Free Baldwin by Roy Jenkins Page B

the
Strand,
but sniffing it and with it the atmosphere around him. He was also probably ruminating, feeling his way, nudging towards a variety of decisions which he had to make. This was a technique which made it peculiarly difficult to say when he was working and when he was not. It made his work pattern not merely different from but the opposite to that of Asquith. With him the courts were rarely wholly open and never, except occasionally at Aix, wholly shut. His desk application was poor, but his recreations were semi-political. This was true of his walks, of his quiet dinners at the Davidsons’ or in the Travellers’ Club, of his afternoons of reading or letter-writing. He was contemptuous of those who could think and talk of nothing but party politics and political careers, but his own talk (and presumably his ownthought) was much about the penumbra of government and the idiosyncrasies of politicians. Lloyd George, in particular, was an unfailing source of repellent fascination to him.
    An inordinate proportion of his time was devoted to speech preparation and delivery. This was not because he was over-meticulous with individual words or phrases. Indeed, in the House of Commons and even in his highly expert use of the new medium of broadcasting, he often eschewed a manuscript and spoke from relatively sketchy notes. But he devoted a great deal of prior thought to the mood which he wished to create. 2 It was in this way that he made many of his policy decisions. A major speech had to be delivered. He wished its effect to be that of edging his audience and the nation in a particular direction. Accordingly, any policy announced had to be compatible with the objective. Any specific proposals, however, almost always followed from the mood and the words used to assist it, rather than first being sharply worked out, and then sustained by
ex post
argument. Baldwin was not in the highest category of orators. He had a good speaking voice, he was persuasive, he could mostly secure the attention of his opponents. He rarely opened new vistas and he rarely inspired his supporters. It was more that he carried them reluctantly with him. Yet to an exceptional extent the turning points of his career were marked not by actions but by speeches. He was right to devote a lot of attention to them.
    These turning points apart, he was also an addictive non-political speaker. He could seldom resist an invitation to address a learned society, a university, a county or regional association, a professional body, indeed any gathering of apparently public-spirited gentlemen brought together for non-commercial purposes. These speeches had to be rich inliterary illusion and ruminative aphorism. The words had to be carefully chosen so as to be at once simple and evocative. He must not be cleverly cynical like Lloyd George, or abrasive like Birkenhead, or pompous like Curzon or even olympianly cold like Balfour. He must speak from the heart. And there are few effects which require more time or effort to achieve. Even with the devoted and skilful help of Tom Jones, these excursions into literature and the borderlands of philosophy cut heavily into his working days.
    It follows almost necessarily from this pattern of life and work that Baldwin’s main decisions were taken by highly intuitive methods and often in unorthodox places. He was far from proceeding by relentless ratiocination after the careful assembly and study of all the available evidence upon the Cabinet table. He did not necessarily avoid decisions. On the contrary, in the early part of his leadership at least, he was arguably too precipitous. ‘He takes a leap in the dark,’ was one of Birkenhead’s unfriendly complaints, ‘looks round, and takes another.’ 4
    In the first autumn of his premiership he not merely took a leap in the dark but decided upon an expedition into the profound obscurity of political outer space. That year he had less time at Aix than usual. He did not leave