How I Met the President

Several years ago, when there was a small war going on in South Africa
and a great fuss going on in England, when it was by no means so popular
and convenient to be a Pro-Boer as it is now, I remember making
a bright suggestion to my Pro-Boer friends and allies, which was not,
I regret to say, received with the seriousness it deserved.
I suggested that a band of devoted and noble youths, including ourselves,
should express our sense of the pathos of the President's and
the Republic's fate by growing Kruger beards under our chins.
I imagined how abruptly this decoration would alter the appearance
of Mr. John Morley; how startling it would be as it emerged from under
the chin of Mr. Lloyd-George. But the younger men, my own friends,
on whom I more particularly urged it, men whose names are in many cases
familiar to the readers of this paper--Mr. Masterman's for instance,
and Mr. Conrad Noel--they, I felt, being young and beautiful,
would do even more justice to the Kruger beard, and when walking
down the street with it could not fail to attract attention.
The beard would have been a kind of counterblast to the Rhodes hat.
An appropriate counterblast; for the Rhodesian power in Africa
is only an external thing, placed upon the top like a hat;
the Dutch power and tradition is a thing rooted and growing
like a beard; we have shaved it, and it is growing again.
The Kruger beard would represent time and the natural processes.
You cannot grow a beard in a moment of passion.

. . . . .

After making this proposal to my friends I hurriedly left town.
I went down to a West Country place where there was shortly afterwards
an election, at which I enjoyed myself very much canvassing for
the Liberal candidate. The extraordinary thing was that he got in.
I sometimes lie awake at night and meditate upon that mystery;
but it must not detain us now. The rather singular incident
which happened to me then, and which some recent events have
recalled to me, happened while the canvassing was still going on.
It was a burning blue day, and the warm sunshine, settling everywhere
on the high hedges and the low hills, brought out into a kind
of heavy bloom that HUMANE quality of the landscape which,
as far as I know, only exists in England; that sense as if
the bushes and the roads were human, and had kindness like men;
as if the tree were a good giant with one wooden leg;
as if the very line of palings were a row of good-tempered gnomes.
On one side of the white, sprawling road a low hill or down
showed but a little higher than the hedge, on the other the land
tumbled down into a valley that opened towards the Mendip hills.
The road was very erratic, for every true English road exists
in order to lead one a dance; and what could be more beautiful
and beneficent than a dance? At an abrupt turn of it I came upon
a low white building, with dark doors and dark shuttered windows,
evidently not inhabited and scarcely in the ordinary sense inhabitable--
a thing more like a toolhouse than a house of any other kind.
Made idle by the heat, I paused, and, taking a piece of red chalk
out of my pocket, began drawing aimlessly on the back door--
drawing goblins and Mr. Chamberlain, and finally the ideal
Nationalist with the Kruger beard. The materials did not permit
of any delicate rendering of his noble and national expansion
of countenance (stoical and yet hopeful, full of tears for man,
and yet of an element of humour); but the hat was finely handled.
Just as I was adding the finishing touches to the Kruger fantasy,
I was frozen to the spot with terror. The black door,
which I thought no more of than the lid of an empty box,
began slowly to open, impelled from within by a human hand.
And President Kruger himself came out into the sunlight!

He was a shade milder of eye than he was in his portraits, and he did
not wear that ceremonial scarf which was usually, in such pictures,
slung across his ponderous form. But there was the hat which filled
the Empire with so much alarm; there were the clumsy dark clothes,
there was the heavy, powerful face; there, above all, was the Kruger
beard which I had sought to evoke (if I may use the verb) from under
the features of Mr. Masterman. Whether he had the umbrella or not I
was too much emotionally shaken to observe; he had not the stone
lions with him, or Mrs. Kruger; and what he was doing in that dark
shed I cannot imagine, but I suppose he was oppressing an Outlander.

I was surprised, I must confess, to meet President Kruger
in Somersetshire during the war. I had no idea that he was in
the neighbourhood. But a yet more arresting surprise awaited me.
Mr. Kruger regarded me for some moments with a dubious grey eye,
and then addressed me with a strong Somersetshire accent.
A curious cold shock went through me to hear that inappropriate voice
coming out of that familiar form. It was as if you met a Chinaman,
with pigtail and yellow jacket, and he began to talk broad Scotch.
But the next moment, of course, I understood the situation.
We had much underrated the Boers in supposing that the Boer
education was incomplete. In pursuit of his ruthless plot
against our island home, the terrible President had learnt not
only English, but all the dialects at a moment's notice to win
over a Lancashire merchant or seduce a Northumberland Fusilier.
No doubt, if I asked him, this stout old gentleman could
grind out Sussex, Essex, Norfolk, Suffolk, and so on,
like the tunes in a barrel organ. I could not wonder if our plain,
true-hearted German millionaires fell before a cunning so penetrated
with culture as this.

. . . . .

And now I come to the third and greatest surprise of all
that this strange old man gave me. When he asked me,
dryly enough, but not without a certain steady civility
that belongs to old-fashioned country people, what I wanted
and what I was doing, I told him the facts of the case,
explaining my political mission and the almost angelic qualities
of the Liberal candidate. Whereupon, this old man became
suddenly transfigured in the sunlight into a devil of wrath.
It was some time before I could understand a word he said,
but the one word that kept on recurring was the word "Kruger,"
and it was invariably accompanied with a volley of violent terms.
Was I for old Kruger, was I? Did I come to him and want him
to help old Kruger? I ought to be ashamed, I was . . . and
here he became once more obscure. The one thing that he made
quite clear was that he wouldn't do anything for Kruger.

"But you ARE Kruger," burst from my lips, in a natural explosion
of reasonableness. "You ARE Kruger, aren't you?"

After this innocent CRI DE COEUR of mine, I thought at first
there would be a fight, and I remembered with regret that
the President in early life had had a hobby of killing lions.
But really I began to think that I had been mistaken, and that it
was not the President after all. There was a confounding sincerity
in the anger with which he declared that he was Farmer Bowles,
and everybody knowed it. I appeased him eventually and parted
from him at the door of his farmhouse, where he left me with a few
tags of religion, which again raised my suspicions of his identity.
In the coffee-room to which I returned there was an illustrated
paper with a picture of President Kruger, and he and Farmer Bowles
were as like as two peas. There was a picture also of a group
of Outlander leaders, and the faces of them, leering and triumphant,
were perhaps unduly darkened by the photograph, but they seemed
to me like the faces of a distant and hostile people.

I saw the old man once again on the fierce night of the poll,
when he drove down our Liberal lines in a little cart ablaze
with the blue Tory ribbons, for he was a man who would carry his
colours everywhere. It was evening, and the warm western light was
on the grey hair and heavy massive features of that good old man.
I knew as one knows a fact of sense that if Spanish and German
stockbrokers had flooded his farm or country he would
have fought them for ever, not fiercely like an Irishman,
but with the ponderous courage and ponderous cunning of the Boer.
I knew that without seeing it, as certainly as I knew without
seeing it that when he went into the polling room he put his
cross against the Conservative name. Then he came out again,
having given his vote and looking more like Kruger than ever.
And at the same hour on the same night thousands upon thousands
of English Krugers gave the same vote. And thus Kruger was
pulled down and the dark-faced men in the photograph reigned
in his stead.

Art of Worldly Wisdom Daily
In the 1600s, Balthasar Gracian, a jesuit priest wrote 300 aphorisms on living life called "The Art of Worldly Wisdom." Join our newsletter below and read them all, one at a time.
Sonnet-a-Day Newsletter
Shakespeare wrote over 150 sonnets! Join our Sonnet-A-Day Newsletter and read them all, one at a time.