THE PRIME MINISTER

by DAVID SKILTON

  ‘A king may make himself too common, Phineas.’

  ‘No doubt. A king has to know where to draw the line. But the Duke draws no intentional line at all. He is not by nature gregarious or communicative, and is therefore hardly fitted to be the head of a ministry.’

  ‘It will break her heart if anything goes wrong.’

  ‘She ought to remember that Ministries seldom live very long,’ said Phineas. ‘But she’ll recover even if she does break her heart. She is too full of vitality to be much repressed by any calamity. Have you heard what is to be done about Silverbridge?’

  ‘The Duchess wants to get it for this man, Ferdinand Lopez.’

  ‘But it has not been promised yet.’

  ‘The seat is not vacant,’ said Mrs Finn, ‘and I don’t know when it will be vacant. I think there is a hitch about it, – and I think the Duchess is going to be made very angry.’

  Throughout the autumn the Duke had been an unhappy man. While the absolute work of the Session had lasted he had found something to console him; but now, though he was surrounded by private secretaries, and though dispatch boxes went and came twice a day, though there were dozens of letters as to which he had to give some instruction, – yet, there was in truth nothing for him to do. It seemed to him that all the real work of the Government had been filched from him by his colleagues, and that he was stuck up in pretended authority, – a kind of wooden Prime Minister, from whom no real ministration was demanded. His first fear had been that he was himself unfit; – but now he was uneasy, fearing that others thought him to be unfit. There was Mr Monk with his budget, and Lord Drummond with his three or four dozen half-rebellious colonies, and Sir Orlando Drought with the House to lead and a ship to build, and Phineas Finn with his scheme of municipal Home Rule for Ireland, and Lord Ramsden with a codified Statute Book, – all full of work, all with something special to be done. But for him, – he had to arrange who should attend the Queen, what ribbons should be given away, and what middle-aged young man should move the address.9 He sighed as he thought of those happy days in which he used to fear that his mind and body would both give way under the pressure of decimal coinage.

  But Phineas Finn had read the Duke’s character rightly in saying that he was neither gregarious nor communicative, and therefore but little fitted to rule Englishmen. He had thought that it was so himself, and now from day to day he was becoming more assured of his own deficiency. He could not throw himself into cordial relations with the Sir Orlando Droughts, or even with the Mr Monks. But, though he had never wished to be put into his present high office, now that he was there he dreaded the sense of failure which would follow his descent from it. It is this feeling rather than genuine ambition, rather than the love of power or patronage or pay, which induces men to cling to place. The absence of real work, and the quantity of mock work, both alike made the life wearisome to him; but he could not endure the idea that it should be written in history that he had allowed himself to be made a faineant Prime Minister, and then had failed even in that. History would forget what he had done as a working Minister in recording the feebleness of the Ministry which would bear his name.

  The one man with whom he could talk freely, and from whom he could take advice, was now with him, here at his Castle. He was shy at first even with the Duke of St Bungay, but that shyness he could generally overcome, after a few words. But though he was always sure of his old friend’s sympathy and of his old friend’s wisdom, yet he doubted his old friend’s capacity to understand himself. The young Duke felt the old Duke to be thicker-skinned than himself and therefore unable to appreciate the thorns which so sorely worried his own flesh. ‘They talk to me about a policy,’ said the host. They were closeted at this time in the Prime Minister’s own sanctum, and there yet remained an hour before they need dress for dinner.

  ‘Who talks about a policy?’

  ‘Sir Orlando Drought especially.’ For the Duke of Omnium had never forgotten the arrogance of that advice given in the park.

  ‘Sir Orlando is of course entitled to speak, though I do not know that he is likely to say anything very well worth the hearing. What is his special policy?’

  ‘If he had any, of course I would hear him. It is not that he wants any special thing to be done, but he thinks that I should get up some special thing in order that Parliament may be satisfied.’

  ‘If you wanted to create a majority that might be true. Just listen to him and have done with it.’

