The late John Lavery used to set aside one day a week for visitors, when he had a studio in South Kensington. On these days he would show such work as he was engaged on to his friends. It was here that I once met Winston Churchill, who, under Lavery’s aegis, was giving a show of his own work for the first time. Many of his canvasses were to be seen but, as far as I can remember, no drawings were visible. When on this occasion it came to my turn to pass judgement, I found myself in a quandary. Was I merely to join in the general chorus of applause which, however well merited, seemed to me a little hollow, or should I dare to offer a word of warning to a beginner who, in another capacity, had always shown himself superlatively competent to withstand both criticism and cajolery? Omitting the latter method of persuasion, I chose the harder way.
Much as I appreciated the vigour and dash of the oil sketches, I failed to discover any sign of that patient attention to detail and the structure and proportions of form, which, when a student at the Slade, I had learnt to look for, and find, in the earliest studies of the Masters. My pseudo-academic training, in fact, proved an obstacle rather than an aid to my immediate recognition of a gifted tyro (as I suppose Winston Churchill could be described at that time) who, in defiance of tradition (but which tradition?) had dared to start at the end rather than the beginning of his apprenticeship (if one can apply such a term to a display of masterfulness which shewed as little evidence of labour as of discipline!).
But a glance at the present exhibition convicts me of gross pedantry, ignorance, or worse – a lack of candour. Instead of urging the neophyte to proceed with even greater audacity, freedom and independence of spirit, I had, like an old woman, called for more caution, stricter self-control and closer observance of ‘tradition’. In other words, I was advocating the very qualifications which I notoriously lacked myself!
Could this have been a despicable attempt to undermine a talent already too formidable for comfort? Was I, not Winston, the politician on this occasion? It was long ago and I can hardly believe that at so tender an age I could have been capable of duplicity. But whatever my motives, my words were not ill-received. I had at least taken my task seriously, and young Mr Churchill’s parting words, addressed apparently to the air rather than to anyone in particular, were friendly enough: ‘Well, not too bad’, he said with a smile. Obviously he was feeling none the worse. The present collection of his mature work renders further experiments in criticism unnecessary, thank God! Our Statesman, Artist and Historian has stuck to his guns and shows us all how, by disregarding the wiseacres and the lures of Fashion, he has, as if by pure instinct, put into practice what surely must be the basic principle of the Masters: ‘to thine own self be true. . .’
I met Sir Winston often since, and at the suggestion of friends conceived the idea of painting his portrait, to which he agreed. But now another war intervened and this project had to be shelved. Wholly immersed in the military situation he had no time to indulge me in my ‘hobby’. (As for me, thoroughly unmartial, I would as soon watch a Test match as pretend to follow the evolutions of immense armies of whatever colour.) With the ending of the war came my chance! My daughter Poppet and I jumped into the car, kindly sent to fetch us by the PM, only to find an unexpected fellow-traveller within, in the shape of an MP who shall be nameless. He had lately invaded Chelsea, in the Labour interest, I suppose, although he appeared to enjoy the friendship and hospitality of some of the most distinguished notabilities of the opposite party from the Prime Minister downwards. Gilbert Harding might have described him as ‘human, with strong animal connections’. But then Gilbert Harding was a schoolmaster.
During our journey to Chartwell, this gentleman did his best to prepare us for the memorable day which lay before us, which he claimed to be the outcome of his friendly offices with Winston Churchill. In spite of this assurance, I feel bound to record that when, at the end of luncheon, a bottle of brandy was produced, it was shared strictly between the Prime Minister and myself without the participation of anybody else. (It was the best brandy.) After an hour’s uncomfortable sitting in the morning, the luncheon had been delightful, and was only marred by the absence of Mrs Churchill, to whom I am devoted; but her daughter, Mrs Soames, was at my side instead and proved to have inherited her mother’s beauty, charm and good nature in full measure. Young Captain Soames was also present. He had previously drawn my attention to a full-length portrait of his father-in-law by William Orpen (a fellow student of mine at the Slade), pointing out that the preternatural gloom in which the familar features were enveloped denoted in masterly fashion the heavy burden of responsibility his model was labouring under during the sittings. These included, it would seem, some of the blackest days of the first world conflict.
Although I have recorded these contacts with Winston Churchill in some detail elsewhere, I cannot refrain from returning to the sequel of the luncheon party. At a sign from my host I followed him back to the studio. We were both in better spirits after the break, and I would have been ready to resume the drawing so painfully begun in the morning. But this was not Winston’s intention. Seizing a large canvas he placed it on his easel and, telling me to watch him closely, rapidly sketched in the outlines of a typical Swiss landscape with mountains, lake and the usual chalet. It appeared he had come across a new kind of paint on sale in Switzerland called ‘tempera’ which suited him perfectly. The colours, which could be diluted with water, were bright and their permanence was guaranteed. To illustrate their use, Mr Churchill set about completing his landscape, which he did in no time, only omitting, by inadvertance, the central window of the chalet which I thought called for a few touches. I drew his attention to this oversight, which he admitted at once, and, standing a yard or two from the canvas, raised his brush, now richly charged with the necessary pigment, took aim, and then with one stride forward, BANG! the operation was over; he had scored a perfect bull!
It was now time to leave, but not before my pockets had been filled with ‘tempera’ colours and a handful of special brushes to go with them. With these gifts and smoking a magnificent cigar, I bade farewell to my great and dauntless friend and colleague. Long may he thrive!