If the French language was a gift from his mother, so was Philip’s passion for art. Art education at Eton was generally limited to the lower boys taking drawing lessons with old Sam Evans, who would direct the pupils to sketch copies of plaster casts of classical figures. Philip took up these classes but was more fortunate to come to the attention of Henry Luxmoore, the ‘grand old man’ among Eton’s masters and a ‘lone standard bearer for aesthetics’.12 Philip would join small groups of boys for Sunday teas with Luxmoore in the famous garden he had created at Eton, where they would discuss art. These informal sessions for students whom Luxmoore regarded as potential kindred spirits was the only education the boys had in the works of the great artists. Philip could contribute with knowledge acquired from his family’s extensive collection, and of course drop into conversation the news that John Singer Sargent was painting his mother’s portrait.
Having grown up around beautiful things it is not surprising that he should have developed a strong appreciation of the value of art for its own sake. At Eton, Luxmoore would help to develop Philip’s intellectual curiosity in the attempts of great artists to understand and capture beauty. Luxmoore’s own particular interest was in the works of the seventeenth-century Spanish painter Bartolomé Murillo, whose realist portraits of everyday life, including flower girls, street urchins and beggars, may have influenced Philip’s own later interest in the English ‘conversation piece’ paintings of Gainsborough and Zoffany, depicting the details of life in the eighteenth century. Murillo’s work also showed that real beauty could be found anywhere, not just in great cathedrals and palaces. Luxmoore’s passion for the art of gardening was something else that Philip would share in adult life, with both men appreciating its power to define space and create an experience of beauty.fn10
When Luxmoore died in 1926, the Spectator magazine recalled that ‘his knowledge and sense of art and architecture made him an arbiter of taste. But his most abiding mark will be on the characters of innumerable boys and, we venture to say, of masters too. He inspired high motives and principles by expecting them. No one with a mean thought in his heart could come before Mr Luxmoore’s eye and not feel ashamed.’13 Philip Sassoon’s education in aesthetics was energetic rather than passive. He developed not just an appreciation of art, but an idealized vision for life. He believed, as Oscar Wilde did, that ‘by beautifying the outward aspects of life, one would beautify the inner ones’, and that an artistic renaissance represented ‘a sort of rebirth of the spirit of man’.14 Eton suited Philip Sassoon, because despite the strictures of Edwardian English society it was a place where ‘you could think and love what you liked; only in external matters, in clothes or in deportment, need you to do as others did’.15
Philip was not one of Eton’s star scholars; those prizes were taken by boys like Ronald Knox and Patrick Shaw Stewart, who would go on to scale the academic heights at Oxford. He sat the examination for Balliol College, which had something of a reputation as an academic hothouse, but was not awarded one of the closed scholarships that were at Eton’s disposal. Instead he took the traditional path to Christ Church, to read Modern History.
Leading statesmen like William Gladstone and the Marquess of Salisbury had previously made the journey from Eton to Christ Church, but it also had a reputation as the home of Oxford’s more creative students. It had been the college of Lewis Carroll and of the great Victorian art critic John Ruskin; and Evelyn Waugh would later choose Christ Church’s Meadow Building, constructed in the Venetian Gothic style, as the setting for Lord Sebastian Flyte’s rooms in Brideshead Revisited, published in 1945. Fortunate students living in the beautiful eighteenth-century Peckwater Quad could have a fine set of high-ceilinged rooms in which to live and entertain with style.
Life at Oxford in those seven years before the First World War is now seen as the high summer of the British Empire, coloured by the glorious flowering of a lost generation. It is a view inevitably shaped by the immense sense of loss at the deaths of so many brave and brilliant young men in battle. Oxford was still governed, though, by a pre-First World War social conservatism and, as at Eton, Philip could not help being somewhat ‘other’. It was less than forty years since the university had first accepted students who were not members of the Church of England, and he was one of no more than twenty-five undergraduates of the Jewish faith, out of a total of three thousand at the university.
Philip had grown in confidence and stature since his early Eton days. He was sleek, athletic and always immaculately attired in clothes tailored in Savile Row. He continued to enjoy robust outdoor pursuits like beagling and was an avid swimmer and tennis player. He went out hunting with the Heythrop and Bicester, and members recalled that he always ‘looked like a fashion plate even in the mud’.16 Philip was not a varsity sportsman, so would not earn the Oxford Blue that would guarantee acceptance into Vincent’s Club, but he was invited to join the renowned dining club, the Bullingdon, which was then popular with Old Etonian undergraduates who hunted.
At Oxford he also enjoyed the independence of having his own allowance to spend, and his own rooms to live in. He arranged for furniture from his parents’ Park Lane mansion to decorate his quarters at Christ Church, and once gave a seven-course dinner party with the food specially brought up by train in heated containers from a restaurant in London. Despite his father’s hope that Philip would start to mark out a future for himself in politics, he did not trouble the debaters at the Oxford Union Society, the training ground for generations of would-be leaders of nations. Although a confident performer in private company he remained a nervous public speaker and could not hope to compete with the Union’s leading lights, such as fellow Old Etonian Ronald Knox.
At Oxford, Philip’s circle of friends was drawn not from his own college, but mainly from his Old Etonian contemporaries at Balliol, men like Charles Lister, Patrick Shaw Stewart, Edward Horner and Julian Grenfell. Apart from Horner, they did not fit the mould of the traditional English gentleman, whose place and role in the world was certain. Lister had caused a stir at Eton by joining the Labour Party, a genuinely radical step in the eyes of early Edwardian society. He’d also participated actively in the school’s mission to the poor in Hackney Wick in the East End of London. Shaw Stewart was academically brilliant and very ambitious but, without any real family money, was required to make his own way in the world. He was fixed on making a fortune in the City, before embarking on his own career in public life. Grenfell was someone whom Philip had grown up with, even if they had not become particularly close. Philip and his family had been frequent guests at Taplow Court where Julian’s mother Lady Desborough, a close friend of Aline Sassoon, was a renowned hostess. Julian’s first London dinner party had been at the Sassoons’ home in Park Lane, the evening before the Oxford and Cambridge University Boat Race in 1907, and his younger brother Billy had been to stay at the Avenue de Marigny earlier that year.
Yet Philip and Julian were cut from very different cloth. Julian was 6 foot 2 and made for battle. His aesthetic interests lay in the pursuit of physical perfection through the training of his own body as an athlete and boxer. Lawrence Jones, a contemporary at Eton and Balliol, remembered that
There was something simple and primitive in [Julian] that was outraged by the perfection of well-bred luxury at Taplow … He felt that there was something artificial and unreal in [his mother’s] deft manipulation of a procession of week-end parties, lightly skimming the cream from the surface of life … Julian had a passion for red-blooded down-to-earthiness, for action and adventure, and, with youthful intolerance, fiercely resented the easy, cushioned existence of Edwardian society.17
These emotions led to frequent arguments with his mother, and were also evident in his up-and-down relationship with Philip, whose own tastes were closer to Lady Desborough’s. Julian wrote a mocking letter to his mother from Oxford, faking a new interest