Chapter VII

Whymper’s comments upon his contemporaries and their work were always exceedingly penetrative. Of some he spoke very generously but never effusively, of others critically and of a few sarcastically. I well remember the cynical smile with which he called my attention to an inscription in a presentation volume. It had been sent to him by a well-known writer, of whom I say no more than that he had once held a very distinguished position in the Society of Authors. The inscription ran: “To Edward Whymper, Esq. with the author’s complements,” and as I write, I seem to see Whymper’s squarish finger stubbed under the guilty “e” in compliments. No one did he seem to hold in greater respect and regard than Mr. Edward Clodd, of whom he once spoke to me as “not only a profound thinker and scholar and brilliant writer, but a loyal and true friend and the intimate associate of many of the great men of our time.” I remember once inviting Whymper to be my guest at a dinner in town, and mentioning that Clodd was to be of the party.

“You know,” said he, “how generally I hum and ha when anyone asks me to a function or a dinner, and that I’d rather at any time dine on bread and cheese and in pyjamas (which he often wore in the house) here in Southend than be at the trouble of getting into a black coat and journeying up to London to eat a ten-course dinner. But, if Clodd is to be one of your guests, I’m your man.”

I had only three guests, Whymper, Mr. Clodd, and Mr. Warwick Deeping, and the two older men who had not met for a very long time had so much to say about celebrities who were the friends of both, and of historic former meetings, that Deeping (always a silent man by choice) and myself (host though I was) were content for the most part to listen. Apart from his wish to see an old friend whom he held in great respect, Whymper had, if I am not mistaken, another and more personal reason for accepting my invitation to meet Clodd at dinner, which is why I refer to that otherwise unimportant function.

And this brings me to a somewhat painful incident of which, when Whymper was alive, I was occasionally reminded, always to his disparagement, by literary friends. If I touch briefly upon it here, it is not because I wish to rake up an old story, which, inasmuch as it concerns two distinguished men who are both dead, might very well be forgotten, but because since Whymper’s death it has again been going the rounds, and because I have an explanation to put forward in regard to what happened.

Whymper was on a certain occasion--it is no use mincing matters--unpardonably rude to one whom Sir Arthur Conan Doyle once described to me as “the most modest, the most unassuming, and at the same time the most learned man I have ever known”--the late Grant Allen. It was my privilege to know and to be the guest of Grant Allen in his home, and I am of opinion that he was not only the most modest, most unassuming, and most learned, but also the gentlest, most generous, and most lovable of men. Meeting Whymper at a dinner--I was not present, but in common, I expect, with some of my readers I have heard the story often--Allen quite innocently, and never dreaming that the question could give offence, asked Whymper concerning the historic accident on the Matterhorn, to be told curtly that the accident was his own business, and he did not choose to discuss it.

Unpardonably rude, as I have said, as such a reply was, and to such a man as Allen, that rudeness is, I fancy, capable of explanation. To those who knew Whymper only slightly and--overlooking the sensitive breathing nostrils, so wide and circular at the opening--saw only the cold hardness of his face and eyes, the rat-trap-like snap of mouth and jaw, he seemed a man of iron; and this impression the story of his indomitable courage, his dogged determination to succeed where others had failed, went far to confirm. That such a man, a man rough-hewn as he seemed out of block granite, and with sinews of steel, could be cognisant of the fact that he had “nerves,” much less could suffer from them, would occur to no one. None the less, I happen to know that the shock of that tragedy in early life among the Alps, when, powerless to help them, he had to stand inactively by and see his companions hurled to certain death, left its mark upon him to the end of his life, and was sometimes re-enacted in his dreams. In his later years, when his iron constitution began to weaken and when his nerves were less steady than of old, any sudden reference to that early tragedy would, in his more irritable moments, annoy and anger him, and I am convinced that it was in such conditions his rude and surly rebuff to Grant Allen was spoken. That Whymper afterwards regretted it I have reason to know. I believe that it was because Clodd was the close and devoted friend of Allen, and had, moreover, been present when the rebuff was administered, and had been pained by it, that Whymper was anxious to meet Clodd, either for the reason that--indifferent as he generally was to what others thought of him--he was for once anxious to efface any bad impression that the incident had created, or because he hoped to have some opportunity of speaking of Allen (he was too proud a man to have written to Allen direct) in such a way as to mend matters.

That this is not mere surmise on my part I am convinced from what I have myself heard Whymper say and from the way he afterwards spoke of Allen. He was, as I say, a proud man, a taciturn man, and sometimes a rude man, but at heart he was just; and unnecessarily and undeservedly to have given pain to another troubled him as much, if not more, than anything _could_ trouble one whom few things outside himself could affect.

Since writing the above I ventured to submit a draft of this paper to my friend Mr. Clodd, whose very interesting reply I have permission to quote as written:

MY DEAR KERNAHAN,

I read the enclosed last night. Like Cromwell, Whymper would say,
“Paint me, warts and wrinkles and all,” and you have done as he
would have wished, producing a faithful and withal sympathetic
portrait.

I have just queried an obscure sentence here and there, but
have not touched the punctuation, which I presume has had your
attention in the original.

I don’t know whether the Tennyson story has appeared in print.
Edmund Gosse told it to me years back. Of course the son wouldn’t
admit anything conveying an idea of his father’s gruffness. When
I referred to the _Life_ as a Biography, Meredith said to me,
“Don’t call it that: ’tis only a Eulogy.” What I now remember
about the Allen rebuff is that Whymper had been lecturing in
various places, and that Allen--who was thinking of making money
that way--asked him about his fees. And this Whymper wouldn’t
tell him. On the same occasion, Hardy being of the company,
Whymper narrated in detail the Matterhorn catastrophe, which gave
Hardy the impetus to a sonnet. Whymper was the only man Hardy
ever expressed the desire to meet again--hence their coming to me
in the Easter of 1910.

You truly assess him as a lonely man, but there was a soft place
under a hard shell, and this comes out in the tenderness towards
children and all helpless things of which you speak. I am glad to
have your witness to his liking for me. His visits to me remain a
cherished memory.

Yours sincerely,
EDWARD CLODD.

I was under the impression, before receiving Mr. Clodd’s very interesting letter, and from what Grant Allen told me of the rebuff, that it was the latter’s question about the Matterhorn which caused the trouble. But the incident happened under Mr. Clodd’s roof, and his memory is not likely to fail him. Possibly Allen had already annoyed Whymper by asking to be told the story of the Matterhorn, and the inquiry about lecture fees following upon that provoked Whymper’s ready wrath. That he should thereafter voluntarily have described the ice accident to Mr. Thomas Hardy (at mention of whose honoured name I stand respectfully at salute) in no way surprises me, and in fact confirms what I have said in an earlier section of this paper to the effect that “the advance must always come from Whymper himself,” that he was not indisposed to talk when left to himself, but was quick to suspect any appearance of being “exploited” or “drawn.” That he resented having questions about the Matterhorn catastrophe suddenly sprung upon him I have reason to know, for I have more than once heard him snub, almost savagely, a tactless inquirer. Allen’s question about fees (he was the last man in the world to be impertinent) may seem to some readers unwarrantable, but none of us in Mr. Christy’s list made any secret of the matter, as Allen--himself a lecturer, but not for Mr. Christy--was aware. On the contrary, Whymper asked me, soon after I first met him, what fees I received, telling me in return what his own handsome payments were.

There we will leave the comparatively trivial incident of his rudeness to Allen. I should not have written thus lengthily of it, but for the receipt of Mr. Clodd’s letter, and because my picture of Whymper depends, for any faithfulness it has, not upon bold strokes of the brush, but upon the slow and careful painting in of comparatively unimportant but none the less cumulative details.

Edward Whymper was a man whom it was easy to misjudge, and was so misjudged of many if only for the reason that he would go out of his way to flatter, to please, or to pay court to none, or to be other than his natural self to all those with whom he was brought into contact. Rank and title, great social position, the power of the purse and the power of the Press, nor his own self-interests, could ever move Edward Whymper to seek the favour of those who for their own sake, or for the sake of what they have done, he did not already respect. Secure in the knowledge of his own just and honourable dealings with all men, and seeking only the approval of his conscience, he was content to go his own way in the world, a strange, strong, lonely, but in many respects a remarkable man--I think in force of character and determination the most remarkable man I have ever known. To me, as to many others of whom I am aware, he did many kindnesses and showed constant friendliness, and if in the opinion of my readers I seem but ill to have requited these kindnesses and that friendliness, by drawing a faithful rather than a flattering picture of the man as I knew him, it is because he was too sincere, too honest, too genuine, too fearless to wish it otherwise. Let me, however, in concluding this sketch, give one more picture of him as I often saw him--a picture which I have purposely kept to the last for the reason that it shows him in a light which is probably all unknown to those who did not see him in his home and in his daily life, and because it is a memory of him upon which I like to linger.

