To young Winston, the poet’s career as an eager adventurer, defiant freethinker, and proud visionary was partly an inspiration, and partly a warning against the dangers of living at such a high pitch. The two had several things in common, beginning with their aristocratic backgrounds, and their experiences—many decades apart—as pupils at Harrow. Both men were dazzled by the story of Napoleon’s rise and fall, and both kept cherished busts of the great French leader on their desks. Churchill was especially fascinated by Byron’s poetic meditation on Napoleon’s unbounded ambition (“a fever at the core,” the poet called it). Between the two world wars Churchill was a member of the Byron Society, and one of his most treasured possessions was a seventeen-volume edition of Byron’s works he purchased in 1906. In his only novel, Savrola—published when he was twenty-five—Churchill created an imaginary state to serve as the backdrop to the Byronic escapades of his young protagonist, a valiant defender of liberty and romance whose cast of mind is described as “vehement, high and daring.”3
Like Byron, Churchill was the chronicler of his own history. In a series of books written at a rapid pace in his early twenties he created vivid descriptions of his early adventures as a soldier and war correspondent. “When I was 25 years old,” he said in old age, “I had, I believe, written as many books as Moses.” Thanks to this torrent of prose in five books and many newspaper articles, almost everyone in Britain knew of young Churchill’s brave deeds on three continents between 1895 and 1900. He lived the adventures of a storybook character—fighting with the Bengal Lancers on the Indian frontier; scouting for rebels with the Spanish army in Cuba; traveling along the Nile to take part in what was to prove the last great cavalry charge of the British Army in the nineteenth century; and, most dramatic of all, surviving capture by the Boers in South Africa, and then making his escape across hundreds of miles of unfriendly territory. As a prominent magazine of the day remarked, “He has both acted his romance and written it.”4
Young Churchill lacked the rugged good looks of a Byronic hero—his pale, round face was no match for the poet’s dark, chiseled features—but he played the part with enthusiasm. He enjoyed taking risks, loved dramatic gestures, brooded intensely but not long over his failures, and often wore his heart on his sleeve. He thought playing for high stakes was the only way to live. This path had been blazed by his father, whose impetuous character, volatile career, and early death at forty-five had inspired at least one prominent eulogist to compare Lord Randolph to Lord Byron.
“The two men resembled each other,” the editor of the Saturday Review wrote of Randolph and the poet shortly after the statesman’s death in 1895. “Mr. Matthew Arnold said of Lord Byron that he was the greatest elemental force in English poetry since Shakespeare; and it would be as true, we think, to say that Lord Randolph Churchill was the greatest elemental force in English politics since Cromwell.” Such praise, exaggerated though it was, made a great impression on Winston, who later called the whole tribute in the Saturday Review “the best article” on his father that “had appeared anywhere.”5
Young Winston Churchill succumbed to Byron’s political romanticism with all his heart. Many of his Edwardian contemporaries perfectly understood its effect on him. Admirers saw Churchill as a reformer determined to improve the lives of ordinary people, and his words and manner reminded them of a misty past when the poor and the weak had gallant champions. As one newspaper editor remarked, young Churchill’s dashing style brought to mind “the clatter of hoofs in the moonlight, the clash of swords on the turnpike road. It is the breath of romance stirring the prosaic air of politics.” A friend said of him, “His world was built and fashioned in heroic lines. He spoke its language.”6
Believing himself a hero, Churchill worked the magic of making others believe it, too. Byron’s verse—so full of energy, passion, and political idealism—provided a spur for the young man’s imagination, giving him a way of seeing the world, and also a way of understanding how the world would see him.
* * *
Churchill’s romanticism was not confined to affairs of state. Biographers have often dismissed the notion that he thought much about falling in love, portraying him as a young man who was awkward around women, and whose occasional efforts at flirtation were the halfhearted actions of someone merely “going through the motions.”
The reality is much different. Far from being shy or inexperienced, he was still in his teens when he became an enthusiastic champion of the music-hall beauties in London, risking a scandal one night at the Empire Theatre when he started a riot after standing up in the festive crowd and launching a rousing tribute to the charms of the assembled women, who were then under attack from anti-vice campaigners. “Where does the Englishman in London always find a welcome?” nineteen-year-old Winston Churchill asked his fellow revelers before he was thrown out. “Who is always there to greet him with a smile and join him in a drink? Who is ever faithful, ever true?—the Ladies of the Empire Promenade.”
From the comfort of middle age, Churchill recalled this outburst as his first public address, wryly remarking, “In these somewhat unvirginal surroundings I . . . made my maiden speech.”7
During his twenties and early thirties he pursued three of the most beautiful women of his time, and made such a powerful impression on each that even though they declined his marriage proposals they remained his devoted friends far into old age. All three remembered him not as a callow, uncertain youth, but as a stylish character who played polo, was fond of visiting galleries and museums, often attended plays in the West End, read voraciously, and pursued women with great passion.
