CHAPTER XI
CHAIRMEN
This ought to be a very long chapter, in spite of the fact that it has been done supremely well before. But I have not read M. Paul Blouet’s able work, nor have my experiences been his, so that I approach this very interesting part of my subject with a light heart. Let me at the outset declare that I by no means disapprove of chairmen, as so many of my colleagues do. A chairman who knows his business, and confines his share of the proceedings to a few well-chosen sentences, and the appearance of his name on the bills, is a jewel of price, and I have often been very glad to meet him. But I must admit that he is rare, and the difficulty that a secretary is always in when inviting a local celebrity to take the chair at a lecture is his inability to know whether the L.C. will not consider it a part of his functions to make a long rambling speech while the audience is waiting impatiently to hear the lecturer. As for the latter, he doesn’t count, of course, but I have often wondered what the chairman would have thought could he have known what was beneath my placidly smiling exterior, as I sat facing the audience, while the hands of the clock crept slowly round. And then the crowning outrage at about 8.25.
“But you don’t come to hear me, you come to hear the lecturer, and so I won’t stand between you and him any longer. But this I must say.” And then another five minutes of vapid twaddle. It is impossible to do justice to such people as that, and still more impossible for a lecturer to realise that there are people who really like that sort of thing. At least one would think so, judging by what they say aloud, but what they think, who can tell? However, between a chairman of that kind and no chairman at all there is a wide gap, and I cannot say that I ever grew to like the growing practice of expecting the lecturer to walk on the platform and begin his lecture as soon as eight o’clock strikes. And yet there is a further great advantage in this, you miss the absolutely nauseating votes of thanks at the end. What puny-minded person ever devised that method of giving pain to a poor man who has done them no intentional harm, to say nothing of making him and others lose their train very often, I have never been able to ascertain, but he was no friend of mine, whoever he was.
I suppose as I am writing about chairmen I ought to begin with instances where there were none, in order to fulfil modern literary requirements. Such instances, at any rate, will not take up much time, but I very well remember the first experience I ever had of the system. It was at Moseley or King’s Heath or Rotton Park, one of those suburbs of Birmingham, at any rate, which used to be famous for their Institutes, and to which we lecturers used to look forward for a consecutive list of seven or eight engagements. On arrival at the hall I saw no one except a bluff caretaker, who conducted me to a bare room, and brought me a chair. I asked him if there were no officials connected with the place whom I might expect to see before the lecture. He replied that there was no one there except himself and the audience.
“They’re in their seats all right,” he said; “and if you go on up those stairs when the clock strikes eight, you’ll find ’em before you. An’ a jolly good audience, too, they are.”
“But surely,” I demurred, “this isn’t usual. Do the lecturers never see anybody but the caretaker? And who do I look to for my fee?”
“Oh!” he laughed, “you’ll see the treasurer all right after the lecture. But that’s eight striking. This way, sir.”
I went in the direction indicated, and found myself facing a packed concourse of people, who gave me a rousing cheer. I began my lecture straight away, and was at once on the best possible terms with my audience, so that the hour and three-quarters passed like half an hour. But immediately the lights were turned up the hall began to empty, and by the time I was back in the little bare waiting-room again I think the caretaker and I were almost the only persons left in the building. He advanced towards me with a beaming smile, holding out an envelope, which he said the treasurer had asked him to hand me, because he was in a great hurry to get somewhere else.
“I suppose you can guess what’s in it,” he murmured, with a grin of pure good-fellowship.
I found it contained my cheque and a note “with the treasurer’s compts.,” and that was all. Still, although it was amply sufficient, I couldn’t help feeling that it was just a little too business-like, and said so. I was not at all surprised to hear that one lecturer who was a very big gun indeed, and whose fee was three times mine, felt himself so slighted, and his dignity so hurt, that upon meeting with similar treatment, he promptly refused to deliver his lecture, and departed as he had come. That, to my mind, was utterly indefensible conduct, punishing as it did a large number of quite innocent people. Besides the folly of it, for the lecturer would without doubt be blamed for non-appearance, and would have no chance of setting his side of the case before the audience.