Born bachelor as he always seemed to me--I left Westcliff shortly before his marriage, and did not know him and cannot imagine him as a married man--he was extremely fond of and invariably kind to children. With children he was another being, and, grim as he could be to grown-ups, children invariably liked and trusted him. My earliest experience of this was on the evening after my first supper with him. He had been to town, and, as I was walking towards the station to purchase an evening paper, I saw him stalking in front of me, arrayed in a black greatcoat and top hat and black leather leggings. In one hand he carried his bag, and by the other he clasped the hand of a tiny girl-child, poorly clad and hatless, whom he stooped to comfort as tenderly as could any woman, and in fact took out his own handkerchief to wipe away her tears. The little mite, who hailed from East London, had been sent by some charitable person for a week by the sea to one of the many Holiday Homes for the Poor in Southend. How she had become lost I do not remember, but lost she certainly was, learning which Whymper had comforted, quieted, and coaxed her into telling him where her temporary home was, and when I met him he was on his way to take her there. My own stepson, then a lad of twelve and a cadet on H.M.S. _Worcester_, was devoted to him, being especially proud that the greatest of mountaineers was at the trouble of giving him lessons in climbing. Up and down the cliff slopes of Southend, Whymper marched the lad, impressing upon him the importance of always going at one steady and uniform rate, never, except under exceptional circumstances when haste was absolutely necessary, forcing the pace or indulging in sprinting; teaching him to walk from the hips mechanically and machine wise, so that no strain was put upon the heart and lungs, and instructing him in the control and use of the breath. When after the holiday the boy went back to the _Worcester_, he sent Whymper his autograph book, asking him to inscribe his name therein. In it, the man whom some people thought grim, surly, and morose, wrote: “I have been dying to see you again. When _are_ you coming along? Edward Whymper. Feb. 24, 1905.”

The boy whom Whymper always spoke of as his “friend” is at this moment serving his King and country in France as a soldier, throwing up his post in Canada directly war was declared. He is too young to feel--as some of us who are young no longer now, alas, feel, as has been said, that old friends are the best, and it is to the grave we must go to find them; but he is only one of many to whom, when they were children, the dead man showed constant kindness, and who will to their life’s end hold the name of the great mountaineer, who was also a true child-lover, in honour, gratitude, and affection.

OSCAR WILDE

“To the memory of one who by some strange madness, beyond
understanding, made shipwreck of his own life and of the life of
others; one of whom the world speaks in whispers, but of whom I
say openly that I never heard an objectionable word from his lips
and saw in him at no time anything more vicious than vanity; to
the memory of

OSCAR WILDE,

actor (in a great life tragedy as in everything else), artist (in
more crafts than one, including flattery), poet, critic, convict,
genius, and, as I knew him, gentleman: I dedicate these pages in
memory of many kindnesses.”

In these words I wished, soon after Wilde’s death, to dedicate a book, but the publisher of the book in question was obdurate. He would not, he said, have Wilde’s name on the dedication page of any work issued by him, and went so far as to urge me not to fulfil the intention I had even then formed of one day writing a chapter on Oscar Wilde as I knew him. Yet in Oscar Wilde as I knew him, as stated in the above dedication, except for his vanity there was no offence.

The preface, since my relations with the publisher of whom I speak were pleasant and friendly, I withdrew. If I have let sixteen years elapse before writing the chapter, it was for no other reason than that I felt the thing could wait--would perhaps be the better for waiting--and that the pressure of other work kept me employed.

But one day a man, who to my knowledge has eaten Wilde’s salt and received many kindnesses from him in the season of Wilde’s prosperity, called to see me concerning some literary project. On my shelves are books given and inscribed to me by Wilde and signed “from his sincere friend,” and on my mantelshelf stands a portrait similarly inscribed and signed. Seeing this portrait, my caller observed:

“If I were you I should put that thing out of sight, and, if you happen at any time to hear his name mentioned, I should keep the fact that he had been a friend of yours to yourself.”

That decided me to write my long delayed chapter. I begin by a protest. In his very interesting _Notes from a Painter’s Life_, my friend Mr. C. E. Hallé speaks of Wilde’s “repulsive appearance.” At the time of Wilde’s conviction some of the sketches of him, presumably made in court and published in certain prints, did so portray him, possibly because, as he was just then being held up to public execration, so to picture him fitted in with the popular conception. Mr. Hallé wrote “after the event” of Wilde’s downfall, when it is easy not only to be wise, but also to see in the outer man some signs of the evil within. But from the statement that Wilde’s appearance was “repulsive” I entirely dissent. It is true there was a flabby fleshiness of face and neck, a bulkiness of body, an animality about the large and pursy lips--which did not close naturally, but in a hard, indrawn and archless line--that suggested self-indulgence, but did not to me suggest vice. Otherwise, except for this fleshiness and for the animality of the mouth, I saw no evil in Wilde’s face. The forehead, what was visible of it--for he disposed brown locks of his thick and carefully parted hair over either temple--was high and finely formed. The nose was well shaped, the nostrils close and narrow--not open and “breathing” as generally seen in highly sensitive men. The eyes were peculiar, the almond-shaped lids being minutely out of alignment. I mean by this that the lids were so cut and the eyes so set in the head that the outer corners of the lids drooped downwards very slightly and towards the ears, as seen sometimes in Orientals. Liquid, soft, large and smiling, Wilde’s eyes, if they seemed to see all things--life, death, other mortals and most of all himself--half banteringly, met one’s own eyes frankly. His smile seemed to me to come from his eyes, not from his lips, which he tightened rather than relaxed in laughter. His general expression--always excepting the mouth, which, its animality notwithstanding, had none of the cruelty which goes so often with sensuality--was kindly.

