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: