Churchill's Black Dog

by Anthony Storr

  I find I am getting into a state of mental stagnation when even letter writing becomes an effort and when any reading but that of monthly magazines is impossible. This is of course quite in accordance with the spirit of the army. It is indeed the result of mental forces called into being by discipline and routine. It is a state of mind into which all, or nearly all, soldiers fall. From this slough of despond I try to raise myself by reading and re-reading Papa’s speeches, many of which I know almost by heart. But I really cannot find the energy to read any other serious work.47

  Army discipline and routine had a constraining effect upon him, not unlike that of prison; and the realization that he became depressed as a result may have contributed to his decision to seek political, rather than further military, glory.

  We have already mentioned Churchill’s dislike of standing near the edge of a railway platform. He also admitted to Moran, while staying at Claridges, that he disliked sleeping near a balcony. “I’ve no desire to quit this world,” he said with a grin, “but thoughts, desperate thoughts come into the head.”48 He was also apprehensive about traveling by air, and was fond of quoting Dr. Johnson on sea travel: “Being in a ship is being in a jail, with the chance of being drowned.” An underlying preoccupation with death, so characteristic of the depressive temperament, is easily detectable. In early youth, he was convinced that he would die young, as his father had. We can attribute this in part to an identification with his idealized father; but a conviction that time is short and an early realization of the ephemeral nature of human life is typical. His dislike of visiting hospitals belongs in this category of preoccupation, and so does his early tendency to hypochondriasis. Lucy Masterman reports of him in 1910, “He thought he had got every mortal disease under heaven, and was very much inclined to dine off slops and think about the latter end.” When Admiral Pound died, Churchill said, “Death is the greatest gift God has made to us.”49 It is not argued here that Churchill was ever suicidal—there is no evidence on that point. But it seems likely that death had a kind of fascination for him against which he had to defend himself. Men who have to be hyperactive in order to protect themselves against depression generally have a secret longing for total peace and relaxation; and the garden of Proserpina, “where even the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea,” has a special appeal which has to be fought against.

  Churchill at first reacted to authority by intransigent disobedience. This rebelliousness was not only a way of discharging his hostility, but a means of self-assertion—probably the only way of self-assertion available to a boy who, at that stage, felt himself to be weak physically, and who showed no disposition to excel in any school subject except history. Soon, however, another means of preserving, or rather gaining, self-esteem presented itself. Although he continued to perform inadequately in most school subjects, certainly far less well than his intelligence warranted, he discovered that he had a gift for words, a gift which became his principal asset, and which stood him in good stead throughout his life.

  Before the use of words became his chief vehicle of self-expression, he had, at the age of eleven, shown a desire to learn the cello. Had this desire been granted, it is possible that music might have become important to him; for, as many musicians know, the world of sound can be a never-ending source of solace, and the ability to play an instrument is both a means of self-expression and a source of self-esteem. But Churchill’s early interest in music was not encouraged, and soon died out; and his musical taste remained at the level of Sullivan and music-hall songs.

  Churchill’s attitude to words and the use of them is of interest psychologically. When he first met Violet Bonham Carter, he asked her whether she thought that words had a magic and a music quite independent of their meaning. For Churchill, they undoubtedly did. The magic of words became part of his inner world of make-believe. Sartre, in his autobiography, has recorded a similar process:

  A Platonist by condition, I moved from knowledge to its object; I found ideas more real than things, because they were the first to give themselves to me and because they gave themselves like things. I met the universe in books: assimilated, classified, labelled and studied, but still impressive; and I confused the chaos of my experience through books with the hazardous course of real events. Hence my idealism which it took me thirty years to undo.50

  All through his life Churchill was a voluble fount of ideas. Smuts said of him: “That is why Winston is indispensable. He has ideas.” His imagination was really creative; and it expressed itself in rhetoric, in an ornate phraseology which soon soared above the sober and often intransigent facts of reality. This was why he was always having to be restrained by his advisers; by his civil servants when he was Home Secretary; by his chiefs of staff, especially Alanbrooke, when he was Prime Minister.

  The literary style which first attracted him was that of Gibbon, whom he frankly imitated: and he also owed much to Macaulay. It is not surprising that these authors appealed to him. Of the two, Gibbon is the wittier, the more realistic, and the better balanced. His sentences, beautifully constructed, have a strong appeal to the musical ear. The remarkable thing is that Gibbon did not abuse his literary gift to distort history or advance his own prejudices, with the possible exception of his intolerance towards Christianity. Gibbon’s Decline and Fall remained a standard work for many years. The same cannot be said of Macaulay, who used the magic of words to persuade his readers of views which were often highly subjective.

  Churchill knew that his imagination could mislead him into false appraisals, but he could always be brought back to reality, although it might take hours of argument to do so. Churchill’s grasp of military strategy was considerable, but it was liable to be interfered with by his romantic imagination, which often led him to disregard the logic of the possible. And the fact that he could clothe his ideas in magnificent language must have made those ideas even more convincing to him. He was able to inspire himself as well as others by the magic of words, which indeed can take on a life of their own.

