“Has he NO talent?” I asked.
“He has an income. He’s all right.” Harland was the most joyous of men and most generous of critics, and he hated to talk of anything about which he couldn’t be enthusiastic. So I dropped the subject of Soames. The news that Soames had an income did take the edge off solicitude. I learned afterward that he was the son of an unsuccessful and deceased bookseller in Preston, but had inherited an annuity of three hundred pounds from a married aunt, and had no surviving relatives of any kind. Materially, then, he was “all right.” But there was still a spiritual pathos about him, sharpened for me now by the possibility that even the praises of “The Preston Telegraph” might not have been forthcoming had he not been the son of a Preston man. He had a sort of weak doggedness which I could not but admire. Neither he nor his work received the slightest encouragement; but he persisted in behaving as a personage: always he kept his dingy little flag flying. Wherever congregated the jeunes feroces of the arts, in whatever Soho restaurant they had just discovered, in whatever music-hall they were most frequently, 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 recognized the portrait at a glance, but nobody who didn’t know him would have recognized 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 that day was discernible, yes, in Soames’s 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?” I asked, with attempted cheerfulness. He said he never went there now. “No absinthe there,” he muttered. It was the sort of thing that in old days he would have said for effect; but it carried conviction now. Absinthe, erst but a point in the “personality” he had striven so hard to build up, was solace and necessity now. He no longer called it “la sorciere glauque.” He had shed away all his French phrases. He had become a plain, unvarnished Preston man.
Failure, if it be a plain, unvarnished, complete failure, and even though it be a squalid failure, has always a certain dignity. I avoided Soames because he made me feel rather vulgar. John Lane had published, by this time, two little books of mine, and they had had a pleasant little success of esteem. I was a—slight, but definite—“personality.” Frank Harris had engaged me to kick up my heels in “The Saturday Review.” Alfred Harmsworth was letting me do likewise in “The Daily Mail.” I was just what Soames wasn’t. And he shamed my gloss. Had I known that he really and firmly believed in the greatness of what he as an artist had achieved, I might not have shunned him. No man who hasn’t lost his vanity can be held to have altogether failed. Soames’s dignity was an illusion of mine. One day, in the first week of June, 1897, that illusion went. But on the evening of that day Soames went, too.
I had been out most of the morning and, as it was too late to reach home in time for luncheon, I sought the Vingtieme. This little place—Restaurant du Vingtieme Siecle, to give it its full title—had been discovered in ‘96 by the poets and prosaists, but had now been more or less abandoned in favor of some later find. I don’t think it lived long enough to justify its name; but at that time there it still was, in Greek Street, a few doors from Soho Square, and almost opposite to that house where, in the first years of the century, a little girl, and with her a boy named De Quincey, made nightly encampment in darkness and hunger among dust and rats and old legal parchments. The Vingtieme was but a small whitewashed room, leading out into the street at one end and into a kitchen at the other. The proprietor and cook was a Frenchman, known to us as Monsieur Vingtieme; the waiters were his two daughters, Rose and Berthe; and the food, according to faith, was good. The tables were so narrow and were set so close together that there was space for twelve of them, six jutting from each wall.
