Part 22 (1/2)
CHAPTER XI
Inflexible determination is one of the qualities which the truly great leader of men shares with the domestic pig; though in the case of the pig it is generally spoken of as obstinacy. But the leader?General, Prime Minister or Captain of Industry?is distinguished from the pig by a certain intellectual suppleness which makes his obstinacy a more effective though less showy thing. The pig, being determined to go his own way, has no better idea than to tug desperately against the rope which is tied round his ankle. He tugs unwaveringly up to the very last moment, but in the end he is beaten because his master, having at command stout sticks and other instruments of torture, is stronger than he is. It is n.o.ble and heroic of the pig to persist in refusing to recognise that merely tugging the opposite way is no use to him. The great commander is wiser and in reality no less n.o.ble. He realises very early that destiny, armed with whips and goads, has a rope round his leg. He tugs, but when he finds that the rope will not break and that the whip cuts cruelly, he stops tugging and goes about to outwit destiny. Pretending to yield to the pull of the rope, he succeeds at last in getting his own way. Thus a general, faced by a hostile army, securely entrenched on the opposite bank of a deep river, does not make more than one attempt to swim his men across in the face of a concentrated rifle fire. The pig would make several attempts, would go on trying until he had no soldiers left, because he would feel that the only thing really worth doing was to a.s.sert himself against the confident foe. But the general, when he has lost enough men to convince him of the impossibility of a frontal attack by swimming, stops trying it and adopts another plan. He sees not only the insolent flags which wave upon the opposite bank, but the far off end of the campaign. He is not less determined than the pig would be to chastise the foe which is thwarting him, but he sees that this can be done quite as effectually by occupying the enemy's capital as by the mere winning of a battle. He understands that it is good to sacrifice the immediate for the sake of the ultimate object. He gives up the idea of fighting his way across and sends out scouts to discover the source of the river. When he finds it he leaves part of his army to watch the enemy while the other part marches round the end of the river and enters the enemy's chief stronghold from the back. Thus he gains his object and establishes his character for determination without losing half his army.
Dr. Lucius O'Grady was a born leader of men. He discovered very soon that in the matter of the performance of ”G.o.d Save the King” by the town band, fate had a rope round his leg and was likely to scourge him uncomfortably if he pulled against it. The introduction of variations into the tune proved to be a much more difficult matter than he had supposed. He worked hard for six hours on Major Kent's piano, and produced two versions of which he thought well, though neither of them completely satisfied him. He sent for Constable Moriarty and played them over to him. Moriarty sat and listened to the first.
”Would you know what that tune was, Moriarty?” said Dr. O'Grady.
”I would, of course. Anybody would. I don't say but there's bits in it that isn't right, but you have the tune safe enough.”
”Would Thady Gallagher know it?”
”He would,” said Moriarty, ”and what's more he'd be lepping mad when he heard it. And you couldn't wonder. You wouldn't like it yourself, doctor, if somebody was to play a tune at you that you hated worse nor you hate the devil.”
Dr. O'Grady was disappointed.
”Are you sure now,” he said, ”that he wouldn't be taken in by the variations? I don't know whether you quite realise the number of variations there are? Just listen to me again.”
He played his composition through once more, touching the notes which gave the tune very softly, hammering hard at the long runs and fiery groups of semi-quavers which he had sandwiched in between the sc.r.a.ps of tune.
”I wouldn't say,” said Moriarty, ”that you've destroyed it altogether; though it's my opinion that it's better the way it was before you set your hand to it. But anyhow you needn't be uneasy. There isn't a man, woman or child that ever heard the tune but would know what you're aiming at.”
Dr. O'Grady felt that Moriarty's judgment in the matter was too decisive and confident to be ignored.
”Very well,” he said. ”Now listen to this.”
He played through the second of his two compositions.
”Now,” he said, ”what tune is that, Moriarty?”
Moriarty scratched his head and looked inquiringly at the doctor.
”Is it what tune is that that you're asking me?” he said.
”Exactly. What tune is it?”
”It's no tune at all,” said Moriarty.
”Do you mean to say you don't recognise it?”
”I do not, and what's more n.o.body could. For there's no tune in it, only noise.”
The doctor hesitated. Moriarty's opinion was in one respect quite satisfactory. Neither Gallagher nor anyone else in Ballymoy was likely to recognise the tune. It might, of course, fail to impress the Lord-Lieutenant as being quite the proper thing. But that was a difficulty which could be got over. The Lord-Lieutenant was not likely to listen very attentively, and if he were told definitely that the band was playing ”G.o.d Save the King” he might possibly believe it.
”I'm thinking,” said Dr. O'Grady, ”of teaching that piece of music to the town band.”
”It'll fail you to do that,” said Moriarty.
”I don't see why.”