I must admit, however, that such behaviour towards a lecturer is most unusual, and, in any case, it implies a great compliment, for it assumes that there is no chance of default on the part of the principal figure in the entertainment. But I must get on to the positive side of chairmen, and here I find myself embarrassed with riches. Strangely enough, one of the very last lectures I gave was embittered by an unwise chairman, who should have known better, since he was the pastor of the chapel where the lecture was given. My host, who lived near, had invited a wealthy friend to join us in the drive to the chapel—it was a bitterly cold, foggy night—and on arrival I was asked at what time the carriage should call for us, so as not to keep the coachman or the horse waiting in such inclement weather. Of course I said 9.40, the lecture being announced to begin at eight, and the coachman drove away.
Right here I find that I was just about to do a very worthy gentleman a grave injustice. My chairman was his worship the Mayor, but his functions were usurped by the parson, who led us on to the platform. The proceedings were opened by the parson giving out a long hymn, which was sung right through. Then followed a prayer, which lasted twelve minutes. Then another hymn was sung, and on its completion the pastor gave us an address about nothing in particular, but really, I think, for the pleasure of hearing himself speak. After ten minutes of this he introduced the chairman, who was commendably brief, but still occupied another five minutes. Then we sang another long hymn, after which that irrepressible parson introduced me with a great deal of tiresome eulogy. Eventually I faced the audience at 8.40, the forty minutes having been worse than wasted, for I was fretted almost beyond endurance, and so, I am sure, were many of the audience. I did my best to hurry through the lecture, but with the best will in the world it was 10.5 when I had finished. I am glad to say that I protested to the parson, in the interests of the next lecturer, but he only seemed surprised that anyone should object to what he considered were essential preliminaries. What my host and his guest said I leave to the imagination, my host being especially angry because of his coachman and valuable horse, condemned to endure that bitter fog for over half an hour to no purpose whatever.
Still, I suppose I must be grateful for small mercies in this case, for, owing to the Mayor saying that he must needs leave, we were spared what I am sure would otherwise have been another half-hour’s piffle, my undaunted parson being fully wound up to make three or four speeches more. On other occasions I have not been so fortunate. I have always tried my utmost to keep within the limits of an hour and a half, believing, as I firmly do, that more than that must bore an audience, besides rendering some of them liable to lose their trains in many cases. But alas! I have often found that the persons responsible for the lecture seemed to have no account of time or thought for anybody’s convenience, much less comfort. One such occasion I remember with considerable bitterness. The hall was immense, seating over two thousand on one floor, and at the back the people’s heads touched the ceiling. It was not ventilated at all, and packed with people, and as many of them had been in their places since 7.30, it may be imagined that the air was pretty thick when I marched on the platform, escorted by eight of the committee. No time was lost by the chairman in getting to work, but he had not been speaking for two minutes before I recognised what I was in for.
I have not the least idea what his speech was about, except that it had nothing to do with my lecture or lecturing in the abstract. After about ten minutes of it the audience began to signify their uneasiness by shuffling their feet, clapping and an occasional “sit down.” The chairman, however, held steadily on, raising his voice, as it became necessary, to make it heard above the growing hubbub, until at last there was a veritable pandemonium of noise, and he had to stop. But he waited only until the noise subsided, and then cried:
“Ye can mak’ all the noise ye’re a mind to. Ah’m goin’ ta deliver ma speech if Ah stand here a’ neet.”
Well! One would have thought Bedlam had broken loose. The uproar was terrific. I began to wonder what was going to happen. But though I hated that chairman violently, I could not help admiring him for his pluck and tenacity. Every one of the seven committee men begged him to sit down, but in vain, and at last, by sheer force of will and lung power, he did finish his speech, at 8.25. It was a fine exhibition of pertinacity, but it did me no good, for I was in momentary dread that the platform would be stormed, so furious had the audience become. But it was nothing short of wonderful to see how, directly the chairman had retired, every one settled down in perfect quiet. I could not have wished for a better hearing. But as soon as I had finished, which I did at ten o’clock, the hall began to empty with much noise of scuffling and chatter. That made no sort of difference to the committee. The chairman at some length called upon Mr. So-and-so to propose a vote of thanks to the lecturer. Eagerly Mr. So-and-so responded, also at some length, and when he had resumed his seat the chairman called upon Mr. Thingumy to second the motion. More speech—I may say that owing to the hubbub in the hall and the “hushing” of the committee, not a word of these addresses was heard, not that it seemed to matter to the speakers—and when the seconder had finished, the motion was put in due form, declared carried, and I was informed that the meeting unanimously thanked me for my address.