  Artists and philosophers create worlds which may be, and often are, substitutes for the disappointing and stubborn facts of human existence. Had Churchill not been born into an aristocratic and political family, he might have become a writer of a different kind. Since his interest in other human beings was minimal, and his grasp of human psychology negligible, it is unlikely that he would have ever been a novelist of character. But he could have written good adventure stories, and did so in My Early Life, which, although true autobiography, has in places the pace and dash of a thriller. But Churchill’s imagination was captured by dreams of military glory and of political power; and so, although he can be rated as a literary artist, his creativity also found expression in imaginative schemes of social reform, in military inventions like the tank, and in strategic conceptions like Gallipoli, for the failure of which he was made a scapegoat.

  Even as an orator, Churchill remained essentially literary. As he said of himself: “I am not an orator, an orator is spontaneous.”51 In youth, his chief ambition was to be master of the spoken word, but it was an ambition which he never completely realized. Although some of his phrases, especially in his 1940 speeches, have become immortal, his was a literary rather than an oratorical talent. His speeches were carefully written out, and often learned by heart; and, in youth, he was extremely nervous before delivering them. He lacked the common touch which great orators like Lloyd George possessed: and his diligence in preparing his speeches is another example of his extraordinary determination to conquer his natural disadvantages, and to succeed in spite of, rather than because of, his native endowment.

  One of the most successful of modern writers, Georges Simenon, says, “Writing is not a profession, but a vocation of unhappiness.”52 Not all artists are depressive by temperament; but those that are habitually use their skill to ward off the “Black Dog,” and commonly go through a period of depression directly they have completed a new work. During this interval, before they can ge
t started again, they often believe that they are finished, and that they will never have another original idea; but, in time, the creative impulse generally reasserts itself. It is likely that Churchill used his writing as a defense against the depression which invariably descended upon him when he was forced to be inactive. This psychological mechanism is clearly evident when we come to consider his painting. He did not start to paint until he was forty, and what initiated this new departure was a period of despair. Several observers have attested to the severity of Churchill’s depression after the failure of the Dardanelles expedition which he had initiated, and which led to his resignation from the Admiralty in 1915. Violet Bonham Carter records: “He took me into his room and sat down on a chair—silent, despairing—as I have never seen him. He seemed to have no rebellion or even anger left. He did not even abuse Fisher, but simply said, ‘I’m finished.’”53 Churchill himself wrote of this period:

  I had long hours of utterly unwonted leisure in which to contemplate the frightful unfolding of the war. At a moment when every fibre of my being was inflamed to action, I was forced to remain a spectator of the tragedy, placed cruelly in a front seat. And then it was that the Muse of Painting came to my rescue—out of charity and out of chivalry, because after all she had nothing to do with me—and said, “Are these toys any good to you? They amuse some people.”54

  And from that time onward, painting became a great resource to Winston Churchill: something to which he could always turn in time of trouble, something which would invariably engage his interest and provide a perpetual challenge.

  Psychoanalysis has long recognized the relation between aggression and depression, and the difficulty which the depressed person has in the disposal of his aggressive impulses. Although creative activity frequently contains an aggressive component, this is not always easy to discern; nor do we habitually think of painting a picture or composing a symphony as an aggressive activity. Those who find my thesis unconvincing should turn to Churchill’s own account of his approach to a canvas in his book Painting as a Pastime:

  Very gingerly I mixed a little blue paint on the palette with a very small brush, and then with infinite precaution made a mark about as big as a bean upon the affronted snow-white shield. It was a challenge, a deliberate challenge, but so subdued, so halting, indeed so cataleptic, that it deserved no response. At that moment the loud approaching sound of a motor-car was heard in the drive. From this chariot there stepped swiftly and lightly none other than the gifted wife of Sir John Lavery. “Painting! But what are you hesitating about? Let me have a brush—the big one.” Splash into the turpentine, wallop into the blue and the white, frantic flourish on the palette—clean no longer—and then several large, fierce strokes and slashes of blue on the absolutely cowering canvas. Anyone could see that it could not hit back. No evil fate avenged the jaunty violence. The canvas grinned in helplessness before me. The spell was broken. The sickly inhibitions rolled away. I seized the largest brush and fell upon my victim with berserk fury. I have never felt any awe of a canvas since.55

  He later compares painting a picture to fighting a battle. Indeed, this little book is one of the most revealing things he ever wrote about himself.

