A question of coronets

William Deedes

Behind some of the comments, however . warm and friendly, about Harold Mac- millan's earldom on his 90th birthday there

has lurked the idea that he was cynical about honours. How then, the thought runs on, could he bring himself to accept an hereditary earldom, even at this late evening

hour. The idea is inexact. The question is unjust. Macmillan was pragmatic about honours. He did not devalue honours. He evaluated them; and, as a shrewd judge of

human nature, he knew in what F. S. Oliver called 'the endless adventure of governing men' just where a particular honour could Play a useful part. A friend of mine, with a safe seat in the House of Commons, was once suddenly s umm oned by Macmillan to No. 10 and of-

co fered an urgent but extremely difficult pro- nsular duty. Naturally he was in two rninds. Macmillan sensed his doubts. 'Of course,' he murmured, 'this job would carrY a little something for you to wear under your tier In days when full evening dress was worn more often than it is now, that carried weight. The fellow packed his bags.

LIn reality, as the lists of those years will confirm, Macmillan was not extravagant with high honours. By contrast with, say, loyd George — who was cynical about nours and knew the price tags — Mac- Millan was an ascetic in his recommenda-

tions.

I recall only one occasion when little local difficulties arose for him in this field, and

thatwas after the so-called night of long es in July 1962. Half a dozen (or so) 11.1embers of Macmillan's cabinet were had simultaneously retired. That some of them ad Previously and privately intimated to that, at his early convenience, they would e happy to retire, in no way dimini shbed the éclat. (Nor has this background figured in many subsequent versions of that tremendous night.) barred toconsolatory gestures, however, called for. The road to the Lords was

arred to those retiring cabinet ministers

who were in the House of Commons, because that would mean by-elections. The moment was not propitious for by- elections. Macmillan solved his problem, besides

to two an earldom and a viscountcy

o. two .ministers already in the Lords, by dispensing CHs to three of the fallen.

Now even setting aside a feeling that politicans should not make too big a breakfast of this Order (limited to 65 members of both sexes), three at a stroke is a lot. This was not lost on the recipients, at least one of whom had to be persuaded that it was his duty to become a Companion; nor was it lost upon the commentators of those times. That was pragmatism with a vengeance.

Of course it may be that in certain of his asides, which small private audiences love to remember and inaccurately repeat, Mac- millan has given a hostage or two to fortune on this charge of cynicism about honours. The story has been told many times, for ex- ample, of his appearance with Mr R. A. Butler before the Tory 1922 Committee at the close of the Suez affair. The occasion counted for much; indeed, was later weigh- ed as a considerable factor in the prefer- ment of Mr Macmillan as Prime Minister.

Quite the most effective part of Mr Mac- millan's robust performance at a most dif- ficult stage in the party's life was a brilliant hint of indifference as to whether the party thought that his future destiny lay in fur- ther service to the nation — or in a coronet.

Looking back, this was no reflection on coronets. It was in character. In his prime, and before becoming Prime Minister, it gave Macmillan pleasure to appear on a platform with young chaps; to describe himself in halting terms as 'over the top'; to assure the audience that the torch must be handed over to youth; to insist that he would not long stand between the audience and the future; to summarise in a few brilliant sentences all the young chaps had in mind to say, and then to sink back into his chair.

To be fair, Macmillan's disposal of honours to his own kind would have been more sparing than it was had he been able to practise a most sensible theory which lurked in his mind. As Prime Minister he did not think that Disraeli's concept of the greasy pole made good sense.

A minister, he perceived, having got his foot on a low rung of the ladder by becom- ing Parliamentary Secretary to the Ministry of Public Buildings and Works, believed that unless he could thereafter progress steadily and uninterruptedly upwards his career must be accounted a failure.

Yet by Macmillan's reckoning and ex- perience, many ministers would profit by what in other walks of life is called a sab- batical: a spell out of office, to rest, to refresh the mind, to read, to recharge the batteries. Any prime minister who has had to put an administration together will know the flaw in that thesis. It makes sense to everyone except the minister who is called upon to 'rest'.

Given this pardonable and irremediable vanity among men (and women) who enter politics, what is a prime minister to do when his ministry looks a shade overweight in years, when young blood in the 1922 Com- mittee is tingling and the whisper goes round the dinner tables: 'too much dead wood'?

He must turn to the Honours List. An earldom here, a viscountcy there. Mac- millan was not cynical about honours, simply efficient. How odd that Harold Wilson (an admirer of Macmillan), who in his heyday thought himself efficient, who had a chronically soft heart for slithering ministers, but who temporarily banished hereditary honours, didn't get the message.