In good company — Reading Companion

The Art of the Anecdotal Portrait

Kernahan's technique relies on extended, self-contained anecdotes that reveal character through conflict. In the Whymper section, a disagreement over the merits of Southend's residents becomes a showcase for Whymper's 'implacable dislike' and his habit of storming at those who disagree. Kernahan does not simply report Whymper's words; he stages the scene, complete with the guard's frantic arm-waving and Whymper's deliberate, unhurried stroll. The pacing mirrors the subject: Whymper's outbursts are sudden and intense, followed by a quick return to good humor when he sees his interlocutor is amused rather than cowed.

This method recurs throughout the book. Kernahan selects moments of tension—a disagreement, a pointed remark, a characteristic gesture—and expands them into miniature dramas. The result is a series of vignettes that feel immediate and personal, though the reader must remember that these are recollections filtered through Kernahan's own perspective. He acknowledges this by framing the book as 'frankly personal and intimate Recollections,' a genre that allows freedom from convention.

Voice and Self-Presentation

Kernahan's own voice is as much a subject as the figures he describes. He presents himself as a good-natured, sociable counterpoint to Whymper's misanthropy, but he is careful to show that he can hold his ground. When Whymper storms, Kernahan replies 'plainly if courteously,' and the exchange ends with Whymper turning 'good-tempered' once he sees he cannot browbeat his companion. This self-portrayal is consistent: Kernahan is the genial, unflappable observer who earns the respect of difficult men.

The foreword reinforces this persona. By pleading guilty to having done nothing memorable, Kernahan deflects charges of egotism while simultaneously centering himself as the connective tissue between these notable figures. His claim that his memory is 'still good' is a subtle assertion of authority, but he undercuts it with self-deprecation. The reader is left to weigh the reliability of a narrator who admits to writing the one book in which an author is 'allowed some freedom from convention.'

Pacing and Structural Rhythm

The excerpts reveal a deliberate alternation between slow, descriptive buildup and rapid, dramatic exchange. The Whymper anecdote begins with a leisurely catalog of his habits—his stony gaze, his black leather bag, his refusal to read newspapers—before launching into the heated dialogue. The pace quickens with Whymper's outburst: 'My good sir,' he stormed, 'I ask you where else in England...' The paragraph breaks and short sentences mimic the staccato rhythm of an argument.

Kernahan also varies the tempo by inserting reflective commentary. After the storming, he steps back to analyze Whymper's character: 'His attitude on this occasion, as I afterwards discovered, was characteristically Whymperian.' This shift from scene to analysis gives the reader breathing room and signals that the anecdote is meant to illustrate a broader trait. The overall rhythm—scene, reflection, scene—creates a pattern that is neither rushed nor static, inviting the reader to linger on details while following the narrative arc.

Readers approaching In Good Company should attend to the gaps between Kernahan's self-presentation and the behavior he reports. His claim to a good memory is tested by the very vividness of his scenes; are these exact words or artful reconstructions? The book rewards those who read for voice and pacing rather than for factual biography. Kernahan's skill lies in making his subjects come alive in a few pages, but the life he gives them is always refracted through his own genial, self-deprecating lens.

That rainy afternoon, I kept returning to Kernahan’s quiet portraits—how conversation, for Swinburne or Wilde, was a kind of grace offered to whoever sat near. Later, offhand, I reached for A Lady of England: The Life and Letters of Charlotte Maria Tucker — Story, Setting & Ideas, and found the same unhurried warmth, another voice speaking patiently through letters, as if no one was ever really alone with a book.