MARGINAL COMMENT
By HAROLD NICOLSON
AFTER three weeks of a by-election it is agreeable to return to the amenities of private life. An experience such as that which I have recently undergone teaches one that it is sweet and decorous to pass unnoticed along the pavements or to sit unrecog- nised with other fellow-citizens upon an omnibus. The publicity of the last few days has much enhanced my sympathy for public men. How terrible it must be never for one instant to escape recogni- tion and that self-consciousness which comes from being observed! How ghastly to realise that until that last long privacy in West- minster Abbey one will always (even if one grows or shaves off a beard) be spotted by the populace, and that for the rest of one's life people will push for autographs or stare at one while one sips one's soup or eats a banana ! Pleasant indeed are the comforts of obscurity. All elections have about them an atmosphere of un- reality, but the attention aroused by a by-election renders even the most sedate candidate a motley to the view. The muscles of the cheek which operate the smile of comradeship, the smile of delighted recognition, the smile of glad benevolence, become strained and aching ; one comes to realise what is meant by such expressions as tennis elbow or writer's cramp. The wave of the hand and arm, which Kings and Queens manage with such dignity, is irksome to a shy person ; nor can any man accustomed to self- analysis and self-criticism feel happy when he observes himself flinging friendliness like confetti in the air, selling cheap what is most dear, and making public display of something so intimate and cherished. I have always disliked amateur theatricals ; my songs become sadly out of tune once I sing them in another key ; I was certainly not intended by nature or by training for one of the central figures in a harlequinade.
However determined one may be to utter no word, to make no gesture, which is misleading or insincere, the circumstances of an election, the fact that one is undeniably soliciting votes, do create around one an aura of falsity. It is this, I think, which renders any election odious to a person of sensibility. One does not mind the meetings ; it is quite amusing to play variations upon one's central theme and message ; and I am one of those strange people who really do enjoy being heckled. But what makes the whole procedure loathsome is that within a narrow space of time one seeks, and is bound to seek, to convey one's personality to an amorphous mass of people whom one has never met before and whom, in all likeli- hood, one will never meet again. Personality resembles the Monna Lisa of Pater ; it is the deposit, little cell by cell, of strange thoughts and fantastic reveries and exquisite passions. It is ungainly to make such a private thing as one's own personality hop three paces in the public streets of Upper Norwood. I much dislike trying to pro- duce within nineteen days a synthetic version of myself which, in effect if not in intention, must inevitably be a distorted version. At North Croydon this problem was enhanced by the fact that the division is a locality rather than a place. It possesses for the stranger no identity, no personality, no pulse even, of its own ; it is a line drawn around an arbitrary number of streets and houses ; there is but little local patriotism or character ; there is no village pump. The denizens of this dormitory do not regard themselves as citizens of North Croydon so much as citizens of Norwood, Norbury, or Thornton Heath. Thus the unreality of the external candidate is increased by the unreality of the place to which he brings his carpet bag. It is not possible, within nineteen days, for two such people to get to know each other. Their initial intercourse at least is bound to be artificial and embarrassed.
* * * * How curious, moreover, in an election of this intensity, are the relations between the candidate and his staff! The candidate, arriving lonely in an unknown land, suddenly fords himself sur- rounded by a staff of ardent technicians. They treat him with that watchful solicitude which a Newmarket trainer lavishes upon his horse. When he arrives in the morning they cast a quick glance at him to see whether he is showing any signs of weariness ; they are careful of him at street crossings and will help him gingerly to descend from a tram ; with but slight encouragement they would rub him with linseed or camphorated oil when he retires to bed. As the first week of testing merges on leaden feet into the second week of open combat, the staff acquire feelings of affection towards their horse, and feed the animal with crumpets, cake and constant cupi of tea. He is not supposed to know anything or to care anything about their organisation and the plans which they discuss. It is only from the street hoardings that he learns the dates of his meetings and the names of those who have been invited down from London to support him on the platform. As he wends his weary way he will be startled to be confronted by an enormous and unflattering portrait of himself bearing in huge letters words of exhortation and hope. From time to time, when canvassing, he will find neat leaflets issued in his name in which stirring messages are conveyed to the electorate in a voice and language far different from his own. Only those of the staff who are specially concerned with meetings and publicity will have time to attend his rallies or to listen to his inspiring speeches. The next morning the others will replace the telephone receiver for an instant and inquire perfunctorily, " How did the meeting go last night? " But they will not listen for the answer, but will continue with admirable application to organise. All this, I am sure, is perfectly correct ; after all, a horse on its way to Epsom is not expected to ask questions regarding the length of the course. * * * *
Instructive also is the procedure which is known as canvassing. I recommend it to all those who suffer from inhibitions or feelings of inferiority. Preceded by a loud-speaker van, decked like some prize steer with a huge rosette, the candidate is made to descend at the end of a street and to walk up the middle exuding charm. The canvassers will deploy to right and left, and the sound of door- knockers rapping mingles with the sound of the loud-speaker announcing that the candidate, in glorious person, is there for all to see. So soon as the canvassers find some housewife or tenant willing to shake hands with the candidate or to ask him questions, he is beckoned to the door. With modest courtesy he will approach this would-be constituent, raise his hat in adulation, and introduce himself in a few well chosen words. Meanwhile the loud-speaker up the street is continuing its brazen appeal, interspersed with the more favourable items of the candidate's biography and the more popular passages of his speeches and election address. I discovered, to my surprise, that as a canvasser I was very bad indeed. It was not only that a certain native pride deters me from overt solicitation ; it was not merely that I am averse from argument for argumenta- tion's sake ; it was also that I became so interested in the human problems confided to me that I would palm in my progress and lean against the doorway listening to the human tales. I would be re- called to my duties by a sudden change of tone on the loud speaker ; the flow of adulation would cease suddenly and a voice would pro- claim, " Please hurry up, Mr. Nicolson, we haven't got all night before us." Back I would go to the centre of the street, smiling the smile of elderly benevolence.
* * * * The worst of being old is that one it so apt to see the other person's point of view. A good candidate should be convinced that he is more intelligent, far more honourable, and infinitely more valuable to his country than any of his opponents. I have never been adept at that sort of thing. However convinced I may be of the rightness and inevitability of a given political doctrine, I am temperamentally unable to give even a faint breath of fanaticism to my conviction. " This election," a hardened journalist remarked to me last week, " stinks of kid gloves." T admit that there was a certain sobriety in our methods. Perhaps a degree of passion is necessary if one is to arouse the emotions of the elector. Yet my main regret for not being different is that I may have been a dis- appointment to my trainer and the stable hands.
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