Pug & Cat keep in touch.

Winston and Clementine The Personal Letters of the Churchills Edited by Mary Soames Houghton Mifflin Company, $35, 702 pp.

In Alone, the second volume of William Manchester's three-volume biography of Winston Churchill, we are given a portrait of the great man in the flesh-"a flamboyant swashbuckler," "not only a great statesman but also...one of history's great originals." Some glimpses:

* "A sibilant rustle of Irish linen sheets breaks the hush in Churchill's bedroom...as he sits bolt upright and yanks off his black satin sleep mask."

* At Chartwell he feels free to roam around in the nude. According to one of his servants "it seems completely natural to him"...But it did not seem natural to a young housemaid who looked up the stairwell and beheld, on the top step "Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill in the buff- all 210 pounds of him, a massive pink man with a bald, smooth dome...glaring down at her like a laser beam. The girl fled the house shrieking."

* "The legend that he is a heavy drinker is quite untrue. Churchill is a sensible, if unorthodox drinker." He says of himself: "We all despise a man who gets drunk....All I can say is that I have taken more out of alcohol than alcohol has taken out of me."

* "Instead of 'Hullo,' [the Churchills utter] elementary animal sounds 'Wow-wow' or 'Miaow'... Clementine addresses her husband as 'Pug,' he calls her 'Cat.' The children are 'Puppy kitten,' 'the Chumbolly,' 'Mule' and 'Mouse.'"

* "It is eleven o'clock. Churchill sees his overnight guests to their rooms and, as they retire, begins his working day....Before the night is out, he will have dictated between 4,000 and 5,000 words. On weekends he may exceed 10,000 words....He lives like a pasha yet must support his extravagant life with his pen...the family literally lived from book to book, and from one article to the next."

* "Megalomania," Churchill says, referring to his domineering manner, "is the only form of sanity."

The Churchill captured by Manchester is not the same person you encounter in Winston and Clementine, The Personal Letters of the Churchills, edited by the couple's youngest daughter Mary Soames. I turned to Manchester's biography after reading Winston and Clementine because I needed some way of fleshing out the rather bland portraits that emerged from the letters and from the colorless continuity material provided by the editor. No expert, when I picked up this volume I knew Churchill as England's great leader during World War II, as our courageous and powerful ally, as a prodigiously prolific writer, and as a colorful public figure whose witticisms are still widely quoted. According to the stories, he spent his days in bed consuming legendary quantities of cigars, brandy, and champagne, and about him swirled stories of love affairs, black depression, and bachelor vacations on the Riviera. For a reader already well acquainted with Winston's extravagant-even outrageous-uninhibited ways, these letters probably provide many additional glimpses, perhaps even insights into his life. For those without any special preparation, however, the persons-and personalities-who wrote these letters are in danger of being swallowed up in a flood of facts for which readers have insufficient context. They may also be overwhelmed by an army of people who are often identified in footnotes by nothing more interesting than their full names, titles, dates, parentage, and marital history. Indeed, it was rewarding to return to the letters after acquainting myself more intimately with the Churchills; their letters seemed a great deal livelier and more interesting.

Their daughter has collected some 1,700 pieces of correspondence over a period of fifty-six years, starting in 1908, the year of the Churchills' marriage, and ending in 1964, a year before Winston's death. This loving pair, whose letters contain warm expressions of affection, gratitude, pet names, and silly little drawings of cats, pigs, and pugs, spent a surprising amount of time apart. They usually took separate vacations but wrote to each other almost daily. Winston wrote from his painting, writing, and gambling vacations in the south of France. As for his glamorous Riviera vacations: "I have stayed in bed every morning and made great progress with the book. We have averaged 1,500 words a day, though nominally on vacation." His biographer Manchester has an interesting take on these holidays: "...the creature comforts of the expatriate society appealed to the hedonistic streak in him; if he was well supplied with Pol Roger, fed by a great chef, and offered his choice of the best cigars, the identity of his suppliers was of little interest to him." Manchester drily adds, "He is not a born gambler. He is a born losing gambler."

Clementine (always "Clemmie") wrote from ski slopes, tennis courts, exotic excursions all over the globe, and during her extended recoveries from childbirth. Mary Soames notes that "in those days, for the upper classes, three weeks in bed was de rigueur, followed by a period of convalescence." Winston detailed his extensive work on Chartwell, the family estate, and reported on work- and war-related conferences and negotiations. Many accounts of "cures" from Clemmie chronicle her battles with unspecified illnesses, accidents, and depressions. A number of exchanges by "house post"(while they were under the same roof) reflect disagreements, often about public events, people, or situations. Clemmie felt she could make a better case on paper than in a discussion in which her resentment of Winston's "defensive obstinacy" might lead her to lose her point through exaggeration. These letters were meant to prevent furious explosions (and sometimes succeeded). Such explosions were invariably followed by affectionate expressions of penitence and regret. From Clemmie: "My Sweet and Dear Pig, when I am a withered old woman how miserable I shall be if I have disturbed your life and troubled your spirit by my temper. Do not cease to love me-I could not do without it...Good-bye my Sweet one. I want to stroke your dear Face-"

The sweep of more than half a century of letters is impressive. Winston was already over forty when he wrote from the trenches during World War I, and the view of trench warfare is both like and unlike other versions that have become familiar. Along with the filth, cold, confusion, and terror are his regular requests for and receipt of plentiful supplies of brandy and cigars, delicacies from Fortnums, a sheepskin sleeping bag, several pairs of new boots, and a warm, brown leather waistcoat.

From Clemmie in 1926: "I have seen Mussolini...he is most impressive- quite simple and natural, very dignified, has a charming smile and the most beautiful golden-brown piercing eyes....When he came in everyone (women too) got up as if he were a King....I am sure he is a very great person-I do hope nothing happens to him." And a few days later: "I have just received a beautiful signed photograph from Mussolini....All the Embassy ladies are dying of jealousy!" And Winston replies: "The description of Mussolini is very vivid. No doubt he is one of the most wonderful men of our time."

From Clemmie, March 1959: "My Darling, Long before you get this letter you will have heard that yesterday, when your pictures were shewn to the General Public 3,210 people visited the Exhibition....The Academy officials are wildly excited and say this is a record for a 'One Man' Show. Last year there was an exhibition of drawings by Leonardo da Vinci and 1,172 came on the opening day. Poor Leonardo!" (In the end about 100,000 people attended Winston's show.)

Winston: "If it weren't for painting, I couldn't live. I couldn't bear the strain of things."

Winston and Clementine had five children, four of whom survived into adulthood. Of these, Randolph and Sarah were serious alcoholics; Diana was a depressive who committed suicide. Of Randolph, William Manchester says, "both parents shared the responsibility for having raised a cad...." References to their children in these letters are disappointingly cool, almost detached, especially on Clemmie's part. Given what we know about their children, Winston and Clementine shared many more than the usual number of disappointments and griefs. Is their failure to give these difficulties full discussion in their letters simply the restraint of upper-class breeding? Does it reflect a detachment brought about by a life lived so largely in public? Knowing that their letters would become part of the public record, are they protecting their children-and themselves-from the judgment of future generations? Winston and Clementine were uninhibited in expressing their enduring love and affection for each other. Only their youngest child has carried into the present those qualities of steadfast devotion and faithfulness that are the most moving message of these letters.

Molly Finn writes from New York.