Part 13

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!”

II

My friendship with Wilde was literary in its beginnings. Flattered vanity on my part possibly contributed not a little to it, for when I was a young and--if that be possible--a more obscure man even than I am now, Wilde, already famous, was one of the very first to speak an encouraging word. Here is the first letter I received from him:

16 TITE STREET, CHELSEA.

DEAR MR. KERNAHAN,

If you have nothing to do on Wednesday, will you come and dine at the Hotel de Florence, Rupert Street, at 7.45--morning dress, and chianti yellow or red!

I am charmed to see your book is having so great a success. It is strong and fine and true. Your next book will be a great book.

Truly yours, OSCAR WILDE.

This letter, it will be observed, is undated. Apparently Wilde never dated his letters, for of all the letters of his which I have preserved not a solitary one bears a date, other perhaps than the name of the day of the week on which it was written, and that only rarely. He had the impudence once at a dinner-party, when taken to task by a great lady for not having answered a letter, to reply:

“But, my dear lady, I never answer or write letters. Ask my friend there, whose faithful correspondent I am.” Then turning to me, he said, “Tell Lady ---- when you heard from me last.”

As I had heard from him that morning, I dissembled by saying:

“How can I answer that, Wilde, for among my other discoveries of the eccentricities of genius I have discovered that genius, at least as represented by you, never dates its letters. I never had one from you that was dated.”

Not long after the receipt of this first letter, I proposed to write what I may call a “grown-up fairy story,” and asked Wilde whether I might borrow as sub-title a phrase I had once heard him use of a fairy tale of his own making--“A Story for Children from Eight to Eighty.” He replied as follows, then, as always, with a capital _D_ for “dear”:

16 TITE STREET, CHELSEA, S.W.

MY DEAR KERNAHAN,

I am only too pleased that any little phrase of mine will find a place in any title you may give to any story. Use it, of course. I am sure your story will be delightful. Hoping to see you soon.

Your friend, OSCAR WILDE.

My story written and published, I despatched it cap in hand to carry my acknowledgments to the teller of supremely lovely fairy stories--imagined, not invented--from whom my own drab and homespun-clad little tale had impudently “lifted” a beautiful sub-title to wear, a borrowed plume, in its otherwise undecorated hat.

Here is Wilde’s very characteristic reply. It needs no signature to indicate the writer. No other author of the day would have written thus graciously and thus generously:

16 TITE STREET, CHELSEA, S.W.

MY DEAR KERNAHAN,

I should have thanked you long ago for sending me your charming Fairy Tale, but the season with its red roses of pleasure has absorbed me quite and I have almost forgotten how to write a letter. However, I know you will forgive me, and I must tell you how graceful and artistic I think your story is--full of delicate imagination, and a symbolism suggestive of many meanings, not narrowed down to one moral, but many-sided, as I think symbolism should be.

But your strength lies not in such graceful winsome work. You must deal directly with Life--modern terrible Life--wrestle with it, and force it to yield you its secret. You have the power and the pen. You know what passion is, what passions are. You can give them their red raiment and make them move before us. You can fashion puppets with bodies of flesh and souls of turmoil, and so you must sit down and do a great thing.

It is all in you.

Your sincere friend, OSCAR WILDE.

That Wilde was an artist in flattery as well as an egotist, is not to be denied, but when quite early in our friendship I was shown by a certain woman poet a presentation copy of Wilde’s book of poems inscribed “To a poet and a poem,” and within the next few weeks saw upon a table in the drawing-room of a very beautiful and singularly accomplished woman, the late Rosamund Marriott-Watson (“Graham Tomson”), who was a friend of Wilde’s and mine, a fine portrait of himself also inscribed “To a poet and a poem,” I was not so foolish as to take too seriously the flattering things he said.

Egotist as Wilde was, his was not the expansive egotism which, in spreading its wings to invite admiration, seeks to eclipse and to shut out its fellow egotists from their own little place in the sun. Most egotists are eager only for flattery and applause. Wilde was equally eager, but he was ready for the time being to forget himself and his eagerness in applauding and flattering others. Not many egotists of my acquaintance, especially literary egotists, write letters like that I have quoted, in which there is no word of himself, or of his own work, but only of his friend.