  ‘I cannot go on in that way. I cannot submit to what amounts to complaint from the gentlemen who are acting with me. Nor would they submit long to my silence. I am beginning to feel that I have been wrong.’

  ‘I don’t think you have been wrong at all.’

  ‘A man is wrong if he attempts to carry a weight too great for his strength.’

  ‘A certain nervous sensitiveness, from which you should free yourself as from a disease, is your only source of weakness. Think about your business as a shoemaker thinks of his. Do your best, and then let your customers judge for themselves. Caveat emptor.10 A man should never endeavour to price himself, but should accept the price which others put on him, – only being careful that he should learn what that price is. Your policy should be to keep your government together by a strong majority. After all, the making of new laws is too often but an unfortunate necessity laid on us by the impatience of the people. A lengthened period of quiet and therefore good government with a minimum of new laws would be the greatest benefit the country could receive. When I recommended you to comply with the Queen’s behest I did so because I thought that you might inaugurate such a period more certainly than any other one man.’ This old Duke was quite content with a state of things such as he described. He had been a Cabinet Minister for more than half his life. He liked being a Cabinet Minister. He thought it well for the country generally that his party should be in power, – and if not his party in its entirety, then as much of his party as might be possible. He did not expect to be written of as a Pitt or a Somers;11 but he thought that memoirs would speak of him as a useful nobleman, – and he was contented. He was not only not ambitious himself, but the effervescence and general turbulence of ambition in other men was distasteful to him. Loyalty was second nature to him, and the power of submitting to defeat without either shame or sorrow had become perfect with him by long practice. He would have made his brother Duke such as he was himself, – had not his brother Duke been so lamentably thin-skinned.

  ‘I suppose we must try it for another Session?’ said the Duke of Omnium with a lachrymose voice.

  ‘Of course we must, – and for others after that, I both hope and trust,’ said the Duke of St Bungay, getting up. ‘If I don’t go upstairs I shall be late, and then her Grace will look at me with unforgiving eyes.’

  On the following day after lunch the Prime Minister took a walk with Lady Rosina De Courcy. He had fallen into a habit of walking with Lady Rosina almost every day of his life, till the people in the Castle began to believe that Lady Rosina was the mistress of some deep policy of her own. For there were many there who did in truth think that statecraft could never be absent from a minister’s mind, day or night. But in truth Lady Rosina chiefly made herself agreeable to the Prime Minister by never making any most distant allusion to public affairs. It might be doubted whether she even knew that the man who paid her so much honour was the Head of the British Government as well as the Duke of Omnium. She was a tall, thin, shrivelled-up old woman, – not very old, fifty perhaps, but looking at least ten years more, – very melancholy, and sometimes very cross. She had been notably religious, but that was gradually wearing off as she advanced in years. The rigid strictness of Sabbatarian practice requires the full energy of middle life. She had been left entirely alone in the world, with a very small income, and not many friends who were in any way interested in her existence. But she knew herself to be Lady Rosina De Courcy, and felt that the possession of that name ought to be more to her than money and friends,
or even than brothers and sisters. ‘The weather is not frightening you,’ said the Duke. Snow had fallen, and the paths, even where they had been swept, were wet and sloppy.

  ‘Weather never frightens me, your Grace. I always have thick boots; – I am very particular about that; – and cork soles.’

  ‘Cork soles are admirable.’

  ‘I think I owe my life to cork soles,’ said Lady Rosina enthusiastically. ‘There is a man named Sprout in Silverbridge who makes them. Did your Grace ever try him for boots?’

  ‘I don’t think I ever did,’ said the Prime Minister.

  ‘Then you had better. He’s very good and very cheap too. Those London tradesmen never think they can charge you enough. I find I can wear Sprout’s boots the whole winter through and then have them resoled. I don’t suppose you ever think of such things?’

  ‘I like to have my feet dry.’

