Carson said nothing, but many other Tories were shocked by the violence. In disbelief, Austen Chamberlain noted, “Such a scene had not been witnessed since the fight which took place in the House in 1893 in the course of the discussion on Mr. Gladstone’s Second Home Rule Bill.”24
The next day McNeill stood up in the House and made a stiff apology. “Under the influence of a momentary loss of self-control,” he confessed, “I regret to say that I discharged a missile which struck the First Lord of the Admiralty.”
After a few more contrite words, “the giant,” as one account put it, “sank back into his seat amid a long, low murmur of approval from both sides of the House, and Mr. Churchill, who, with bowed head, had been closely following the words of his apologist, came forward.”
Winston, his cheek still bruised, was extraordinarily gracious. He refused to take the assault personally. “I thank the hon. gentleman for what he has said. I have at no time had any personal feeling in the matter, and if at any time I have had a personal feeling it would have been removed by his complete and unreserved apology.”25
In the overheated political atmosphere of the time it was Churchill whom his enemies often portrayed as hopelessly rash and violently antagonistic. But it is difficult to imagine any other politician of the day shrugging off a physical assault as easily as Winston did on this occasion. He made little of it, and so history has barely noted it, and over time the brutal nature of it—including the vital fact of McNeill’s overwhelming size—has been obscured. But the outrage would have been enormous—and the resentment unending—if Winston had been the one to lose his temper and had flung a book with all his force across the narrow space dividing him from the opposition, striking Carson or Andrew Bonar Law in the face. After the inevitable riots, he would have been forced to resign from the Cabinet, and his career might never have recovered.
Instead, the Unionist cause emerged unblemished from this episode, and Carson—unabashed—continued to spread hate.
In the wake of his confrontation with McNeill, a story was told in the press of Winston being heckled during a speech somewhere in the north of England. A man in the back had interrupted him again and again with the cry “Liar! Liar!”
Finally, Churchill stopped speaking, peered calmly into the crowd, and announced: “If the gentleman at the back of the hall who is so anxious that this audience should know his name will kindly write it down upon a slip of paper and pass it up to the chairman, instead of bawling it out at the top of his voice, he will save himself a lot of trouble.”26
XXIV
WINGS
While Churchill was busy preparing for war at sea and fending off attacks at home, Lloyd George had been taking two major risks of a private nature. One was financial and political, the other sexual. The first involved a dubious investment in the shares of the British Marconi Company, which stood to benefit greatly from a deal with the government to build an imperial network of telegraph stations. When the Tories learned that some of the Liberal leaders had been speculating in Marconi shares, there was great rejoicing at the thought of using the scandal to bring down the government. Lloyd George was one of the speculators, but he denied it flatly, and for a few months he was believed.
His problem was that he had told a half-truth. He had, in fact, purchased a thousand shares, but in a supposedly separate entity called the American Marconi Company. At the end of 1912 he learned that he was likely to be exposed for not telling the whole truth, and he went into a panic, fearing that his career would be ruined. For support and guidance, he turned to Asquith and Churchill, both of whom agreed to stand by him. In January 1913 he wrote to Clemmie, “I was so encouraged to hear from Winston that you took his view of my little worry. I am almost ill with worry over it.”1
He was so upset—and apparently desperate for more sympathy—that he took another great risk, pleading with his daughter’s French tutor to become his mistress. A pretty young woman of twenty-four, Frances Stevenson was staying with friends in Scotland when Lloyd George, who was a little more than twice her age, sent her a letter from London saying he needed her because “something terrible had happened.” By the end of January they were lovers. She would stay at his side for the rest of his life, working as his secretary and considering herself a secret second wife. (Margaret, Lloyd George’s long-suffering bride, was inclined to spend much of her time in Wales, out of the limelight.)2
For a man with almost as many enemies as Churchill, Lloyd George was playing a dangerous game. In March he finally admitted publicly that he had purchased shares in the American branch of Marconi, but he was able to deflect criticism by pretending an innocence of the business technicalities. The Tories, however, soon discovered that a minor official had used Liberal Party funds to speculate in Marconi shares, and the whole case blew up into a major scandal, with Lloyd George dragged into the center of a renewed controversy over political ethics. A delirious Tory backbencher was seen to put his hands together and say, “Now I am beginning to believe there really is a God.”
