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Purple Springs - The Play (Part 3)
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."
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