Homefront Horrors

by Nevins, Jess;

  It was the hour before dinner. We drank vermouth. Those who knew Rothenstein were pointing him out to those who knew him only by name. Men were constantly coming in through the swing-doors and wandering slowly up and down in search of vacant tables or of tables occupied by friends. One of these rovers interested me because I was sure he wanted to catch Rothenstein’s eye. He had twice passed our table, with a hesitating look; but Rothenstein, in the thick of a disquisition on Puvis de Chavannes, had not seen him. He was a stooping, shambling person, rather tall, very pale, with longish and brownish hair. He had a thin, vague beard, or, rather, he had a chin on which a large number of hairs weakly curled and clustered to cover its retreat. He was an odd-looking person; but in the nineties odd apparitions were more frequent, I think, than they are now. The young writers of that era—and I was sure this man was a writer—strove earnestly to be distinct in aspect. This man had striven unsuccessfully. He wore a soft black hat of clerical kind, but of Bohemian intention, and a gray waterproof cape which, perhaps because it was waterproof, failed to be romantic. I decided that “dim” was the mot juste for him. I had already essayed to write, and was immensely keen on the mot juste, that Holy Grail of the period.

  The dim man was now again approaching our table, and this time he made up his mind to pause in front of it.

  “You don’t remember me,” he said in a toneless voice.

  Rothenstein brightly focused him.

  “Yes, I do,” he replied after a moment, with pride rather than effusion—pride in a retentive memory. “Edwin Soames.”

  “Enoch Soames,” said Enoch.

  “Enoch Soames,” repeated Rothenstein in a tone implying that it was enough to have hit on the surname. “We met in Paris a few times when you were living there. We met at the Café Groche.”

  “And I came to your studio once.”

  “Oh, yes; I was sorry I was out.”

  “But you were in. You showed me some of your paintings, you know. I hear you’re in Chelsea now.”

  “Yes.”

  I almost wondered that Mr. Soames did not, after this monosyllable, pass along. He stood patiently there, rather like a dumb animal, rather like a donkey looking over a gate. A sad figure, his. It occurred to me that “hungry” was perhaps the mot juste for him; but—hungry for what? He looked as if he had little appetite for anything. I was sorry for him; and Rothenstein, though he had not invited him to Chelsea, did ask him to sit down and have something to drink.

  Seated, he was more self-assertive. He flung back the wings of his cape with a gesture which, had not those wings been waterproof, might have seemed to hurl defiance at things in general. And he ordered an absinthe. “Je me tiens toujours fidele,” he told Rothenstein, “a la sorciere glauque.”

  “It is bad for you,” said Rothenstein, dryly.

  “Nothing is bad for one,” answered Soames. “Dans ce monde il n’y a ni bien ni mal.”

  “Nothing good and nothing bad? How do you mean?”

  “I explained it all in the preface to ‘Negations.’”

  “‘Negations’?”

  “Yes, I gave you a copy of it.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. But, did you explain, for instance, that there was no such thing as bad or good grammar?”

  “N-no,” said Soames. “Of course in art there is the good and the evil. But in life—no.” He was rolling a cigarette. He had weak, white hands, not well washed, and with finger-tips much stained with nicotine. “In life there are illusions of good and evil, but”—his voice trailed away to a murmur in which the words “vieux jeu” and “rococo” were faintly audible. I think he felt he was not doing himself justice, and feared that Rothenstein was going to point out fallacies. Anyhow, he cleared his throat and said, “Parlons d’autre chose.”

  It occurs to you that he was a fool? It didn’t to me. I was young, and had not the clarity of judgment that Rothenstein already had. Soames was quite five or six years older than either of us. Also—he had written a book. It was wonderful to have written a book.

  If Rothenstein had not been there, I should have revered Soames. Even as it was, I respected him. And I was very near indeed to reverence when he said he had another book coming out soon. I asked if I might ask what kind of book it was to be.

  “My poems,” he answered. Rothenstein asked if this was to be the title of the book. The poet meditated on this suggestion, but said he rather thought of giving the book no title at all. “If a book is good in itself—” he murmured, and waved his cigarette.

