in good company 27

in good company 27

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.