  ‘I have got to calculate what they cost.’ They then passed Major Pountney, who was coming and going between the stables and the house, and who took off his hat and who saluted the host and his companion with perhaps more flowing courtesy than was necessary. ‘I never have found out what that gentleman’s name is yet,’ said Lady Rosina.

  ‘Pountney, I think. I believe they call him Major Pountney.’

  ‘Oh, Pountney! There are Pountneys in Leicestershire. Perhaps he is one of them?’

  ‘I don’t know where he comes from,’ said the Duke, – ‘nor, to tell the truth, where he goes to.’ Lady Rosina looked up at him with an interested air. ‘He seems to be one of those idle men who get into people’s houses heaven knows why, and never do anything.’

  ‘I suppose you asked him?’ said Lady Rosina.

  ‘The Duchess did, I dare say.’

  ‘How odd it would be if she were to suppose that you had asked him.’

  ‘The Duchess, no doubt, knows all about it.’ Then there was a little pause. ‘She is obliged to have all sorts of people,’ said the Duke apologetically.

  ‘I suppose so, – when you have so many coming and going. I am sorry to say that my time is up to-morrow, so that I shall make way for somebody else.’

  ‘I hope you won’t think of going, Lady Rosina, – unless you are engaged elsewhere. We are delighted to have you.’

  ‘The Duchess has been very kind, but – ’

  ‘The Duchess, I fear, is almost too much engaged to see as much of her guests individually as she ought to do. To me your being here is a great pleasure.’

  ‘You are too good to me, – much too good. But I shall have stayed out my time, and I think, Duke, I will go to-morrow. I am very methodical, you know, and always act by rule. I have walked my two miles now, and I will go in. If you do want boots with cork soles mind you go to Sprout’s. Dear me; there is that Major Pountney again. That is four times he has been up and down that path since we have been walking here.’

  Lady Rosina went in, and the Duke turned back, thinking of his friend and perhaps thinking of the cork soles of which she had to be so careful and which were so important to her comfort. It could not be that he fancied Lady Rosina to be clever, nor can we imagine that her conversation satisfied any of those wants to which he and all of us are subject. But nevertheless he liked Lady Rosina, and was never bored by her. She was natural, and she wanted nothing from him. When she talked about cork soles she meant cork soles. And then she did not tread on any of his numerous corns. As he walked on he determined that he would induce his wife to persuade Lady Rosina to stay a little longer at the Castle. In meditating upon this he made another turn in the grounds, and again came upon Major Pountney as that gentleman was returning from the stables. ‘A very cold afternoon,’ he said, feeling it to be ungracious to pass one of his own guests in his own grounds without a word of salutation.

  ‘Very cold indeed, your Grace, – very cold.’ The Duke had intended to pass on, but the Major managed to stop him by standing in the pathway. The Major did not in the least know his man. He had heard that the Duke was shy, and therefore thought that he was timid. He had not hitherto been spoken to by the Duke, – a condition of things which he attributed to the Duke’s shyness and timidity. But, with much thought on the subject, he had resolved that he would have a few words with his host, and had therefore passed backwards and forwards between the house and the stables rather frequently. ‘Very cold, indeed, but yet we’ve had beautiful weather. I don’t know when I have enjoyed myself so much altogether as I have at Gatherum Castle.’ The Duke bowed, and made a little but a vain effort to get on. ‘A splendid pile!’ said the Major, stretching his hand gracefully towards the building.

  ‘It is a big house,’ said the Duke.

  ‘A noble mansion; – perhaps the noblest mansion in the three kingdoms,’ said Major Pountney. ‘I have seen a great many of the best country residences in England, but nothing that at all equals Gatherum.’ Then the Duke made a little effort at progression, but was still stopped by the daring Major. ‘By-the-by, your Grace, if your Grace has a few minutes to spare, – just half a minute, – I wish you would allow me to say something.’ The Duke assumed a look of disturbance, but he bowed and walked on, allowing the Major to walk by his side. ‘I have the greatest possible desire, my Lord Duke, to enter public life.’

