congregated the
jeunes feroces of the arts, in whatever Soho restaurant they had just
discovered, in whatever music-hall they were most frequenting, there was
Soames in the midst of them, or rather on the fringe of them, a dim but
inevitable figure. He never sought to propitiate his fellow-writers,
never bated a jot of his arrogance about his own work or of his contempt
for theirs. To the painters he was respectful, even humble; but for the
poets and prosaists of 'The Yellow Book,' and later of 'The Savoy,' he
had never a word but of scorn. He wasn't resented. It didn't occur to
anybody that he or his Catholic Diabolism mattered. When, in the autumn
of '96, he brought out (at his own expense, this time) a third book, his
last book, nobody said a word for or against it. I meant, but forgot, to
buy it. I never saw it, and am ashamed to say I don't even remember
what it was called. But I did, at the time of its publication, say to
Rothenstein that I thought poor old Soames was really a rather
tragic figure, and that I believed he would literally die for want of
recognition. Rothenstein scoffed. He said I was trying to get credit for
a kind heart which I didn't possess; and perhaps this was so. But at the
private view of the New English Art Club, a few weeks later, I beheld a
pastel portrait of 'Enoch Soames, Esq.' It was very like him, and very
like Rothenstein to have done it. Soames was standing near it, in his
soft hat and his waterproof cape, all through the afternoon. Anybody who
knew him would have recognised the portrait at a glance, but nobody who
didn't know him would have recognised the portrait from its bystander:
it 'existed' so much more than he; it was bound to. Also, it had not
that expression of faint happiness which on this day was discernible,
yes, in Soames' countenance. Fame had breathed on him. Twice again in
the course of the month I went to the New English, and on both occasions
Soames himself was on view there. Looking back, I regard the close of
that exhibition as having been virtually the close of his career. He had
felt the breath of Fame against his cheek--so late, for such a little
while; and at its withdrawal he gave in, gave up, gave out. He, who had
never looked strong or well, looked ghastly now--a shadow of the shade
he had once been. He still frequented the domino room, but, having lost
all wish to excite curiosity, he no longer read books there. 'You read
only at the Museum now?' asked I,