The best portrait I have seen of Wilde is one in my possession which has never been published. It was taken when he was the guest of the late Lady Palmer (then Mrs. Walter Palmer), with whom I had at the time some acquaintance. She was a close friend of Wilde (who christened her “Moonbeam”) and of George Meredith (whom she sometimes half-seriously, half-playfully spoke of as “The Master”). In the portrait, Lady Palmer is seated with Meredith, Mrs. Jopling Rowe being seated on her right and Mr. H. B. Irving on her left. Behind Meredith’s chair stands Wilde with Miss Meredith (afterwards Mrs. Julian Sturgis), Sir J. Forbes-Robertson, and I think Mr. David Bisham on his right. The portrait of Wilde, if grave, is frank, untroubled, and attractive, for, when he chose to be serious, the large lines of his face and features sobered into a repose and into a massiveness which were not without dignity. Too often, however, Dignity suddenly let fall her cloak, and Vanity, naked and unashamed, was revealed in her place.

Yet there is this to be said of Wilde’s vanity, that its very nakedness was its best excuse. A loin-cloth, a fig-leaf would have offended, but it was so artlessly naked that one merely smiled and passed on. Moreover, it was never a jealous or a malicious vanity. It was so occupied in admiring itself in the mirror that the smile on its face was never distorted into a scowl at sight of another’s success. Wilde’s vanity, I repeat, was as entirely free from venom as was his wit. No one’s comments on society, on the men and women he met, the authors he read, were more incisive or more caustic, but I remember none in which the thought was slanderous or the intention spiteful.

_A propos_ of Wilde’s vanity, here is a story told me long ago by Lieutenant-Colonel Spencer, who then held a post of some sort in connection with the Masters in Lunacy. Visiting the Zoological Gardens one day--in his private capacity, I assume, not in connection with the Lunacy Commission--he entered the Monkey House. Within the big cement wire enclosure a certain liveliness--the war phrase seems to have come to stay--was evident. What it was all about Colonel Spencer did not know, but with one exception the occupants were very excited, leaping wildly from end to end of the cage, and from top to bottom, jabbering, groaning, snarling, emitting shrill shrieks of terror or hoarse howls of rage.

The one exception was an evil-looking and elderly monkey which sat humped and brooding in a corner, absolutely motionless except for the twitching of his nostrils and the angry way in which he switched his eyes first upon what he apparently thought to be the staring human idiots outside, and then at the capering and noisy monkey imbeciles within. “What’s the matter with that monkey?” Colonel Spencer inquired of a keeper. “Is he ill? He seems too bored even to scratch.” The keeper shook his head. “No, he isn’t ill, sir,” he answered. “Wot’s the matter with ’im, sir? Why, wanity.” Then stirring up the sulking monkey with his cane, he added, “’Ere, get up--Hoscar Wilde!”

One day it was Wilde’s caprice to amuse himself by talking the most blatantly insincere nonsense, directed against my own political views, and deliberately intended to “draw” me. He was in his most exasperating mood, exuding, or affecting to exude, egotism at every pore, and fondling, or making pretence to fondle, his vanity as some spinsters fondle a favourite cat. At last I could stand it no longer, and wickedly told him the story of Colonel Spencer’s visit to the Monkey House at the Zoo and the keeper’s comment about the sulky monkey. “Wot’s the matter with ’im, sir? Why, wanity. ’Ere, get up--Hoscar Wilde.”

So far from being annoyed, Wilde simply rocked, or affected to rock with delight.

“I hoped once,” he said, “to live to see a new shape in chrysanthemums or sunflowers, or possibly a new colour in roses, blue for choice, called after me. But that one’s name should percolate even to the Zoological Gardens, that it should come naturally to the lips of a keeper in the Monkey House, is fame indeed. Do remind me to tell George Alexander the story. It will make him so dreadfully jealous.”

And I answered grimly:

“Your game, Wilde!”