  Rothenstein objected that absence of title might be bad for the sale of a book.

  “If,” he urged, “I went into a bookseller’s and said simply, ‘Have you got?’ or, ‘Have you a copy of ?’ how would they know what I wanted?”

  “Oh, of course I should have my name on the cover,” Soames answered earnestly. “And I rather want,” he added, looking hard at Rothenstein, “to have a drawing of myself as frontispiece.” Rothenstein admitted that this was a capital idea, and mentioned that he was going into the country and would be there for some time. He then looked at his watch, exclaimed at the hour, paid the waiter, and went away with me to dinner. Soames remained at his post of fidelity to the glaucous witch.

  “Why were you so determined not to draw him?” I asked.

  “Draw him? Him? How can one draw a man who doesn’t exist?”

  “He is dim,” I admitted. But my mot juste fell flat. Rothenstein repeated that Soames was non-existent.

  Still, Soames had written a book. I asked if Rothenstein had read “Negations.” He said he had looked into it, “but,” he added crisply, “I don’t profess to know anything about writing.” A reservation very characteristic of the period! Painters would not then allow that any one outside their own order had a right to any opinion about painting. This law (graven on the tablets brought down by Whistler from the summit of Fuji-yama) imposed certain limitations. If other arts than painting were not utterly unintelligible to all but the men who practiced them, the law tottered—the Monroe Doctrine, as it were, did not hold good. Therefore no painter would offer an opinion of a book without warning you at any rate that his opinion was worthless. No one is a better judge of literature than Rothenstein; but it wouldn’t have done to tell him so in those days, and I knew that I must form an unaided judgment of “Negations.”

  Not to buy a book of which I had met the author face to face would have been for me in those days an impossible act of self-denial. When I returned to Oxford for the Christmas term I had duly secured “Negations.” I used to keep it lying carelessly on the table in my room, and whenever a friend took it up and asked what it was about, I would say: “Oh, it’s rather a remarkable book. It’s by a man whom I know.” Just “what it was about” I never was able to say. Head or tail was just what I hadn’t made of that slim, green volume. I found in the preface no clue to the labyrinth of contents, and in that labyrinth nothing to explain the preface.

  Lean near to life. Lean very near—

  nearer.

  Life is web and therein nor warp nor

  woof is, but web only.

  It is for this I am Catholick in church and in thought, yet do let

  swift Mood weave there what the shuttle of Mood wills.

  These were the opening phrases of the preface, but those which followed were less easy to understand. Then came “Stark: A Conte,” about a midinette who, so far as I could gather, murdered, or was about to murder, a mannequin. It was rather like a story by Catulle Mendes in which the translator had either skipped or cut out every alternate sentence. Next, a dialogue between Pan and St. Ursula, lacking, I rather thought, in “snap.” Next, some aphorisms (entitled “Aphorismata” [spelled in Greek]). Throughout, in fact, there was a great variety of form, and the forms had evidently been wrought with much care. It was rather the substance that eluded me. Was there, I wondered, any substance at all? It did not occur to me: suppose Enoch Soames was a fool! Up cropped a rival hypothesis: suppose I was! I incline
d to give Soames the benefit of the doubt. I had read “L’Apres-midi d’un faune” without extracting a glimmer of meaning; yet Mallarme, of course, was a master. How was I to know that Soames wasn’t another? There was a sort of music in his prose, not indeed, arresting, but perhaps, I thought, haunting, and laden, perhaps, with meanings as deep as Mallarme’s own. I awaited his poems with an open mind.

  And I looked forward to them with positive impatience after I had had a second meeting with him. This was on an evening in January. Going into the aforesaid domino-room, I had passed a table at which sat a pale man with an open book before him. He had looked from his book to me, and I looked back over my shoulder with a vague sense that I ought to have recognized him. I returned to pay my respects. After exchanging a few words, I said with a glance to the open book, “I see I am interrupting you,” and was about to pass on, but, “I prefer,” Soames replied in his toneless voice, “to be interrupted,” and I obeyed his gesture that I should sit down.

