by Plinio Corrêa de Oliveira
Until the fall of Chamberlain’s cabinet amid the first rumblings of World War II, I was more or less indifferent to Winston Churchill and his personality and figure. In fact, from the Brazilian public’s perspective, Chamberlain’s successor had until then been lost in the crowd—albeit an impressive one—of distinguished British politicians. However, things changed quickly, and the world realized that in its afflictions, the United Kingdom had once again found a great man to lead it to victory.
Churchill’s rise was straight to the zenith. His diverse forms of intelligence, political acumen, and courage became increasingly evident and resplendent as the contingencies of the struggle demanded. When the war ended, Churchill was the most famous victor. Allied propaganda often presented him alongside the other two—Roosevelt and Stalin—as if to put them on the same level, but this effort was futile and even counterproductive. Framed between the old Yankee president, with his ordinary gaze and inexpressive standard smile, on one side, and the sinister Soviet dictator, whose bushy eyebrows hid two ignorant eyes that sparkled with threats and whose thick, unkempt mustache concealed lips more suited to swearing and drinking than to speaking, Churchill’s super-expressive face stood out in a way that could almost be described as splendid.
Obviously, being very expressive is not enough to shine. One must also express something worthwhile. The old English lion did so in abundance. His bald head seemed to shine with vigorous, subtle diplomatic thought. His eyes successively expressed fascinating depths of observation, reflection, humor, and aristocratic kindness. His broad, muscular cheeks retained their vigor with age. They looked like two facial buttresses, vigorously framing his highly intellectualized features. They gave his face decisiveness, stability, one might even say perpetuity, an expressive symbol of the English monarchy’s centuries-old strength. His lips, thin and uncertain in outline, seemed to follow the movement of his eyes and were therefore always ready to open for irony, a slogan, a monumental speech… or a cigar.
I feel that I would not be describing Churchill in his entirety if I did not add one more trait. An authentic member of the English gentry, adorned—that is indeed the right word—with the manly charm of a high-class aristocrat, Churchill combined the brilliance of university culture, journalistic talent, parliamentary oratory, and military glory with, moreover, a certain directness, positivity, and a disconcertingly active nature typical of American businessmen of the Belle Époque. This was because his mother was a Yankee, the daughter of a self-made man.
All these impressions were firmly fixed in my mind, as they were in everyone else’s, when I first came across a photograph of his wife in the newspaper. I began to analyze it with interest: who was this Englishwoman the great man had chosen to share his whole life with, and to be, as it were, the female counterpart to the thousand qualities that blossomed in him? It would not be an easy role for her…
Once, while discussing Churchill with Archduke Otto von Habsburg, he made a lucid remark. It is in the order of things, even among plants, he said, that gigantic specimens appear from time to time in this or that variety. They are natural phenomena. Churchill was one of them. Now — this is my own comment — while it is fine for a man to be a gigantic natural phenomenon, it is difficult for a woman to be one, as gigantism is not compatible with feminine charm.
So, when I began analyzing the photo of the wife of the “phenomenon of nature” with curiosity, I wondered whether and how she measured up to the great statesman. My analysis became unquestionable admiration long before I finished.
With a large face and stature, and a certain noble, aquiline quality in her gaze and profile, Lady Churchill nevertheless possessed all the genuine feminine graces. Her aristocratic upbringing had given her an obvious charm. Her imposing presence coexisted elegantly with an attractive affability. Although striking, she was extremely discreet. She knew how to be intelligent without in any way competing with her brilliant husband for the public’s attention. In the balance of so many almost opposing qualities, everything was “dégagé,” and nothing was “recherché.”
In paintings of great men of the past, artists took pleasure in highlighting their subjects by placing a column with a beautiful vase of flowers or a noble curtain in the background. Such was Lady Clementine Churchill: the magnificent backdrop that highlighted a husband who seemed so remarkable that nothing could enhance him.
I was therefore moved last week to read the news of Baroness Churchill’s passing (Elizabeth II had granted her the title after her husband’s death).
However, I cannot hide that this emotion was accompanied by astonishment that quickly turned into indignation.
Folha de S. Paulo was the newspaper in our city that published the most information about Lady Churchill’s life. It highlighted her perfect union with her husband, their close cooperation even in his intellectual work, and ultimately revealed that this great lady had ended her life in poverty, forced to sell paintings by the late prime minister to cover her modest expenses.