving Picture Show, calculated to turn them all into Jingoes of the deepest dye; and some Blue Water maniac gassing about Dreadnoughts, so that “We want eight and we won’t wait” was sung by the school-children in the streets instead of “Every nice girl loves a sailor,” which may mean, emotionally, much the same, but is politically offensive. Further, Mr. Oliver had been giving Kipling readings, and half the lads were Kipling-mad, and fought to get Barrack-room Ballads out of the library. Finally, “Mr. Oliver may mean no harm, but he is doing a lot,” said Mr. Pollard. “If he goes on here, the tone of the Club will be spoilt, he is personally popular, owing to being a friend to all in his manner and having pleasant ways, and that is the worst sort. If you are not coming home yourself soon, perhaps you will make some change by writing, and tell Mr. Oliver if you approve of above things or not. I have thought it right to let you know all, and you will act according as you think. I very much trust your health is on the mend, you are badly missed here.”
Datcherd got that letter at last, but not just yet, for he was then walking inland across the Plain of Thessaly between Volo and Tempe.
CHAPTER X.
DATCHERD’S RETURN.
ON the last day of April, Eddy procured an Irish Nationalist to address the Club on Home Rule. He was a hot-tempered person, and despised English people and said so; which was foolish in a speaker, and rather discounted his other remarks, because the Club young men preferred to be liked, even by those who made speeches to them. His cause, put no doubt over-vehemently, was on the whole approved of by the Club, Radically inclined as it in the main was; but it is a noticeable fact that this particular subject is apt to fall dead on English working-class audiences, who have, presumably, a deeply-rooted feeling that it does not seriously affect them either way. Anyhow, this Nationalist hardly evoked the sympathy he deserved in the Club. Also they were inclined to be amused at his accent, which was unmodified Wexford. Probably Eddy appreciated him and his arguments more than anyone else did.
So, when on the second day of May Eddy introduced an Orangeman to speak on the same subject from another point of view, the audience was inclined to receive him favourably. The Orangeman was young, much younger than the Nationalist, and equally Irish, though from another region, both geographically and socially. His accent, what he had of it, is best described as polite North of Ireland, and he had been at Cambridge with Eddy. Though capable of fierceness, and with an Ulster-will-fight look in the eye, the fierceness was directed rather against his disloyal compatriots than against his audience, which was more satisfactory to the audience. And whenever he liked he could make them laugh, which was more satisfactory still. From his face you might, before he spoke, guess him to be a Nationalist, so essentially and indubitably south-west Irish was the look of it. To avert so distressing an error he did speak, as a rule, quite a lot.
He spoke this evening with energy, lucidity, humour, and vehemence, and the Club listened appreciatively. Gradually he worked them up from personal approval of himself to partial approval of, or at least sympathy with, his cause. He went into the financial question with an imposing production of figures. He began several times, “The Nationalists will tell you,” and then proceeded to repeat precisely what the Nationalist the other night had told them, only to knock it down with an argument that was sometimes conclusive, often would just do, and occasionally just wouldn’t; and the Club cheered the first sort, accepted the second as ingenious, and said “Oh,” good-humouredly, to the third. Altogether it was an excellent speech, full of profound conviction, with some incontrovertible sense, and a smattering of intelligent nonsense. Not a word was dull, and not a word was unkind to the Pope of Rome or his adherents, as is usual, and perhaps essential, in such speeches when produced in Ireland, and necessitates their careful expurgating before they are delivered to English audiences, who have a tolerant, if supercilious, feeling towards that misguided Church. The young man spoke for half an hour, and held his audience. He held them even when he said, drawing to the end, “I wonder do any of you here know anything at all about Ireland and Irish politics, or do you get it all second-hand from the English Radical papers? Do you know at all what you’re talking about? Bad government, incompetent economy, partiality, prejudice, injustice, tyranny—that’s what the English Radicals want to hand us over to. And that is what they will not hand us over to, because we in Ulster, the most truly and nationally Irish part of Ireland, have signed this.” He produced from his breast-pocket the Covenant, and held it up before them, so that they all saw the Red Hand that blazed out on it. He read it through to them, and sat down. Cheers broke out, stamping of feet, clapping of hands; it was the most enthusiastic reception a speaker had ever had at the Club.
Someone began singing “Rule Britannia,” as the nearest expression that occurred to him of the patriotic and anti-disruptive sentiments that filled him, and it was taken up and shouted all over the room. It was as if the insidious influence of Kipling, the National Service League, the Invasion Pictures, the Primrose League, and the Blue Water School, which had been eating with gradual corruption into the sound heart of the Club, was breaking out at last, under the finishing poison of Orangeism, into an eruption which could only be eased by song and shout. So they sang and shouted, some from enthusiasm, some for fun, and Eddy said to his friend the speaker, “You’ve fairly fetched them this time,” and looked smiling over the jubilant crowd, from the front chairs to the back, and, at the back of all, met the eyes of Datcherd. He stood leaning against the door, unjubilant, songless, morose, his hands in his pockets, a cynical smile faintly touching his lips. At his side was Sidney Pollard, with very bright eyes in a white face, and a “There, you see for yourself” air about him.
Eddy hadn’t known Datcherd was coming down to the Club to-night, though he knew he had arrived in England, three weeks before he had planned. Seeing him, he rose to his feet and smiled, and the audience, following his eyes, turned round and saw their returned president and master. Upon that they cheered again, louder if possible than before. Datcherd’s acknowledgment was of the faintest. He stood there for a moment longer, then turned and left the room.