“In the _Memoir of Tennyson_ by his son, there will be a letter--only
one--to myself,” said Whymper to me in 1897. “Except for the fact
that it was one of the last, if indeed not the very last letter
Tennyson penned, it doesn’t strike me as being important enough for
inclusion. But it has a curious history. I had sent Tennyson a copy
of one of my books, _Travels among the Great Andes of the Equator_.
Here is his reply. I’ll read it to you:
‘DEAR SIR,
‘Accept my thanks for your most interesting volume. I don’t think
I have been higher than about 7000 feet, and so I look on your
Chimborazos and Cotopaxis with all the greater veneration.
‘Yours very truly,
TENNYSON.’
“Now you can hardly call that a characteristic or even a particularly
interesting letter,” continued Whymper, “but the writing appears to
have given the poet some trouble, for the present Lord Tennyson tells
me that, after his father’s death, he found several drafts of it, I
think he said six, in a blotting pad. It was, as I say, one of the
last, if not the very last letter Tennyson ever wrote, and one of two
things about it is true. Either his approaching end had so affected
his powers that he found it difficult to frame even an ordinary
letter of acknowledgment, or else, realising that his letters would
one day inevitably be collected and printed, he was too fastidious an
artist to let even a casual note of thanks come from his pen without
striving to impart to it some touch of distinction and originality,
some turn of a phrase which would give a hint of the power and the
personality of the writer. What’s _your_ solution of the problem?”
As I had no solution to offer, Whymper told me another story of
Tennyson, which by this time may or may not--I do not know--have
got into print.[B] But even if so--since I first heard it when it
was quite new, and since stories of the sort get varied in the
telling--there is some probability that Whymper’s version is the
correct one. I set it down, as nearly as I can recollect, as he told
it.
[B] Since this was written, I have told the story in a brief
sketch of Whymper that was published in a monthly magazine.
At a garden party, a rather gushing young girl went up to the hostess
and said: “Oh, is that really, as I’m told, Lord Tennyson sitting
there by himself smoking on that rustic seat?” “Yes, my dear, that is
he,” was the reply. “He occasionally does me the honour of calling to
see me, and dropped in, not knowing that I was entertaining to-day.”
“Oh, I should so like to meet him. Do introduce me,” said the girl.
“My dear, Lord Tennyson hates to be bothered by strangers,” answered
the hostess. “And one reason perhaps why he comes to see me is that
he knows I never exploit him in that way.” “Oh, but I should love to
be able to say I’ve met him,” persisted the other. “Well, _say_ you
have met him and leave it at that,” was the answer. “Here you are and
there he is, so it won’t be altogether untrue. He won’t trouble to
contradict it if he ever heard it, which is not likely, and I’m sure
I shan’t.”
The girl, however, would take no refusal. Nothing would content her
but actually meeting and speaking to Tennyson, so losing patience
her hostess said: “Very well. If he is rude to you--as he can be
to people who force themselves upon him--your blood be upon your
own head. You can’t say I haven’t warned you. Come along.” “Lord
Tennyson,” said the hostess when the two had walked together to the
seat where the Laureate was smoking, “this is Miss B----, daughter of
an old friend of mine, who is very, very anxious to have the honour
of saying How-do-you-do to you.” “How-d’you-do?” responded Tennyson
gruffly, and scarcely looking up.
Seating herself beside him the girl attempted awkwardly to carry
on some sort of conversation, but, as all she got in reply was an
occasional “Humph!” or else stony silence, she lost her nerve and
began, schoolgirl-wise, to wriggle and fidget in her seat. Then
the Great Man spoke. “You’re like the rest of them,” he grunted,
“you’re laced too tightly. I can hear your stays creak.” Abashed and
embarrassed the girl withdrew. Later in the afternoon Tennyson came
behind her, and laying a hand on her shoulder, said kindly, “I was
wrong just now, young lady. It wasn’t your stays I heard creaking,
but my braces. They’re hitched up too tightly. Sorry.” And he lounged
away.
The story may not be new and may not be true, but Whymper found huge
enjoyment in the telling of it, possibly because he had himself the
reputation of sharing Tennyson’s dislike to the intrusive stranger.
To speak plainly indeed, Whymper could be very rude, as witness the
following incident. He invited me once to accompany him to a lecture
given by a great climber. Soon after we had entered the hall and
before the lecture commenced, a man, whom Whymper told me later
he was sure he had never set eyes on, bustled up to where we were
sitting, and extending a hand said effusively:
“Oh, how-do-you-do, Mr. Whymper? You won’t remember me, but I had the
pleasure of meeting you in Switzerland.”
“No, I certainly don’t remember having had the pleasure of meeting
you,” was Whymper’s caustic reply. “And I assure you my memory is of
the best.”
“Ah, I was afraid you wouldn’t remember me,” answered the other still
unabashed. “It was at Zermatt. I knew your friend Leslie Stephen very
well.”
“Possibly,” answered Whymper drily. “The question is whether my
friend Mr. Leslie Stephen would be equally sure that he knew _you_.”