It can never be a very easy thing to form a Ministry. The one chosen chief is readily selected. Circumstances, indeed, have probably left no choice in the matter. Every man in the country who has at all turned his thoughts that way knows very well who will be the next Prime Minister when it comes to pass that a change is imminent. In these days the occupant of the throne can have no difficulty. Mr Gresham recommends Her Majesty to send for Mr Daubeny, or Mr Daubeny for Mr Gresham — as some ten or a dozen years since Mr Mildmay told her to send for Lord de Terrier, or Lord de Terrier for Mr Mildmay. The Prime Minister is elected by the nation, but the nation, except in rare cases, cannot go below that in arranging details, and the man for whom the Queen sends is burdened with the necessity of selecting his colleagues. It may be — probably must always be the case — that this, that, and the other colleagues are clearly indicated to his mind, but then each of these colleagues may want his own inferior coadjutors, and so the difficulty begins, increases, and at length culminates. On the present occasion it was known at the end of a week that Mr Gresham had not filled all his offices, and that there were difficulties. It was announced that the Duke of St Bungay could not quite agree on certain points with Mr Gresham, and that the Duke of Omnium would do nothing without the other Duke. The Duke of St Bungay was very powerful, as there were three or four of the old adherents of Mr Mildmay who would join no Government unless he was with them. Sir Harry Coldfoot and Lord Plinlimmon would not accept office without the Duke. The Duke was essential, and now, though the Duke’s character was essentially that of a practical man who never raised unnecessary trouble, men said that the Duke was at the bottom of it all. The Duke did not approve of Mr Bonteen. Mr Gresham, so it was said, insisted on Mr Bonteen — appealing to the other Duke. But that other Duke, our own special Duke, Planty Pall that was, instead of standing up for Mr Bonteen, was cold and unsympathetic. He could not join the Ministry without his friend, the Duke of St Bungay, and as to Mr Bonteen, he thought that perhaps a better selection might be made.
Such were the club rumours which took place as to the difficulties of the day, and, as is generally the case, they were not far from the truth. Neither of the dukes had absolutely put a veto on poor Mr Bonteen’s elevation, but they had expressed themselves dissatisfied with the appointment, and the younger Duke had found himself called upon to explain that although he had been thrown much into communication with Mr Bonteen he had never himself suggested that that gentleman should follow him at the Exchequer. This was one of the many difficulties which beset the Prime Minister elect in the performance of his arduous duty.
Lady Glencora, as people would still persist in calling her, was at the bottom of it all. She had sworn an oath inimical to Mr Bonteen, and did not leave a stone unturned in her endeavours to accomplish it. If Phineas Finn might find acceptance, then Mr Bonteen might be allowed to enter Elysium. A second Juno, she would allow the Romulus she hated to sit in the seats of the blessed, to be fed with nectar, and to have his name printed in the lists of unruffled Cabinet meetings — but only on conditions. Phineas Finn must be allowed a seat also, and a little nectar — though it were at the second table of the gods. For this she struggled, speaking her mind boldly to this and that member of her husband’s party, but she struggled in vain. She could obtain no assurance on behalf of Phineas Finn. The Duke of St Bungay would do nothing for her. Barrington Erle had declared himself powerless. Her husband had condescended to speak to Mr Bonteen himself, and Mr Bonteen’s insolent answer had been reported to her. Then she went sedulously to work, and before a couple of days were over she did make her husband believe that Mr Bonteen was not fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer. This took place before Mr Daubeny’s statement, while the Duke and Duchess of St Bungay were still at Matching — while Mr Bonteen, unconscious of what was being done, was still in the House. Before the two days were over, the Duke of St Bungay had a very low opinion of Mr Bonteen, but was quite ignorant of any connection between that low opinion and the fortunes of Phineas Finn.
“Plantagenet, of all your men that are coming up, your Mr Bonteen is the worst. I often think that you are going down hill, both in character and intellect, but if you go as low as that I shall prefer to cross the water, and live in America.” This she said in the presence of the two dukes.
“What has Mr Bonteen done?” asked the elder, laughing.