I merely bowed. I could not trust myself to speak, for fear of prolonging the proceedings. By now the hall was nearly empty, but still the dreary business went on—the chairman and lanternist had to be thanked, and, of course, the speaker could not be expected to curtail the speech he had waited so long to deliver. And so the long evening wore on until at 10.45 I emerged from the building, thoroughly weary, and feeling that I had well earned my fee. To many people I know that what I have stated will appear incredible, but I have no interest in stating untruths, even if I would do so, and I hope that no one will think me capable of so doing.
One quaint experience brings a smile even now, although I doubt very much if the chief performer saw any fun in the matter, and I am sure I hope that he was none the worse. Everything was very nice indeed as regards the preliminaries, and I quite fraternised with the secretary, a charming man. But as we were waiting for the chairman he said:
“I ought to warn you, Mr. Bullen, that our chairman is inclined to be a little long-winded. He can’t speak for nuts, but he’s the mainstay of the society, and most generous, and as all he expects in return is that he shall be chairman, we can’t very well refuse. But I’ll own that he’s a bit of a trial sometimes. Still, you’ll overlook that, won’t you, seeing matters are as I tell you?”
I readily assented, more especially when the chairman came in, and I was introduced to him. He was a fine soldierly-looking man, of about sixty-five, I should judge, and though he spoke little, what he did say was full of sense and to the point. Moreover, it was easy to see that he had the welfare of the Lecture Society very much at heart, and was anxious above all things that it should be a success. I was greatly taken with him, so much so, indeed, that I began to feel sure that the secretary was pulling my leg—it seemed impossible that such a man as the chairman seemed to be could be as foolish as the secretary’s words implied. However, eight o’clock struck, and we went on the platform, to the usual accompaniment of applause, to which I bowed and sat down.
The chairman then advanced to the front of the platform, and began the most extraordinary speech to which I have ever listened. I was petrified with astonishment, for the man seemed in some mysterious way to have changed. He gave utterance to an incoherent jumble of words, that made me feel dizzy with my attempts to get a clue to their meaning. Not for long, because I soon concluded that there was no meaning, but that left other things entirely unexplained. Evidently the audience were well used to him, for they sat quite still as he rambled on, obviously prepared to endure him as long as they could. And then another fact became evident: not only could the poor man only talk nonsense, but he could not find a place to leave off. And I began to worry myself seriously as the hands of the clock stole round, and still the flood of fortuitous words rolled on.
Then I noticed that the lights were being turned out. The hall was lit by large arc lamps, in pairs, and some unseen friend was switching them off two by two, until only two were left, and they were in such a position that the platform was nearly dark. And suddenly the chairman disappeared! He had fallen off the platform! And the audience applauded frantically, as if it had been a well-rehearsed effect most successfully performed. But, stranger still, the unseen friend switched off the remaining lights, the lanternist flashed on the first picture, and I plunged into my lecture. I never was listened to with more attention, nor have I ever been more appreciated, and the end of the lecture came with a suddenness that surprised me. But there were no votes of thanks, for—I never saw the chairman again. Nor to this day do I know whether his sudden descent from the platform injured him or not, for on my return to the anteroom, fully prepared to condole or excuse, whatever, in fact, seemed indicated, not a word was said by the secretary about the occurrence at all. Not that there was any awkwardness or stiffness about our intercourse, the matter simply wasn’t mentioned, that was all. But to this day it strikes me as the funniest as well as the most dramatic ending to a chairman’s speech I ever heard of or experienced.
But in this case I was warned, and consequently I did not feel at all annoyed or worried. There was an occasion, not so very long ago, though, when I was both, because in addition to what I suffered, the chairman had previously assured me that he knew nothing about the business, that it was his first time of officiating, and he begged me to tell him just what he should do. I gave him a very candid outline of what I considered to be the duties of a chairman, and he promised me fervently that he would follow my directions implicitly, thanking me heartily for what he was pleased to call my kindness. So I felt very satisfied as I whispered to my host, the pastor of the chapel, what had happened.