The elegant young beauty Consuelo Vanderbilt—his cousin by marriage—described his character in those days as “ardent and vital” and said he had “every intention of getting the most out of life, whether in sport, in love, in adventure or in politics.”8
He was so “ardent” that when he finally decided to marry, he spent a week away from his fiancée to undertake an eleven-hundred-mile round-trip to a remote Scottish castle, where another young woman equally devoted to him was waiting for an explanation of his decision. The story of that emotionally fraught journey—made only three weeks before his wedding in London—is the subject of a later chapter, where it is told for the first time.
As a bachelor, he made an effort to play the dandy, carrying a walking stick and wearing a glossy top hat, starched wing collar, and frock coat with a sleek watch chain. His taste for fine clothing extended even to his choice of underclothes, which were made of an expensive silk weave. “It is essential to my well-being,” he said in defense of his yearly expenditure on silk underwear. It was a typical extravagance for him, along with his fondness for other luxuries like champagne and fine cigars. “There has never been a day in my life,” he reflected, “when I could not order a bottle of champagne for myself and offer another to a friend.”9
Even at the outset of his career his well-chosen words and ready wit drew attention. In 1900, as he was on the verge of winning his first election to Parliament, he defined a political candidate as someone “who is asked to stand, wants to sit, and is expected to lie.” The young man could also be amusingly satirical about the competitive nature of his glittering Edwardian era, judging the bejeweled women of his social circle as though each aspired to be another Helen of Troy. When a friend suggested that a certain young lady’s face might launch at least two hundred ships, Churchill replied, “By no means. A covered sampan or small gunboat at most.”10
* * *
In his fifties Churchill gave his own account of his life up to the beginning of his political career. My Early Life ends as the Edwardian age is beginning and does so abruptly, leaving the reader to wonder how this remarkable young man—still unmarried, and still untested as a politician in 1901—will make his way to the front ranks in a system dominated by much older, and much more experienced, men. In the following pages I take up the story where Churchill left off, tracing his progress from a novice politici
an to one of the most prominent members of the British Cabinet, a journey that will take him from the beginning of his twenty-sixth year to the end of his fortieth year. In the last chapters of the story, when the new century was facing its first assault from Germany, all eyes were on him as he served as First Lord of the Admiralty and readied the British fleet for action. In those heady days his was still the face of youth in the government, and many expected him to emerge from the war as the next prime minister.
But, within a year, everything went wrong. One by one his plans met with failure or stagnated for want of support. Friends turned against him, and enemies rejoiced in his downfall. Too late, the young politician discovered that he had placed too much faith in men who let him down, and in big ideas that didn’t work.
Blamed for the disastrous Gallipoli campaign in the eastern Mediterranean, he was attacked in the British press as “a danger to this country” and soon lost his high position in the government. The German press mocked him by suggesting that the title “Earl of Gallipoli” should be given to him, and joked that he was London’s modern Lucifer: “He has fallen from the heavens—the most beautiful morning star of some London seasons.” In late 1915 he shed the last trappings of power and went to France to fight in the trenches, humbly donning the uniform of a major. What he learned from failure was crucial to his later success, but it was a devastating setback whose sting he would feel for years.11
Between his rise and fall he built a modern navy, experimented with radical social reforms and did battle with others who thought he wasn’t radical enough, survived various threats on his life, made powerful enemies and a few good friends, fell in love (several times), became a husband and father, annoyed and delighted two British monarchs, took the measure of the German military machine as he rode at the side of Kaiser Wilhelm on maneuvers, risked his life in the air as a pilot in training, authorized executions of notorious murderers, and faced deadly artillery barrages on the Western Front.
Proud and exuberant, he delighted in his ability to master the art of politics and proved time and again that he could outwit older and much more experienced rivals. His impressive skills as a legislator and administrator surprised both admirers and critics and taught him how to overcome bureaucratic and political obstacles to get things done quickly. Embracing the new reforming spirit of the Edwardian age, he learned to question the easy assumptions of his own aristocratic upbringing and to explore fresh approaches to old problems. Professional and personal disappointments schooled him in the virtue of patience and the dangers of overconfidence. In his friendships he came to treasure loyalty and to be wary of betrayal.
By the end of his first forty years he had a good understanding of how far his talents could take him, and how far he could fall. While political ideas changed with the times, what remained constant was his obedience to that bold, early declaration, “I believe in personality.” Exploring the heart of that personality is the aim of this biography.
In a lifetime that stretched from November 30, 1874—when Disraeli was prime minister—to January 24, 1965—when the music of the Beatles was Britain’s most famous export—Winston Churchill played many parts on the world stage. If he had died when he was forty—when his fortunes were low, and his youth behind him—his story would still be one of the best of the century, in part a riveting drama of ambition, in part a sobering tragedy. Fortunately, there was a second act.
PART I
1901–1905
I
A NEW WORLD
On a frigid winter night at the turn of the last century a young man of twenty-six sat in a stuffy railway carriage writing to a beautiful woman. The view from his window was of a dark, snow-swept prairie that seemed to go on forever under a vast, starless sky. More than four thousand miles from home, he was tired and lonely. His last stop had been St. Paul, Minnesota, and straight ahead was the Canadian border.