“He was boasting this morning openly of whom he intended to bring with him into the Cabinet.” Truth demands that the chronicler should say that this was a positive fib. Mr Bonteen, no doubt, had talked largely and with indiscretion, but had made no such boast as that of which the Duchess accused him. “Mr Gresham will get astray if he doesn’t allow someone to tell him the truth.”
She did not press the matter any further then, but what she had said was not thrown away. “Your wife is almost right about that man,” the elder Duke said to the younger.
“It’s Mr Gresham’s doing — not mine,” said the younger.
“She is right about Gresham, too,” said the elder. “With all his immense intellect and capacity for business no man wants more looking after.”
That evening Mr Bonteen was singled out by the Duchess for her special attention, and in the presence of all who were there assembled he made himself an ass. He could not save himself from talking about himself when he was encouraged. On this occasion he offended all those feelings of official discretion and personal reticence which had been endeared to the old duke by the lessons which he had learned from former statesmen and by the experience of his own life. To be quiet, unassuming, almost affectedly modest in any mention of himself, low-voiced, reflecting always more than he resolved, and resolving always more than he said, had been his aim. Conscious of his high rank, and thinking, no doubt, much of the advantages in public life which his birth and position had given him, still he would never have ventured to speak of his own services as necessary to any Government. That he had really been indispensable to many he must have known, but not to his closest friend would he have said so in plain language. To such a man the arrogance of Mr Bonteen was intolerable.
There is probably more of the flavour of political aristocracy to be found still remaining among our liberal leading statesmen than among their opponents. A Conservative Cabinet is, doubtless, never deficient in dukes and lords, and the sons of such; but conservative dukes and lords are recruited here and there, and as recruits, are new to the business, whereas among the old Whigs a halo of statecraft has, for ages past, so strongly pervaded and enveloped certain great families, that the power in the world of politics thus produced still remains, and is even yet efficacious in creating a feeling of exclusiveness. They say that “misfortune makes men acquainted with strange bedfellows’. The old hereditary Whig Cabinet ministers must, no doubt, by this time have learned to feel themselves at home with strange neighbours at their elbows. But still with them something of the feeling of high blood, of rank, and of living in a park with deer about it, remains. They still entertain a pride in their Cabinets, and have, at any rate, not as yet submitted themselves to a conjuror. The Charles James Fox element of liberality still holds its own, and the fragrance of Cavendish is essential. With no man was this feeling stronger than with the Duke of St Bungay, though he well knew how to keep it in abeyance — even to the extent of self-sacrifice. Bonteens must creep into the holy places. The faces which he loved to see — born chiefly of other faces he had loved when young — could not cluster around the sacred table without others which were much less welcome to him. He was wise enough to know that exclusiveness did not suit the nation, though human enough to feel that it must have been pleasant to himself. There must be Bonteens — but when any Bonteen came up, who loomed before his eyes as specially disagreeable, it seemed to him to be a duty to close the door against such a one, if it could be closed without violence. A constant, gentle pressure against the door would tend to keep down the number of the Bonteens.
“I am not sure that you are not going a little too quick in regard to Mr Bonteen,” said the elder duke to Mr Gresham before he had finally assented to a proposition originated by himself — that he should sit in the Cabinet without a portfolio.
“Palliser wishes it,” said Mr Gresham, shortly.
“He and I think that there has been some mistake about that. You suggested the appointment to him, and he felt unwilling to raise an objection without giving the matter very mature consideration. You can understand that.”
“Upon my word I thought that the selection would be peculiarly agreeable to him.” Then the duke made a suggestion. “Could not some special office at the Treasury be constructed for Mr Bonteen’s acceptance, having special reference to the question of decimal coinage?”
“But how about the salary?” asked Mr Gresham. “I couldn’t propose a new office with a salary above oe2,000.”
“Couldn’t we make it permanent,” suggested the duke — “with permission to hold a seat if he can get one?”
“I fear not,” said Mr Gresham.
“He got into a very unpleasant scrape when he was Financial Secretary,” said the Duke.
But whither would’st thou, Mu............