“Class prejudice is the strongest lever in politics.”—Mr. Bang. Clatter! Clatter! Clatter!
January 13th.
I sat through the Opening of Parliament without a word. Gossip, comment, praise, and ridicule, bombarded my ears from four sides. I was lost in reverie. I once more reviewed my experiences, aims, and aspirations, the workings of my mind, and my schemings, since I came to Mumsie; and while my ways have been devious I seem to have journeyed from nowhere to—the same no—place. My first effort towards making friends with Mrs. Mount has, as Mr. Bang would say, “petered out.” This ambition was lost in those newer impulses that came from contact with Charlie Lien. How can I analyze them? Coming like a thought, a visitation from space, from infinity, I do not recognize them and I may not ask. Had I now a mother—Ah! Mumsie is a dear—it is with that sentence I began this diary—but I am not of her; flesh of her flesh, mind of her mind. Had I a mother, I could ask her and she could explain to me this development of what Uncle and Mr. Bang call the “social bug.”
And then the rest!
Mr. Bang’s fairy tale to little Jessie, the story of Ambition, really does not parallel my case, for I have not climbed. I have not had even the fleeting breath of happiness enjoyed by the “beautiful young lady,” while still she was amid the flowers of Friendship and Truth. Perhaps had I never met Charlie Lien and really had luck in securing somebody like Mrs. Mount to take an interest in me, I might have enjoyed that fleeting measure of reward. And the flowers of Friendship and Truth!—I had uprooted and trod them under foot that is true. But it is this blowing hot and cold over Charlie Lien that mystifies me—I seem to control myself so little, where he is concerned.
In his court dress, His Excellency, standing before his Senators, their wives and daughters, the High Court officials with their wives and daughters, and the Members of Parliament; the reading of his words of commendation and hope, all appealed to me, as being of a world to which I truly belonged. To me the assembled officials in their robes, spoke of a world with which my ancestors were intimate. Perhaps such thoughts are in keeping with the inherent process of ancestor worship—that Mr. Bang and Uncle say is ours. In any case, as I have before set down, I can find in it nothing but good.
It was an impressive scene, a pageant of far more potency than any mere form would cause. It spoke of great loyalty, a rule of faith and love. Altogether it was elevating and ennobling. I thank His Excellency for it: I thank Mr. Bang for it. I must not forget, or rather I must try and remember the extent of my indebtedness to him. I am certain that my mind was widened and broadened by this great experience.
There is quite a lot of ceremony about the Opening of Parliament. It always starts at three in the afternoon, and there are those who can get entree to the floor of the Senate Chamber by way of the entrance behind the dais. That is if they have enough “pull.” But I won’t bother with that.
The drowsiness developed by my musings, and the heat of the Senate Chamber, was quickly dispelled on our return to the Hotel by meeting Mrs. Mount.
“Why Mrs. Mount,” exclaimed Mumsie, on finding her in the rotunda.