THE ICE CHANCELLOR.

Star (Christchurch), Volume LXVI, Issue 20283, 18 April 1934, Page 1

THE ICE CHANCELLOR.

*en Picture of Mr Neville Chamberlain. To find Neville Chamberlain, you ave to look into the eyes of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, says a vriter in an English newspaper on the >ccasion of last Budget. There you see the man behind the r.-zh of ice.

I suspect that he cultivates, and ather prides himself on, his frigid xterior. He sits on the Treasury Sench, an iceberg. He stands at the )ispatch Box, where his father, “Joe”

Chamberlain, stood, an iceberg. He goes to the Treasury, to the Cabinet, an iceberg all the time. Then, suddenly, you get a glimpse of the man. There is the glow of friendliness, humour and humanity in his eyes. He covers it quickly, as one a little ashamed of having let others see it; the wall of ice comes up again. '*• The Lightning Glimpse. He will say a bitter thing, be intensely official—as he can, better than anyone in the House. And he will give a more revealing second’s glimpse of his soul than anyone. Immaculate in the most formal morning dress, with the obsolete white slips framing his out-of-date satin tie, a tall, slim, straight figure, with dark shiny head he will put forward an official case as given in his brief—but he will always know a lot more about it. YV hen the official case has been presented—he is far too precise and methodical to interrupt it—he will t?.ke off his rimless glasses with a swing of the arm. The advocate will have completed his task; the plain man will just peep out and be put under lock and key again instantly. We saw it, and were astonished, when, as .Minister of Health, he spoke with feeling of his mother. We saw it again when, as Chancellor, he introduced the Tariff Bill and spoke of the pride his father would have had in the achievement. On each occasion, the door in the ice closed with a snap. But the House saw through in the instant, and knew what lay beyond. It saw a man who takes a keen delight in the pleasures of fishing, a man who likes things simple—hvmn music, plain food, severe furnishing. They saw a man with deep reverence for his parents and the family tradition of service to the nation in great and small office, a man cool of brain and searching, but ready to see the human side of a question, or to frolic with children in a garden. That all-revealing flash showed, too, the thinness of the armour. It blunted, lar more than could the armour itralf, many an attacking sword. Members realised that they attacked not some Robot but a human in fragile armour. A Job of Work. To-day, he will be formal. Figures will trip from his tongue, statistics and facts will be given to the House. There will be no drama of his conscious making. There will be no “ fireworks.” There will be no impressive pauses. Neville Chamberlain will have a job of work to do—and he will do it. He will perform the task that Philip Snowden, weak and ill. propped up, bandaged, against the table, with doctors nearby, did last year, the task that Winston Churchill, full of Quips and vitality, Lloyd George, picturesque and eloquent, Austen Chamberlain, formal and exact, Robert Horne, direc-tor-like, and Baldwin sticking to his brief, did before him. His secrets he will keep to the last. They will be given in the same matter-of-fact way. When it is over, he will smile at the congratulations . . . and the ice-barrier will be there again.