“In the train to Winnipeg,” Winston Churchill noted in black ink at the top of his stationery, then added the date, “20 Jan. 1901,” and—skipping the salutation—began simply “Pamela.” He was writing to the great love of his young life, a glamorous figure back home whose charm and good looks had earned her praise as “the brightest star in London’s social firmament.” As he told her early in their relationship, she exercised “a strange fascination” over him. Unfortunately for him, many other men felt the same way.
For at least two years Winston had been sending her long letters full of devotion. “My love is deep and strong,” he declared in one letter. “Nothing will ever change it.” They had become acquainted in India, when both were twenty-two. He was a cavalry officer and she was the daughter of a colonial official. They took an elephant ride together, dined at her home, and made polite conversation at parties. Then, about a year and a half later, when they were both back in England, Winston resolved to capture her heart. But he found the beauty, with her seductive gray eyes, porcelain complexion, and smooth dark hair, besieged by other suitors. She was the center of attention at every ball and managed her time with various men so successfully that one of her society friends later referred to her lightheartedly as “the most accomplished plate-spinner” of her day.
Undeterred by competition, Churchill tried to impress her with the power of his words. One morning a heavy bundle arrived at her door containing the manuscript of his novel, Savrola, and a letter explaining that the story offered “a mirror” of the author’s mind. If she honored him by looking into it, he wrote, “I am sure it will gain beauty by the reflection.” When this and similar tactics failed to win her over, he raised the stakes. “Marry me,” he wrote a few months later, “and I will conquer the world and lay it at your feet.”1
He may have taken this extravagant promise seriously, but Pamela Plowden didn’t. So, for the time being, he went back to pursuing his passions for soldiering and writing, and hoped for another chance to impress her. Separated from her by thousands of miles in South Africa during the Boer War—Britain’s fight with the fiercely independent Dutch settlers over gold, diamonds, and empire—Churchill kept his love alive by periodically gazing at three different portraits of Pamela tucked into a special wallet. During his imprisonment by the Boers in late 1899, he wrote her a brave, jaunty note from Pretoria: “Among new and vivid scenes I think often of you.” His plight couldn’t help but move her. When his mother gave Pamela the news that he had escaped from prison and was safe, she responded with a two-word telegram: “Thank God.”
Returning home a hero, he was emboldened to try his luck with her again, thinking that he knew her heart. “No one would understand her as I do,” he told his mother. On a fine October day in 1900 he proposed. He chose a suitably inspiring spot. His friend the Countess of Warwick invited Pamela to spend a weekend amid the medieval grandeur of her home at Warwick Castle. With soaring towers and battlements as a backdrop, the hopeful suitor asked Pamela to go punting on the River Avon, which flows majestically beside the castle. Everything went well until they were gliding along and he asked the question. She turned him down and broke his heart.2
He was still under her spell—still convinced that she was “the only woman I could ever live happily with”—when he left home in December to lecture on his South African adventures in a hastily arranged tour of Canada and the United States. Now—three months after his proposal—here he was in the dim light of the railcar writing yet another letter to her. As his train sped across northern Minnesota toward the Canadian border, his heartbreaking experience at the romantic castle must have seemed like something out of a bad dream. Perhaps he was thinking that one more letter from a remote part of the globe would catch her fancy and soften her resistance.
* * *
In the few years since his first acquaintance with Pamela in India, he had become an international celebrity, a “boy wonder” who could fight and write, and whose future seemed glowing. The newspapers in Winnipeg were trumpeting his visit as a major event, and a record crowd was expected at his lecture. In
big black letters one ad for his forthcoming appearance at the Winnipeg Theatre began: “Winston Spencer Churchill. The War As I Saw It.” Ticket prices started at fifty cents and went all the way up to a dollar and a half.
Besides Savrola, other titles on display in the shop windows of Winnipeg were London to Ladysmith Via Pretoria, the tale of his flight to freedom in South Africa; and The River War, his two-volume account of the British campaign in the Sudan, where he had fought so bravely. Of this last book, published in 1899, the American war correspondent Richard Harding Davis wrote, “It was a work that one would expect from a Lieutenant General when, after years of service in Egypt, he laid down his sword to pen the story of his life’s work. From a Second Lieutenant, who had been on the Nile hardly long enough to gain the desert tan, it was a revelation.”
Winston had promised the world to Pamela, and he was the kind of man who thought he could give it to her. Yet she had turned him down. And now, no matter where he was, her image still haunted him, and he still believed that she had a place in the grand future he envisioned for himself. “There is that between us,” he wrote her on the train, “which if it should grow no stronger, will last forever.”3
Money was one of the major obstacles in their relationship. Society expected a woman of Pamela’s great beauty to marry a man with an impressive fortune. “She ought to be a rich man’s wife,” declared the urbane Colonel John Brabazon—commander of Churchill’s cavalry regiment—when he heard that Pamela and Winston were not going to marry. Churchill, though he was the grandson of a duke, had inherited relatively little money. Lord Randolph left many debts behind, and Winston’s fun-loving, gregarious mother was a hopeless spendthrift. (As a friend said of Jennie, “Life didn’t begin for her on a basis of less than forty pairs of shoes.”)
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