If it be urged that a few trifling inaccuracies have crept into the
sketch which is here given of a great statesman's personality I can
only say, "_Humanum est errare_," and "_Homo sum: humani nihil alienum
a me puto_." These two Latin sentences, I find, invariably soothe all
angry passions; you have only to try their effect the next time you
stamp on the foot of a stout man when alighting from an Underground
train.
Of all the present-day politicians, and indeed there are not a few,
upon whose mantelpieces the bust of NAPOLEON BONAPARTE is displayed,
Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL is probably the most assiduous worshipper at the
great Corsican's shrine. How often has he not entered his sanctum at
the War Office, peering forward with that purposeful dominating look
on his face, and discovered a few specks of dust upon his favourite
effigy. With a quick characteristic motion of the thumb resembling a
stab he rings the bell. A flunkey instantly appears. "Bust that dust,"
says the WAR MINISTER. And then, correcting himself instantly, with a
genial smile, "I should say, Dust that bust."
But NAPOLEON'S is not the only head that adorns Mr. WINSTON
CHURCHILL'S room. On a bookshelf opposite is a model of his own head,
such as one may sometimes see in the shop windows of hatters, and
close beside is a small private hat-making plant, together with an
adequate supply of the hair of the rabbit, the beaver, the vicuna and
similar rodents, and a quantity of shellac. Few days pass in which the
WAR MINISTER does not spend an hour or two at his charming hobby, for,
contrary to the general opinion, he is far from satisfied with the
headgear by which he is so well known, or even with the Sandringham
hat of _The Daily Mail_, and lives always in hopes of modelling the
ideal hat which is destined to immortalise him and be worn by others
for centuries to come. The work of a great statesman lives frequently
in the mindful brain of posterity, less frequently upon it.
Other mementos which adorn this remarkable room at the War Office are
a porcelain pot containing a preserve of Blenheim oranges, a framed
photograph of the Free Trade Hall at Manchester, a map of Mesopotamia
with the outpost lines and sentry groups of the original Garden of
Eden, marked by paper flags, and a number of lion-skin rugs of which
the original occupants were stalked and killed by their owner on his
famous African tour. In his more playful moments the WAR MINISTER has
been known to clothe himself completely in one of these skins and
growl ferociously from behind a palm at an unwelcome intruder.
Of the man himself perhaps the most distinguishing characteristic is
dynamic energy. Whether other people's energy is ever dynamic I do not
know, but undoubtedly Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL'S is; he dominates, he
quells. He is like one of those people in the papers with zig-zags
sticking out all over them because they have been careful to wear an
electric belt. He exudes force. Sometimes one can almost hear him
crackle.
As a politician it is true he has not yet tried every office; he
has not, for instance, been Chancellor of the Exchequer, though his
unbounded success in the Duchy of Lancaster amply shows what his
capabilities as a Chancellor are. But as a soldier, a pig-sticker and
a polo-player he is rapidly gaining pre-eminence, and as an author and
journalist his voice is already like a swan's amongst screech-owls.
(I admit that that last bit ought to have been in Latin, but I cannot
remember what the Latin for a screech-owl is. I have an idea that it
increases in the genitive, but quite possibly I may be thinking of
dormice.)
Anyhow, to return to Mr. CHURCHILL'S room: whilst the floor is
littered with volumes that have been sent to him for review, his
desk is equally littered with proofs of essays, sermons, leaders and
leaderettes for the secular and Sunday Press. As a novelist he has
scarcely fulfilled his early promise, but it is on record that he
was once introduced to a stranger from the backwoods, who asked
ignorantly, "Am I speaking to the statesman or the author?"
"Not _or_, but _and_," replied the SECRETARY OF STATE FOR WAR, with a
simple dignity like that of ST. AUGUSTINE.
To poetry he is not greatly attached, preferring to leave this field
of letters to his staff. When asked for his favourite passage of
English verse he has indeed been known to cite a single line from Mr.
HILAIRE BELLOC'S _Modern Traveller_--
"That marsh, that admirable marsh!"
which is far from being Mr. BELLOC'S most mellifluous effort.
We feel bound to ask what is most likely to be the next outlet for
Mr. CHURCHILL'S ebullient activity. Remembering that bust upon his
mantelpiece it is hard to say. There are some who consider that,
prevented by the sluggishness of our times from the chance of
commanding an army in the field, he may turn his strategic mind at
last to the position of Postmaster-General. If he does there can be no
man better fitted than he to make our telephones hum.