Nellie McClung, Purple Springs (Toronto: U of
Toronto Press, 1992) 273-80.
Chapter XXII "The Play" (continued)
At least the woman Premier was reasonably good looking.
He looked harder at her. He decided she was certainly
handsome, and evidently the youngest of the company.
The delegation of men was introduced and received—the
House settled down to be courteous, and listen. Listening to
delegations was part of the day's work, and had to be
patiently borne.
The delegation presented its case through the leader, who
urged that men be given the right to vote and sit in
Parliament. The members of the Government smiled tolerantly.
The First Minister shook her head slowly and absent-mindedly
forgot to stop. But the leader of the delegation went on.
The man who sat in the third seat from the back found the
phrasing strangely familiar. He seemed to know what was
coming. Sure enough, it was almost word for word the
arguments the women had used when they came before the
House. The audience was in a pleasant mood, and laughed at
every point. It really did not seem to take much to amuse
them.
When the delegation leader had finished, and the applause
was over, there was a moment of intense silence. Every one
leaned forward, edging over in their seats to get the best
possible look.
The Woman Premier had risen. So intent was the audience
in their study of her face, they forgot to applaud. What
they saw was a tall, slight girl whose naturally brilliant
coloring needed no make-up; vivid as a rose, a straight
mouth with a whimsical smile. She gave the audience one
friendly smile, and then turned to address the delegation.
She put her hands in front of her, locking her fingers
with the thumbs straight up, gently moving them up and down,
before she spoke.
The gesture was familiar. It was the Premier's own, and a
howl of recognition came from the audience, beginning in the
Cabinet Ministers' box.
She tenderly teetered on her heels, waiting for them to
quiet down, but that was the occasion for another outburst.
"Gentlemen of the Delegation," she said, when she could be
heard, "I am glad to see you!"
The voice, a throaty contralto, had in it a cordial
paternalism that was as familiar as the Premier's face.
"Glad to see you—come any time, and ask for anything you
like. You are just as welcome this time as you were the last
time! We like delegations—and I congratulate this delegation
on their splendid, gentlemanly manners. If the men in
England had come before their Parliament with the frank
courtesy you have shown, they might still have been enjoying
the privilege of meeting their representatives in the
friendly way.
"But, gentlemen, you are your own answer to the question;
you are the product of an age which has not seen fit to
bestow the gift you ask, and who can say that you are not
splendid specimens of mankind? No! No! Any system which can
produce the virile, splendid type of men we have before us
today, is good enough for me, and," she added, drawing up
her shoulders in perfect imitation of the Premier when he
was about to be facetious, "if it is good enough for me—it
is good enough for anybody."
The people gasped with the audacity of it! The
impersonation was so good—it was weird—it was uncanny. Yet
there was no word of disrespect. The Premier's nearest
friends could not resent it.
Word for word, she proceeded with his speech, while the
theatre rocked with laughter. She was in the Premier's most
playful, God-bless-you mood, and simply radiated favors and
goodwill. The delegation was flattered, complimented, patted
on the head, as she dilated on their manly beauty and charm.
In the third seat from the back, Mr. Robertson Jones had
removed his dark glasses, and was breathing like a man with
double pneumonia. A dull, red rage burned in his heart, not
so much at anything the girl was saying, as the perfectly
idiotic way the people laughed.
"I shouldn't laugh," a woman ahead of him said, as she
wiped her eyes, "for my husband has a Government job and he
may lose it if the Government members see me but if I don't
laugh, I'll choke. Better lose a job than choke."
"But my dear young friends," the Premier was saying, "I
am convinced you do not know what you are asking me to do;"
her tone was didactic now; she was a patient Sunday School
teacher, labouring with a class of erring boys, charitable
to their many failings and frailties, hopeful of their
ultimate destiny, "you do not know what you ask. You have
not thought of it, of course, with the natural
thoughtlessness of your sex. You ask for something which may
disrupt the whole course of civilization. Man's place is to
provide for his family, a hard enough task in these
strenuous days. We hear of women leaving home, and we hear
it with deepest sorrow. Do you know why women leave home?
There is a reason. Home is not made sufficiently attractive.
Would letting politics enter the home help matters. Ah no!
Politics would unsettle our men. Unsettled men mean
unsettled bills—unsettled bills mean broken homes—broken
vows—and then divorce."
Her voice was heavy with sorrow, and full of apology for
having mentioned anything so unpleasant.
Many of the audience had heard the Premier's speech, and
almost all had read it, so not a point was lost.
An exalted mood was on her now—a mood that they all know
well. It had carried elections. It was the Premier's highest
card. His friends called it his magnetic appeal.
"Man has a higher destiny than politics," she cried, with
the ring in her voice that they had heard so often, "what is
home without a bank account? The man who pays the grocer
rules the world. Shall I call men away from the useful plow
and harrow, to talk loud on street corners about things
which do not concern them. Ah, no, I love the farm and the
hallowed associations—the dear old farm, with the drowsy
tinkle of cow-bells at eventide. There I see my father's
kindly smile so full of blessing, hardworking, rough-handed
man he was, maybe, but able to look the whole world in the
face…. You ask me to change all this."
Her voice shook with emotion, and drawing a huge white
linen handkerchief from the folds of her gown, she cracked
it by the corner like a whip, and blew her nose like a
trumpet.
The last and most dignified member of the Cabinet, caved
in at this, and the house shook with screams of laughter.
They were in the mood now to laugh at anything she said.
"I wonder will she give us one of his rages," whispered
the Provincial Secretary to the Treasurer.
