Sir George Darwin's last public appearance was as president of the
fifth International Congress of Mathematicians, which met at
Cambridge on August 22-28, 1912. The time for England to receive the
congress having obviously arrived, a movement was initiated at
Cambridge, with the concurrence of Oxford mathematicians, to send an
invitation to the fourth congress held at Rome in 1908. The proposal
was cordially accepted, and Sir George Darwin, as _doyen_ of the
mathematical school at Cambridge, became chairman of the organising
committee, and was subsequently elected by the congress to be their
president. Though obviously unwell during part of the meeting, he
managed to discharge the delicate duties of the chair with
conspicuous success, and guided with great verve the deliberations of
the final assembly of what turned out to be a most successful meeting
of that important body.
Personal Characteristics.
His daughter, Madame Raverat, writes:
I think most people might not realise that the sense of adventure and
romance was the most important thing in my father's life, except his
love of work. He thought about all life romantically, and his own
life in particular; one could feel it in the quality of everything he
said about himself. Everything in the world was interesting and
wonderful to him, and he had the power of making other people feel
it.
He had a passion for going everywhere and seeing everything; learning
every language, knowing the technicalities of every trade; and all
this emphatically _not_ from the scientific or collector's point of
view, but from a deep sense of the romance and interest of
everything. It was splendid to travel with him; he always learned as
much as possible of the language, and talked to everyone; we had to
see simply everything there was to be seen, and it was all
interesting, like an adventure. For instance, at Vienna I remember
being taken to a most improper music hall, and at Schonbrunn hearing
from an old forester the whole secret history of the old Emperor's
son. My father would tell us the stories of the places we went to
with an incomparable conviction and sense of the reality and
dramaticness of the events. It is absurd, of course, but in that
respect he always seemed to me a little like Sir Walter Scott. {187}
The books he used to read to us when we were quite small, and which
we adored, were Percy's _Reliques_ and the _Prologue to the
__Canterbury Tales_. He used often to read Shakespeare to himself, I
think generally the historical plays; also Chaucer, _Don Quixote_ in
Spanish, and all kind of books like Joinville's _Life of St. Louis_
in the old French.
I remember the story of the death of Gordon told so that we all
cried, I think; and Gladstone could hardly be mentioned in
consequence. All kinds of wars and battles interested him, and I
think he liked archery more because it was romantic than because it
was a game.
During his last illness his interest in the Balkan war never failed.
Three weeks before his death he was so ill that the doctor thought
him dying. Suddenly he rallied from the half-unconscious state in
which he had been lying for many hours, and the first words he spoke
on opening his eyes were, "Have they got to Constantinople yet?"
This was very characteristic. I often wish he was alive now, because
his understanding and appreciation of the glory and tragedy of this
war would be like no one else's.
His daughter Margaret writes:
He was absolutely unselfconscious, and it never seemed to occur to
him to wonder what impression he was making on others. I think it
was this simplicity which made him so good with children. He seemed
to understand their point of view, and to enjoy with them in a way
that is not common with grown-up people. I shall never forget how
when our dog had to be killed he seemed to feel the horror of it just
as I did, and how this sense of his really sharing my grief made him
able to comfort me as nobody else could.
He took a transparent pleasure in the honours that came to him,
especially in his membership of foreign Academies, in which he and
Sir David Gill had a friendly rivalry or "race," as they called it.
I think this simplicity was one of his chief characteristics, though
most important of all was the great warmth and width of his
affections. He would take endless trouble about his friends,
especially in going to see them if they were lonely or ill; and he
was absolutely faithful and generous in his love.
After his mother came to live in Cambridge I believe he hardly ever
missed a day in going to see her, even though he might only be able to
stay a few minutes. She lived at some distance off, and he was often
both busy and tired. This constancy was very characteristic. It was
shown once more in his many visits to Jim Harradine, the marker at the
tennis court, on what proved to be his death-bed.
His energy and his kindness of heart were shown in many cases of
distress. For instance, a guard on the Great Northern Railway was robbed
of his savings by an absconding solicitor, and George succeeded in
collecting some 300 pounds for him. In later years, when his friend the
guard became bedridden, George often went to see him. Another man whom
he befriended was a one-legged man at Balsham, whom he happened to notice
in bicycling past. He took the trouble to see the village authorities,
and succeeded in sending the man to London to be fitted with an
artificial leg.
In these and similar cases there was always the touch of personal
sympathy. For instance, he pensioned the widow of his gardener, and he
often made the payment of her weekly allowance the excuse for a visit.
In another sort of charity he was equally kindhearted, viz., in answering
the people who wrote foolish letters to him on scientific subjects--and
here as in many points he resembled his father.
His sister, Mrs. Litchfield, has truly said {190} of George, that he
inherited his father's power of work and much of his "cordiality and
warmth of nature, with a characteristic power of helping others." He
resembled his father in another quality, that of modesty. His friend and
pupil, Professor E. W. Brown, writes:
He was always modest about the importance of his researches. He
would often wonder whether the results were worth the labour they had
cost him, and whether he would have been better employed in some
other way.
His nephew Bernard, speaking of George's way of taking pains to be
friendly and forthcoming to anyone with whom he came in contact, says:
He was ready to take other people's pleasantness and politeness at
its apparent value and not to discount it. If they seemed glad to
see him, he believed that they _were_ glad. If he liked somebody, he
believed that the somebody liked him, and did not worry himself by
wondering whether they really did like him.
Of his energy we have evidence in the _amount_ of material contained in
his collected works. There was nothing dilatory about him, and here he
again resembled his father, who had markedly the power of doing things at
the right moment, and thus avoiding waste of time and discomfort to
others. George had none of a characteristic which was defined in the
case of Henry Bradshaw, as "always doing something else." After an
interruption he could instantly reabsorb himself in his work, so that his
study was not kept as a place sacred to peace and quiet.
His wife is my authority for saying that although he got so much done, it
was not by working long hours. Moreover, the days that he was away from
home made large gaps in his opportunities for steady application. His
diaries show in another way that his researches by no means took all his
time. He made a note of the books he read, and these make a considerable
record. Although he read much good literature with honest enjoyment, he
had not a delicate or subtle literary judgment. Nor did he care for
music. He was interested in travels, history, and biography, and as he
could remember what he read or heard, his knowledge was wide in many
directions. His linguistic power was characteristic. He read many
European languages. I remember his translating a long Swedish paper for
my father. And he took pleasure in the Platt Deutsch stories of Fritz
Reuter.
The discomfort from which he suffered during the meeting at Cambridge of
the International Congress of Mathematicians in August 1912 was, in fact,
the beginning of his last illness. An exploratory operation showed that
he was suffering from malignant disease. Happily he was spared the pain
that gives its terror to this malady. His nature was, as we have seen,
simple and direct, with a pleasant residue of the innocence and eagerness
of childhood. In the manner of his death these qualities were ennobled
by an admirable and most unselfish courage. As his vitality ebbed away
his affection only showed the stronger. He wished to live, and he felt
that his power of work and his enjoyment of life were as strong as ever,
but his resignation to the sudden end was complete and beautiful. He
died on December 7, 1912, and was buried at Trumpington.