Soon the Tory press began connecting the dots of Lloyd George’s comfortable lifestyle, publishing pictures of his pleasant home in Wales, his large new house next to a golf course near Epsom Downs, the rented villa in the south of France where he had spent part of the winter, and his “sumptuous motor” driven by a chauffeur. Under a photograph of the chancellor playing golf, a caption ridiculed him for criticizing the idle rich. But there was no denying that he was living better than his official salary would have reasonably allowed, especially when wife, children, and mistress were added to the equation.3
Privately, Churchill was disgusted by the Marconi scandal. He later referred to it as “a squalid business” and told one of Ettie’s relatives—Francis Grenfell—that Lloyd George had known what he was doing from the start and had thought he was “going to make a lot of money.” It would have been relatively easy for Winston to have brought down his rival at this point. He knew, as he put it, that “Marconi has hit him terribly hard,” and that Lloyd George’s enemies—with a few tips and enough digging—could find other damaging information to call into question his suitability as Chancellor of the Exchequer. But Winston didn’t turn against him, for at least two reasons: he thought Lloyd George’s help would be crucial in obtaining more money for the navy, and he considered it his duty as a loyal friend to stick by him.4
He was furious, however, when the general search for culprits required him to go before a committee and declare his innocence. He resented being pulled away from his important work at the Admiralty to answer questions about things he had not done. “I lead an honourable life,” he told the committee with evident pride. But when the chairman insisted that he specifically disavow any connection to the Marconi scandal, he took a deep breath and spoke, an observer noted, “with a touch of irony as well as bitterness,” his eyes fixed on the committee.
“I have never, at any time,” he said, “or in any circumstances, directly or indirectly, had any investment, however, it may be described, in Marconi Telegraph shares or in any other shares of that description, in this or in any other country, or in the globe.”
The room broke into laughter at that last remark, but Churchill didn’t smile. After a few more minutes of questioning, he rose from his seat with the words “May I assume my examination is finished?” and—without waiting for an answer or looking back—he left the room.5
It was Asquith who finally saved the day for Lloyd George and the Liberal Party, putting his personal prestige on the line to assure the House that there was no need to censure the chancellor for his actions. Lloyd George had made mistakes, Asquith admitted, and had been careless and imprudent, but not dishonest. There was no violation of his “public duty.” The opposition wasn’t convinced but decided not to press their case. Years later, Winston acknowledged that the Tories might have been able to defeat the government on the Marconi issue. “But,” he explained, “some of them were too stupid and, frankly, some of them were too
nice.”6
* * *
As First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston had his own luxuries to enjoy. Besides the Enchantress, he also had an official residence next to the Admiralty. Clemmie called it “our Mansion,” but they didn’t move in for a while. The couple didn’t know if they could afford to live in its three large floors. Though the space at Admiralty House came free, the Churchills were responsible for their own servants, and nine were needed to run the place properly. It wasn’t until the spring of 1913—right in the middle of the Marconi affair—that they dared to make the move from Eccleston Square to Whitehall, and even then Clemmie decided to economize by closing off the first floor.7
Winston saved money by turning the Enchantress into his floating office. The more he learned about the poor readiness of the navy, the more time he spent chasing down admirals, captains, and shipbuilders to stir them to greater exertions. In the process he fell in love with the yacht—as did almost everyone who came aboard. He loved being able to use it for his quick inspections of other ships or ports, and then having the convenience of returning to work in his quarters on the ship without wasting time. Clemmie would join him occasionally, or they would meet at Admiralty House or at any convenient port as he raced around the country, looking every inch the modern First Lord in a double-breasted blue suit with a yachting cap.
Best of all, the yacht allowed him to enjoy longer cruises that combined business with pleasure. His Mediterranean voyage to confer with Jacky Fisher in 1912 was followed in May 1913 by another trip to Malta and this time also to Greece. The public purpose was to review fleet operations and discuss strategy with commanders, but ample time was left for playing in the sun. Asquith was on board again but made the mistake of bringing along both Violet and Margot, who managed to get on each other’s nerves from the start. Jennie was another passenger on this cruise, and Violet was struck by the vast difference between Winston’s lively, gregarious mother and the moody, snappish Margot. Everybody managed to have a good time except Margot, who complained about everything—from the food they ate on board to the steepness of the steps leading to the ancient ruins they visited.
One of Margot’s pastimes on the trip was to sit back and quietly observe her fellow passengers, then criticize them in her diary at night. She was especially fascinated by the relationship between Clemmie and Winston, which she couldn’t quite understand. In general she thought Winston’s wife was charming, but not up to his intellectual standards. Yet she could see how much he brightened whenever she came into view. If his wife wasn’t on deck when he returned from some expedition ashore, his first words were always “Where’s Clemmie?”
Margot also noted that Clemmie had a short temper, but she observed that this volatile aspect of her character seemed to be part of her appeal to Winston. On a walk in Athens, Margot saw Winston push Clemmie’s hand away when she tried to straighten his hat. This little gesture irritated Clemmie, who stormed off, closely pursued by Winston. When he caught up with her, she turned, and they embraced so fervently that Margot suddenly felt “ashamed” at spying on such an intimate moment.8
In her letters home Violet succeeded in capturing the essence of Winston’s frenetic life—playing hard and working hard on a monumental scale. She concluded her description of a stop along the Albanian coast with this extraordinary sentence: “Winston stayed behind for a wild pig hunt at 3 in the morning & caught us up next day at Corfu in a destroyer.”