The last letter I ever received from Wilde is in the same vein. It is as usual undated, but as the play to which it refers was his first, _Lady Windermere’s Fan_, I am, by the assistance of Mr. Stuart Mason’s admirably compiled _Oscar Wilde Calendar_, enabled to fix the date as the middle of February, 1892.

HOTEL ALBEMARLE, PICCADILLY, LONDON.

MY DEAR KERNAHAN,

Will you come and see my play Thursday night. I want it to be liked by an artist like you.

Yours ever, O. W.

Wilde came to see me, I think, the morning after the production of the play, or at all events within a morning or two after, and hugged himself with delight when, in reply to his question, “Do tell me what you admired most in the play,” I said:

“Your impudence! To dare to come before the footlights in response to enthusiastic calls--smoking a cigarette too--and compliment a British audience on having the unexpected good taste--for your manner said as plainly as it could, ‘Really, my dear people, I didn’t think you had it in you!’--to appreciate a work of art on its merits! You are a genius, Wilde, in impudence at least if in nothing else.”

“And you are a plagiarist as well as a flatterer,” he replied. “You stole that last remark from a story you have heard me tell about Richard Le Gallienne. I’m going to punish you by telling you the story, for, though you stole part of it, I am sure you have never heard it. No one ever has heard the story he steals and calls his own; no one ever has read--the odds are that he will swear he has never heard of--the book from which he has plagiarised. Our friend Richard is very beautiful, isn’t he? Wasn’t it you who told me that Swinburne described him to you as ‘Shelley with a chin’? I don’t agree. Swinburne might just as well have described himself as ‘Shelley without a chin.’ No, it is the Angel Gabriel in Rossetti’s National Gallery painting of the Annunciation of which Richard reminds me. The hair, worn long and fanning out into a wonderful halo around the head, always reminds me of Rossetti’s angel. However, my story is that an American woman, in that terribly crude way that Americans have, asked Richard, ‘Why do you wear your hair so long, Mr. Le Gallienne?’ Richard is sometimes brilliant as well as always beautiful, but on this occasion he could think of nothing less banal and foolish to say than ‘Perhaps, dear lady, for advertisement.’ ‘But you, Mr. Le Gallienne! You who have such genius!’ Richard blushed and bowed and smiled until the lady added cruelly--‘for advertisement!’”

Wilde was quite right in saying I had heard the story before. It had been told me as happening to himself in America in the days when he wore his own hair very long, and I am of opinion that it was much more likely to have happened to Wilde, who was both a notoriety hunter and an advertiser, than to Le Gallienne, who is neither.

_A propos_ of Wilde’s love of advertising, I once heard the fact commented upon--perhaps rudely and crudely--to Wilde himself. Just as I was about to enter the Savage Club in company with a Brother Savage, who was well known as an admirer of Dickens, we encountered Wilde, and I invited him to join us at lunch.

“In the usual way,” he answered, “I should say that I was charmed, but out of compliment to our friend here, I will for once condescend to quote that dreadful and tedious person Dickens and answer, ‘Barkis is willin’.’ Where are you lunching--Romano’s?”

“No,” I said, “the Savage Club.”

“Oh, the Savage Club,” said Wilde. “I never enter the Savage Club. It tires me so. It used to be gentlemanly Bohemian, but ever since the Prince of Wales became a member and sometimes dines there, it is nothing but savagely snobbish. Besides, the members are all supposed to be professionally connected with Literature, Science, and Art, and I abhor professionalism of every sort.”

My Dickens friend, who shares every Savage’s love for the old club (he told me afterwards, whether correctly or not I do not know, that Wilde’s aversion was due to the fact that his brother Willie Wilde had unsuccessfully put up for membership), was annoyed by what Wilde had said both about the club and about Charles Dickens.