  I asked him if he often read here.

  “Yes; things of this kind I read here,” he answered, indicating the title of his book—“The Poems of Shelley.”

  “Anything that you really”—and I was going to say “admire?” But I cautiously left my sentence unfinished, and was glad that I had done so, for he said with unwonted emphasis, “Anything second-rate.”

  I had read little of Shelley, but, “Of course,” I murmured, “he’s very uneven.”

  “I should have thought evenness was just what was wrong with him. A deadly evenness. That’s why I read him here. The noise of this place breaks the rhythm. He’s tolerable here.” Soames took up the book and glanced through the pages. He laughed. Soames’s laugh was a short, single, and mirthless sound from the throat, unaccompanied by any movement of the face or brightening of the eyes. “What a period!” he uttered, laying the book down. And, “What a country!” he added.

  I asked rather nervously if he didn’t think Keats had more or less held his own against the drawbacks of time and place. He admitted that there were “passages in Keats,” but did not specify them. Of “the older men,” as he called them, he seemed to like only Milton. “Milton,” he said, “wasn’t sentimental.” Also, “Milton had a dark insight.” And again, “I can always read Milton in the reading-room.”

  “The reading-room?”

  “Of the British Museum. I go there every day.”

  “You do? I’ve only been there once. I’m afraid I found it rather a depressing place. It—it seemed to sap one’s vitality.”

  “It does. That’s why I go there. The lower one’s vitality, the more sensitive one is to great art. I live near the museum. I have rooms in Dyott Street.”

  “And you go round to the reading-room to read Milton?”

  “Usually Milton.” He looked at me. “It was Milton,” he certificatively added, “who converted me to diabolism.”

  “Diabolism? Oh, yes? Really?” said I, with that vague discomfort and that intense desire to be polite which one feels when a man speaks of his own religion. “You—worship the devil?”

  Soames shook his head.

  “It’s not exactly worship,” he qualified, sipping his absinthe. “It’s more a matter of trusting and encouraging.”

  “I see, yes. I had rather gathered from the preface to ‘Negations’ that you were a—a Catholic.”

  “Je l’etais a cette epoque. In fact, I still am. I am a Catholic diabolist.”

  But this profession he made in an almost cursory tone. I could see that what was upmost in his mind was the fact that I had read “Negations.” His pale eyes had for the first time gleamed. I felt as one who is about to be examined viva voce on the very subject in which he is shakiest. I hastily asked him how soon his poems were to be published.

  “Next week,” he told me.

  “And are they to be published without a title?”

  “No. I found a title at last. But I sha’n’t tell you what it is,” as though I had been so impertinent as to inquire. “I am not sure that it wholly satisfies me. But it is the best I can find. It suggests something of the quality of the poems—strange growths, natural and wild, yet exquisite,” he added, “and many-hued, and full of poisons.”

  I asked him what he thought of Baudelaire. He uttered the snort that was his laugh, and, “Baudelaire,” he said, “was a bourgeois malgre lui.” France had had only one poet—Villon; “and two thirds of Villon were sheer journalism.” Verlaine was “an epicier malgre lui.” Altogether, rather to my surprise, he rated French literature lower than English. There were “passages” in Villiers de l’Isle-Adam. But, “I,” he summed up, “owe nothing to France.” He nodded at me. “You’ll see,” he predicted.

  I did not, when the time came, quite see that. I thought the author of “Fungoids” did, unconsciously of course, owe something to the young Parisian decadents or to the young English ones who owed something to THEM. I still think so. The little book, bought by me in Oxford, lies before me as I write. Its pale-gray buckram cover and silver lettering have not worn well. Nor have its contents. Through these, with a melancholy interest, I have again been looking. They are not much. But at the time of their publication I had a vague suspicion that they MIGHT be. I suppose it is my capacity for faith, not poor Soames’s work, that is weaker than it once was.

  TO A YOUNG WOMAN

  THOU ART, WHO HAST NOT BEEN!

  Pale tunes irresolute

  And traceries of old sounds

  Blown from a rotted flute

  Mingle with noise of cymbals rouged with rust,

  Nor not strange forms and epicene

  Lie bleeding in the dust,

  Being wounded with wounds.