  Churchill’s predilection for rather grandiose, highly colored language was related to the need of his romantic imagination to lighten the gloom into which he was apt to descend. His choice of color in painting is strictly analogous:

  I must say I like bright colours.… I cannot pretend to feel impartial about the colours. I rejoice with the brilliant ones, and am genuinely sorry for the poor browns. When I get to heaven I mean to spend a considerable portion of my first million years in painting, and so get to the bottom of the subject. But then I shall require a still gayer palette than I get here below. I expect orange and vermilion will be the darkest, dullest colours upon it, and beyond them there will be a whole range of wonderful new colours which will delight the celestial eye.56

  In psychoanalytic jargon, this is a “manic defense.” The counterpart to the gloomy, subfusc world of the depressive is a realm of perpetual excitement and action in which colors are richer and brighter, gallant deeds are accomplished by heroes, and ideas are expressed in language replete with simile, ornamented with epithet, and sparkling with mellifluous turns of phrase. In his book on painting, Churchill gives us a delightful glimpse into his inner world of make-believe: a world where every prospect pleases, but which is just as remote from reality as is the downcast, hopeless hell of the man who feels useless and “finished.”

  Churchill’s need of this manic realm is equally reflected in his choice of friends. Holders of the Victoria Cross were immediately attractive to him, irrespective of their personalities; for they were all real live heroes who coincided with those in his inner world. So were ebullient, energetic adventurers, like Lord Birkenhead and Lord Beaverbrook. Churchill was a poor judge of character. The sober, steadfast, and reliable seldom appealed to him. What he wanted were people who would stimulate, amuse, and arouse him. Lord Moran notes that he was unimpressed by many of the quietly distinguished doctors who were sent to see him, but easily fell for the near-charlatans, the men with the gift of the gab who were unrestrained by scientific caution. The flamboyant extravert is life-enhancing, although exhausting; he brings zest and vitality to life. Men like Birkenhead helped Churchill to find and sustain the manic side of his own personality.

  In an earlier passage we have taken note of the fact that persons with Churchill’s type of psychological structure find it hard to learn that they are not the center of the universe. Because of the lack of intimate relations, first with parents and later with other people, they remain egocentrically oriented: narcissistic. Every baby starts life in a predominantly solipsistic state; most progress to a more mature emotional condition in which it is realized not only that other people have desires and needs, but also that one’s own desires and needs interact with them in such a way that one can both satisfy and be satisfied simultaneously. The child who is early deprived forms no such conception; with the result that he makes inordinate demands on other people, but has little idea of being able to give them much. Churchill was generous to defeated enemies, but remained extremely demanding and insensitive to the requirements of others. His principal love object remained himself, because that self had never, in childhood, been satisfied.

  Psychoanalysts describe such a character as “oral,” because it is through the mouth that the baby’s earliest needs are met; and, when they are not met, oral traits of character persist, both literally and metaphorically. It is interesting that, in one of his earliest school reports, Churchill is described as greedy; and it is also recorded that he was beaten for stealing sugar. All through his life, he needed feeding at frequent intervals; he was dependent on, though not necessarily addicted to, alcohol, and was a heavy smoker of cigars. He was also greedy for approval. His intimates knew that, if he showed them a manuscript of what he was writing, what he wanted was praise unadulterated with any tinge of criticism. “You are not on my side” was the reproach levelled at friends who ventured any adverse comment upon his ideas or his creations. The part of him which still demanded the total and uncritical acceptance which he had never had as a child still divided the world into black and white, so that friendship and disagreement were regarded as incompatible. Because of this characteristic, his own relationship to friends was also uncritical. He was intensely loyal. As Brendan Bracken said, “He would go to the stake for a friend”;57 and this was what he expected from his own friends. He remained hungry—hungry for fame, for adulation, for success, and for power; and although he gained all these in full measure, the end of his life showed that he never assimilated them into himself, but remained unsatisfied.

  It is often said of Churchill that he “lacked antennae”; that is, that he was insensitive where other people were concerned. There are several anecdotes which reveal that, quite unwittingly, he gave offense to other people on social occasions by neglecting t
hem or taking no notice of them. This imperviousness to atmosphere is characteristic of the narcissistic person, who, like a small child, is still living in a private world which takes little account of other people except insofar as they provide what the child wants. We expect that small children will be “selfish,” intent on their own satisfaction, with little regard for what others are feeling. Churchill retained this characteristic in adult life; and it was directly related to his early deprivation. For the “selfish” are those who have never had enough. It is only the child whose emotional needs have been satisfied who is later able to give as much as he takes. Churchill said of himself, quite accurately, “I have devoted more time to self-expression than to self-discipline.” Had he been less egocentric he would not have achieved so much; had he been more self-disciplined, he would have been less inspiring.

  We have discussed in some detail the methods which Churchill employed to prevent himself from relapsing into the depression which dogged him, and against which, as Lord Moran said, he was fighting all his life. Perhaps the most remarkable feature of Churchill’s psychology is that, on the whole, the defenses he employed against depression proved so successful. Although in youth he suffered long periods of depression, his various methods of dealing with this disability seem to have had the result that, in later life, he could generally extricate himself from the slough of despond and never let himself be overwhelmed by it until his old age. Those who knew him intimately during his years in the political wilderness may report differently. There are some hints that he drank more heavily during this period. But on the written evidence at present available, the success with which he dealt with his own temperament is quite extraordinary. Indeed, it is quite likely that some of those who were comparatively close to him never realized that he was liable to depression at all.