  ‘I thought you were already in the army,’ said the Duke.

  ‘So I am; – was on Sir Bartholomew Bone’s staff in Canada12 for two years, and have seen as much of what I call home service as any man going. One of my chief objects is to take up the army.’

  ‘It seems that you have taken it up.’

  ‘I mean in Parliament, your Grace. I am very fairly off as regards private means, and would stand all the racket of the expense of a contest myself, – if there were one. But the difficulty is to get a seat, and, of course, if it can be privately managed, it is very comfortable.’ The Duke looked at him again, – this time without bowing. But the Major, who was not observant, rushed on to his destruction. ‘We all know that Silverbridge will soon be vacant. Let me assure your Grace that if it might be consistent with your Grace’s plans in other respects to turn your kind countenance towards me, you would find that you would have a supporter than whom none would be more staunch, and perhaps I may say one who in the House would not be the least useful!’ That portion of the Major’s speech which referred to the Duke’s kind countenance had been learned by heart, and was thrown trippingly off the tongue with a kind of twang. The Major had perceived that he had not been at once interrupted when he began to open the budget of his political aspirations, and had allowed himself to indulge in pleasing auguries. ‘Nothing ask and nothing have,’ had been adopted as the motto of his life, and more than once he had expressed to Captain Gunner his conviction that, – ‘By George, if you’ve only cheek enough, there is nothing you cannot get.’ On this emergency the Major certainly was not deficient in cheek. ‘If I might be allowed to consider myself your Grace’s candidate, I should indeed be a happy man,’ said the Major.

  ‘I think, sir,’ said the Duke, ‘that your proposition is the most unbecoming and the most impertinent that ever was addressed to me.’ The Major’s mouth fell, and he stared with all his eyes as he looked up into the Duke’s face. ‘Good afternoon,’ said the Duke, turning quickly round and walking away. The Major stood for a while transfixed to the place, and, cold as was the weather, was bathed in perspiration. A keen sense of having ‘put his foot into it’ almost crushed him for a time. Then he assured himself that, after all, the Duke ‘could not eat him’, and with that consolatory reflection he crept back to the house and up to his own room.

  To put the man down had of course been an easy task to the Duke, but he was not satisfied with that To the Major it seemed that the Duke had passed on with easy indifference; – but, in truth, he was very far from being easy. The man’s insolent request had wounded him at many points. It was grievous to him that he should have as a guest in his own house a man whom he had been forced to insult. It was grievous to him that he himself should
not have been held in personal respect high enough to protect him from such an insult It was grievous to him that he should be openly addressed, – addressed by an absolute stranger, – as a boroughmongering lord, who would not scruple to give away a seat in Parliament as seats were given away in former days. And it was especially grievous to him that all these misfortunes should have come upon him as a part of the results of his wife’s manner of exercising his hospitality. If this was to be Prime Minister he certainly would not be Prime Minister much longer! Had any aspirant to political life ever dared so to address Lord Brock, or Lord De Terrier, or Mr Mildmay, the old Premiers whom he remembered? He thought not. They had managed differently. They had been able to defend themselves from such attacks by personal dignity. And would it have been possible that any man should have dared so to speak to his uncle, the late Duke? He thought not. As he shut himself up in his own room he grieved inwardly with a deep grief. After a while he walked off to his wife’s room, still perturbed in spirit. The perturbation had indeed increased from minute to minute. He would rather give up politics altogether and shut himself up in absolute seclusion than find himself subject to the insolence of any Pountney that might address him. With his wife he found Mrs Finn. Now for this lady personally he entertained what for him was a warm regard. In various matters of much importance he and she had been brought together, and she had, to his thinking, invariably behaved well. And an intimacy had been established which had enabled him to be at ease with her, – so that her presence was often a comfort to him. But at the present moment he had not wished to find anyone with his wife, and felt that she was in his way. ‘Perhaps I am disturbing you,’ he said in a tone of voice that was solemn and almost funereal.