"I'm glad he's not here," said the Minister of
Municipalities, "I'm afraid he would burst a blood vessel;
I'm not sure but I will myself."
"I am the chosen representative of the people, elected to
the highest office this fair land has to offer, I must guard
well its interests. No upsetting influence must mar our
peaceful firesides. Do you never read, gentlemen?" she asked
the delegation, with biting sarcasm, "do you not know of the
disgraceful happenings in countries cursed by manhood
suffrage? Do you not know the fearful odium into which the
polls have fallen—is it possible you do not know the origin
of that offensive word 'Poll-cat'; do you not know that men
are creatures of habit—give them an inch—and they will steal
the whole sub-division, and although it is quite true, as
you say, the polls are only open once in four years—when men
once get the habit—who knows where it will end—it is hard
enough to keep them at home now! No, history is full of
unhappy examples of men in public life; Nero, Herod, King
John—you ask me to set these names before your young people.
Politics has a blighting, demoralizing influence on men. It
dominates them, hypnotizes them, pursues them even after
their earthly career is over. Time and again it has been
proven that men came back and voted—even after they were
dead."
The audience gasped at that—for in the Premier's own
riding, there were names on the voters' lists, taken, it was
alleged, from the tomb-stones.
"Do you ask me to disturb the sacred calm of our
cemeteries?" she asked, in an awe-stricken tone—her big eyes
filled with the horror of it. "We are doing very well just
as we are, very well indeed. Women are the best students of
economy. Every woman is a student of political economy. We
look very closely at every dollar of public money, to see if
we couldn't make a better use of it ourselves, before we
spend it. We run our elections as cheaply as they are run
anywhere. We always endeavor to get the greatest number of
votes for the least possible amount of money. That is
political economy."
There was an interruption then from the Opposition
benches, a feeble protest from one of the private members.
The Premier's face darkened; her eyebrows came down
suddenly; the veins in her neck swelled, and a perfect fury
of words broke from her lips. She advanced threateningly on
the unhappy member.
"You think you can instruct a person older than yourself,
do you—you, with the brains of a butterfly, the acumen of a
bat; the backbone of a jelly-fish. You can tell me
something, can you? I was managing governments when you were
sitting on your high chair, drumming on a tin plate with a
spoon." Her voice boomed like a gun. "You dare to tell me
how a government should be conducted."
The man in the third seat from the back held to the arm
of the seat, with hands that were clammy with sweat. He
wanted to get up and scream. The words, the voice, the
gestures were as his own face in the glass.
Walking up and down, with her hands at right angles to
her body, she stormed and blustered, turning eyes of rage on
the audience, who rolled in their seats with delight.
"Who is she, Oh Lord, Who is she?" the Cabinet ministers
asked each other for the hundredth time.
"But I must not lose my temper," she said, calming
herself and letting her voice drop, "and I never
do—never—except when I feel like it—and am pretty sure I can
get away with it. I have studied self-control, as you all
know—I have had to, in order that I may be a leader, a
factor in building up this fair province; I would say that I
believe I have written my name large across the face of this
Province."
The government supporters applauded loudly.
"But gentlemen," turning again to the delegation, "I am
still of the opinion even after listening to your cleverly
worded speeches, that I will go on just as I have been
doing, without the help you so generously offer. My wish for
this fair, flower-decked land is that I may long be spared
to guide its destiny in world affairs. I know there is no
one but me—I tremble when I think of what might happen to
these leaderless lambs—but I will go forward confidently,
hoping that the good ship may come safely into port, with
the same old skipper on the bridge. We are not worrying
about the coming election, as you may think. We rest in
confidence of the result, and will proudly unfurl, as we
have these many years, the same old banner of the grand old
party that had gone down many times to disgrace, but thank
God, never to defeat."
The curtain fell, as the last word was spoken, but rose
again to show the "House" standing, in their evening gowns.
A bouquet of American beauty roses was handed up over the
foot-lights to the Premier, who buried her face in them,
with a sudden flood of loneliness. But the crowd was
applauding, and again and again she was called forward.
The people came flocking in through the wings, pleading
to be introduced to the "Premier," but she was gone.
In the crowd that ebbed slowly from the exits, no one
noticed the stout gentleman with the dark glasses, who put
his hat on before he reached the street, and seemed to be in
great haste.
The comments of the people around him, jabbed him like
poisoned arrows, and seared his heart like flame.
"I wonder was the Premier there," one man asked, wiping
the traces of merriment from his glasses, "I've laughed till
I'm sore—but I'm afraid he wouldn't see the same fun in it
as I do."
"Well, if he's sport enough to laugh at this, I'll say
he's some man," said another.
"That girl sure has her nerve—there isn't a man in this
city would dare do it."
"She'll get his goat—if he ever hears her—I'd advise the
old man to stay away."
"That's holding a mirror up the public life all right."
"But who is she?"
"The government will be well advised to pension that girl
and get her out of the country—a few more sessions of the
Women's Parliament, and the government can quit."
He hurried out into the brilliantly lighted street, stung
by the laughter and idle words. His heart was bursting with
rage, blind, bitter choking. He had been laughed at,
ridiculed, insulted—and the men, whom he had made—had sat by
applauding.
John Graham had, all his life, dominated his family
circle, his friends, his party, and for the last five years
had ruled the Province. Success, applause, wealth, had come
easily to him, and he had taken them as naturally as he
accepted the breath of his nostrils. They were his. But on
this bright night in May, as he went angrily down the back
street, with angry blows, the echo of the people's laughter
in his ears was bitter as the pains of death.
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