  For this it is

  That in thy counterpart

  Of age-long mockeries

  THOU HAST NOT BEEN NOR ART!

  There seemed to me a certain inconsistency as between the first and last lines of this. I tried, with bent brows, to resolve the discord. But I did not take my failure as wholly incompatible with a meaning in Soames’s mind. Might it not rather indicate the depth of his meaning? As for the craftsmanship, “rouged with rust” seemed to me a fine stroke, and “nor not” instead of “and” had a curious felicity. I wondered who the “young woman” was and what she had made of it all. I sadly suspect that Soames could not have made more of it than she. Yet even now, if one doesn’t try to make any sense at all of the poem, and reads it just for the sound, there is a certain grace of cadence. Soames was an artist, in so far as he was anything, poor fellow!

  It seemed to me, when first I read “Fungoids,” that, oddly enough, the diabolistic side of him was the best. Diabolism seemed to be a cheerful, even a wholesome influence in his life.

  NOCTURNE

  Round and round the shutter’d Square

  I strolled with the Devil’s arm in mine.

  No sound but the scrape of his hoofs was there

  And the ring of his laughter and mine.

  We had drunk black wine.

  I scream’d, “I will race you, Master!”

  “What matter,” he shriek’d, “to-night

  Which of us runs the faster?

  There is nothing to fear to-night

  In the foul moon’s light!”

  Then I look’d him in the eyes

  And I laugh’d full shrill at the lie he told

  And the gnawing fear he would fain disguise.

  It was true, what I’d time and again been told:

  He was old—old.

  There was, I felt, quite a swing about that first stanza—a joyous and rollicking note of comradeship. The second was slightly hysterical, perhaps. But I liked the third, it was so bracingly unorthodox, even according to the tenets of Soames’s peculiar sect in the faith. Not much “trusting and encouraging” here! Soames triumphantly exposing the devil as a liar, and laughing “full shrill,” cut a quite heartening figure, I thought, then! Now, in the light of what befell, none of his other poems depresses me so m
uch as “Nocturne.”

  I looked out for what the metropolitan reviewers would have to say. They seemed to fall into two classes: those who had little to say and those who had nothing. The second class was the larger, and the words of the first were cold; insomuch that

  “Strikes a note of modernity. . . . These tripping numbers.”—The Preston Telegraph.

  was the only lure offered in advertisements by Soames’s publisher. I had hoped that when next I met the poet I could congratulate him on having made a stir, for I fancied he was not so sure of his intrinsic greatness as he seemed. I was but able to say, rather coarsely, when next I did see him, that I hoped “Fungoids” was “selling splendidly.” He looked at me across his glass of absinthe and asked if I had bought a copy. His publisher had told him that three had been sold. I laughed, as at a jest.

  “You don’t suppose I CARE, do you?” he said, with something like a snarl. I disclaimed the notion. He added that he was not a tradesman. I said mildly that I wasn’t, either, and murmured that an artist who gave truly new and great things to the world had always to wait long for recognition. He said he cared not a sou for recognition. I agreed that the act of creation was its own reward.

  His moroseness might have alienated me if I had regarded myself as a nobody. But ah! hadn’t both John Lane and Aubrey Beardsley suggested that I should write an essay for the great new venture that was afoot—“The Yellow Book”? And hadn’t Henry Harland, as editor, accepted my essay? And wasn’t it to be in the very first number? At Oxford I was still in statu pupillari. In London I regarded myself as very much indeed a graduate now—one whom no Soames could ruffle. Partly to show off, partly in sheer good-will, I told Soames he ought to contribute to “The Yellow Book.” He uttered from the throat a sound of scorn for that publication.

  Nevertheless, I did, a day or two later, tentatively ask Harland if he knew anything of the work of a man called Enoch Soames. Harland paused in the midst of his characteristic stride around the room, threw up his hands toward the ceiling, and groaned aloud: he had often met “that absurd creature” in Paris, and this very morning had received some poems in manuscript from him.