It is not, therefore, easy to judge of my disgust and annoyance when after an opening that was a model of what a chairman’s address should be, this worthy man slid into an anecdote about his one and only voyage, which had neither point nor wit nor moral, and took twenty-five minutes in the telling. After which the usual wicked insult about not standing between the audience and the lecturer because they all wanted to hear what Mr. Bullen had to tell them. Then the miscreant sat down, at 8.30, and I got up, boiling with indignation, and extremely hard put to it to refrain from telling them that it was impossible for me to go on now. Only my strong sense of justice enabled me to act upon what I always felt to be right, a refusal to punish all the audience for the offence of one man.
By the time the lecture was finished I had recovered my equanimity, and was quite prepared for a long and dreary period of moving, seconding and carrying votes of thanks. But I was not in the least prepared to hear my host, the parson, in moving the vote of thanks, include the chairman, and make a long eulogy of the delightful and most interesting reminiscence they had all enjoyed from the chairman! So now they were doubly indebted to him, not merely for presiding at that gathering, but for giving them so dramatic, so entertaining, so perfectly charming a description of his own experiences, and he, the parson, earnestly trusted that he, the chairman, would favour them again at the earliest opportunity. Of course after that the chairman could do no less than make another long, rambling speech, in the course of which he repeated himself six times, and I sat simmering. I had acknowledged the vote by a bow, I could not trust myself to speak, but as soon as I got the parson by himself I asked him point-blank what on earth he could have meant by what he said. His reply was somewhat incoherent, but the gist of it was that the goodwill of the chairman was important to their little community, while I didn’t matter. They might, and probably would never see me again, and anyhow it was of no consequence what I thought. He put it much nicer than that, but that was the sense of it, and I could not help acknowledging the force of his contention. So we will leave it at that.
Here it suddenly occurs to me that some folks will suppose that because of the few cranks I have endeavoured to sketch, my experiences of chairmen have been almost uniformly unpleasant. Now nothing could well be further from the truth. The chairmen whom I have had the good fortune to meet and to appear on the platform with have been with very few exceptions gentlemen with a perfect conception of their duties to the audience and the lecturer, and it has fairly often fallen to my lot to enjoy the chairman’s speech so thoroughly that I have been sorry when he has left off. But I suppose that only throws into higher relief the few cranks about whom I am writing. At any rate, having made my point clear, I hope, I will give a few more instances of chairmen who have made me wish them (or myself) elsewhere.
One gentleman in particular I remember who made me feel desperately uncomfortable, although I am sure that his intentions were as benevolent as he knew how to make them. He told the intent audience such things about me as made me go hot and cold all over. If he could have been believed, I ought never to have been sitting upon that platform, but enstatued in gold and set upon high, clear for all men to see and take pattern by. I was the fine flower not only of a blameless, strenuous and overcoming life, but the quintessence of the best of the age. Never but once have I had to listen to such encomia upon myself, and that was at second-hand in a theological college near Gisborne, New Zealand. A Maori student orated at me, and one of his fellows translated. But that was not so bad, for somehow we all understood that at least ninety per cent must be deducted for rhetoric. This Englishman, however, speaking of me—me who sat suffering there by his side—ransacked all his obviously great reading for tropes and metaphors wherewith to enrich his eulogy of me, with the net result that I never felt more exquisitely uncomfortable.
When at last he had concluded, and I stood up to address my auditors, I began by bewailing not merely my inability to justify the praises of me they had heard, but that of any son of Adam to do so. Yet as nothing on earth is evil unmixed, I had derived some benefit from the exceedingly severe trial through which I had passed, in that I had learned that it was still in my power to blush and feel uneasy at undeserved praise. This was well worth a little inconvenience to learn, for already I had heard as much flattery as any ordinary person could swallow, and had hardly turned a hair. I suppose the long years of buffeting and contumely through which I had passed—for I was over forty years of age before I ever got any praise for anything—had made that sweet incense almost savourless to me when it did come. At any rate, I can safely say that I was so toughened against it that it did me very little harm. I never grew to look for it as my due, and feel slighted if it were not paid.
But this chapter is growing to an inordinate length, and I must, for the sake of appearances, commence a new one, although it will still be upon the topic of chairmen. But I hope in the next chapter to mingle a good deal of praise with what has perhaps appeared like censure or at least sarcasm. It is not really, for I am fully convinced that each of the gentlemen I have described did his level best to fulfil what he conceived to be his duty, and it was only because he had somehow got a wrong idea of what that duty was that he made such obvious blunders.