Back in Britain there were a few complaints from members of the Labour Party that Churchill was stretching the rules “by inviting his lady friends to accompany him on yachting trips at public expense.” But other political observers were more interested in the chummy relationship between the prime minister and the First Lord. Did it mean that the older man was preparing the way for the younger to succeed him? A Punch cartoon showed them relaxing on the deck of the Enchantress, with Winston pausing between puffs of his cigar to ask the prime minister, who is absorbed in a newspaper, “Any home news?” To which Asquith responds, “How can there be with you here?”9
* * *
It wasn’t easy for anyone to keep up with Winston, but Clemmie made a heroic effort in his years at the Admiralty. She was proud of him and felt herself swept up in the passion that he felt for his work and life in this tumultuous time. But the hectic life, the pressures of office, and the seemingly never-ending political controversies also created difficulties in the marriage. The couple became more and more concerned about their finances, with Winston warning, “Money seems to flow away.” At one point they were so short of cash that Clemmie, without telling Winston first, sold an expensive diamond necklace with a ruby setting. They quarreled and tears flowed.
But their misunderstandings and disagreements would rarely drag into the next day. Both had strong wills and spoke their minds plainly. After one argument Clemmie confessed that she suffered from the fault of saying too much.
“When I get excited & cross,” she wrote him in early 1913, “I always say more than I feel & mean instead of less—There are never any dregs left behind.”
Throughout it all, however, they remained deeply devoted to each other. “The Admiralty is a most exacting mistress,” said Winston. “I have given up all others for her—except Clemmie.”10
In romance, Winston had no desire to follow Lloyd George’s lead, and even if he had been tempted to do so, he was far too busy to keep up with a wife and another woman. Whenever he wanted to bask in the intense light of Violet’s admiration, she was always willing to listen to his troubles and encourage his hopes. She was becoming a convincing substitute for the sister he never had, and her relationship with Clemmie was also becoming like that of a sister. On the cruise in 1913 Violet finally fell completely under Clemmie’s spell.
“Clemmie is most smooth & serene & delicious to live with,” Violet concluded. “And looking more beautiful than I have ever seen her.”11
In London, when Winston was working late or was aboard the Admiralty yacht, Violet proved to be a good companion to his wife. She practically lived next door, so close was Number 10 to Admiralty House. And, on weekends, Clemmie was often the guest of the Asquiths at their new country cottage in the little village of Sutton Courtenay—“The Wharf.”
At any rate, the Churchills worked hard at making their marriage a success, trying to iron out their differences and allowing room for compromises. They needed no reminders of the miseries that attended a marriage gone bad. Jennie could provide them more than enough evidence of that.
With her beauty faded, and her Elizabethan fair a dismal failure, Jennie was now facing the harsh glare of publicity in the divorce court. F. E. Smith represented her, and though the proceedings were short, they were humiliating. A private detective was called to the witness box to provide the sordid evidence of George Cornwallis-West’s adultery, and even a hotel chambermaid appeared as a supporting witness.
“Louisa Minton,” the press reported, “chambermaid at the Great Western Hotel, Paddington, said she recollected a lady and gentleman staying at the hotel at the latter end of March 1913 as Captain and Mrs. West.”
F. E. Smith pointed at Jennie and asked the chambermaid, “Was the lady who stayed at the hotel the lady that is sitting below?”
“No,” came the reply, and the case wrapped up in ten minutes. The other “Mrs. West” wasn’t identified, but George, apparently, had many to choose from. Jennie was given her divorce, and it was announced that she “would in future be known as Lady Randolph Churchill.”
Winston wasn’t sorry to see the back of George Cornwallis-West, and not just for his mother’s sake. In the past, when stories had appeared of George’s difficulties with his finances or his marriage, the press would invariably bring up Winston’s name as Jennie’s “famous son.” Not surprisingly, “Mother of First Lord” appeared in the headlines announcing her divorce on July 16. It was the kind of attention Winston didn’t need, for his mother’s embarrassing misfortunes merely gave his enemies more reasons t
o laugh at him and to deride his ambitions.12
* * *
Perhaps the greatest strain on Winston’s marriage at this time came from his decision to take flying lessons. Fearless as always, and fascinated by the possibilities of naval aviation, he thought he should know firsthand the risks and advantages of flight. And they were considerable at this early stage. Churchill compared it to the uncertain performance of George Stephenson’s steam locomotives near the dawn of the Victorian age. “We are in the Stephenson age of flying,” he used to say. “Now our machines are frail. One day they will be robust, and of value to our country.”
The historian G. M. Young recalled seeing in his youth a man point at one of the new biplanes and ask, “Can these things carry machine guns,” to which another man replied, “My dear fellow, they can’t carry themselves yet.”13
Clemmie was stricken with fear over Winston’s adventures in the air and found it almost impossible to accept this dangerous activity as he took greater risks. Some of his adventures were indeed perilous, and every time he went up in one of the navy’s primitive flying machines she feared he wouldn’t return alive.
It didn’t start out that way. In the late summer of 1913, when he began flying a lot, Clemmie insisted on taking a ride in one of the planes—a daring thing for a woman of her position to do in those days. Winston said no, but she disobeyed the First Lord and climbed into one of the two seats in a Sopwith biplane, and in a few minutes she was in the air with one of the navy’s new pilots—Lieutenant Spenser Grey. They went up about a thousand feet and did a few lazy circles over Southampton.
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