Only the two nearest to the door, as I went in, were occupied. On one side sat a tall, flashy, rather Mephistophelian man whom I had seen from time to time in the domino-room and elsewhere. On the other side sat Soames. They made a queer contrast in that sunlit room, Soames sitting haggard in that hat and cape, which nowhere at any season had I seen him doff, and this other, this keenly vital man, at sight of whom I more than ever wondered whether he were a diamond merchant, a conjurer, or the head of a private detective agency. I was sure Soames didn’t want my company; but I asked, as it would have seemed brutal not to, whether I might join him, and took the chair opposite to his. He was smoking a cigarette, with an untasted salmi of something on his plate and a half-empty bottle of Sauterne before him, and he was quite silent. I said that the preparations for the Jubilee made London impossible. (I rather liked them, really.) I professed a wish to go right away till the whole thing was over. In vain did I attune myself to his gloom. He seemed not to hear me or even to see me. I felt that his behavior made me ridiculous in the eyes of the other man. The gangway between the two rows of tables at the Vingtieme was hardly more than two feet wide (Rose and Berthe, in their ministrations, had always to edge past each other, quarreling in whispers as they did so), and any one at the table abreast of yours was virtually at yours. I thought our neighbor was amused at my failure to interest Soames, and so, as I could not explain to him that my insistence was merely charitable, I became silent. Without turning my head, I had him well within my range of vision. I hoped I looked less vulgar than he in contrast with Soames. I was sure he was not an Englishman, but what WAS his nationality? Though his jet-black hair was en brosse, I did not think he was French. To Berthe, who waited on him, he spoke French fluently, but with a hardly native idiom and accent. I gathered that this was his first visit to the Vingtieme; but Berthe was offhand in her manner to him: he had not made a good impression. His eyes were handsome, but, like the Vingtieme’s tables, too narrow and set too close together. His nose was predatory, and the points of his mustache, waxed up behind his nostrils, gave a fixity to his smile. Decidedly, he was sinister. And my sense of discomfort in his presence was intensified by the scarlet waistcoat which tightly, and so unseasonably in June, sheathed his ample chest. This waistcoat wasn’t wrong merely because of the heat, either. It was somehow all wrong in itself. It wouldn’t have done on Christmas morning. It would have struck a jarring note at the first night of “Hernani.” I was trying to account for its wrongness when Soames suddenly and strangely broke silence. “A hundred years hence!” he murmured, as in a trance.
“We shall not be here. No,” he droned, “but the museum will still be just where it is. And the reading-room just where it is. And people will be able to go and read there.” He inhaled sharply, and a spasm as of actual pain contorted his features.
I wondered what train of thought poor Soames had been following. He did not enlighten me when he said, after a long pause, “You think I haven’t minded.”
“Minded what, Soames?”
“Neglect. Failure.”
“FAILURE?” I said heartily. “Failure?” I repeated vaguely. “Neglect—yes, perhaps; but that’s quite another matter. Of course you haven’t been—appreciated. But what, then? Any artist who—who gives—” What I wanted to say was, “Any artist who gives truly new and great things to the world has always to wait long for recognition”; but the flattery would not out: in the face of his misery—a misery so genuine and so unmasked—my lips would not say the words.
And then he said them for me. I flushed. “That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it?” he asked.
“How did you know?”
“It’s what you said to me three years ago, when ‘Fungoids’ was published.” I flushed the more. I need not have flushed at all. “It’s the only important thing I ever heard you say,” he continued. “And I’ve never forgotten it. It’s a true thing. It’s a horrible truth. But—d’you remember what I answered? I said, ‘I don’t care a sou for recognition.’ And you believed me. You’ve gone on believing I’m above that sort of thing. You’re shallow. What should YOU know of the feelings of a man like me? You imagine that a great artist’s faith in himself and in the verdict of posterity is enough to keep him happy. You’ve never guessed at the bitterness and loneliness, the”—his voice broke; but presently he resumed, speaking with a force that I had never known in him. “Posterity! What use is it to ME? A dead man doesn’t know that people are visiting his grave, visiting his birthplace, putting up tablets to him, unveiling statues of him. A dead man can’t read the books that are written about him. A hundred years hence! Think of it! If I could come back to life THEN—just for a few hours—and go to the reading-room and READ! Or, better still, if I could be projected now, at this moment, into that future, into that reading-room, just for this one afternoon! I’d sell myself body and soul to the devil for that! Think of the pages and pages in the catalogue: ‘Soames, Enoch’ endlessly—endless editions, commentaries, prolegomena, biographies”—But here he was interrupted by a sudden loud crack of the chair at the next table. Our neighbor had half risen from his place. He was leaning toward us, apologetically intrusive.
“Excuse—permit me,” he said softly. “I have been unable not to hear. Might I take a liberty? In this little restaurant-sans-facon—might I, as the phrase is, cut in?”
I could but signify our acquiescence. Berthe had appeared at the kitchen door, thinking the stranger wanted his bill. He waved her away with his cigar, and in another moment had seated himself beside me, commanding a full view of Soames.
“Though not an Englishman,” he explained, “I know my London well, Mr. Soames. Your name and fame—Mr. Beerbohm’s, too—very known to me. Your point is, who am I?” He glanced quickly over his shoulder, and in a lowered voice said, “I am the devil.”
I couldn’t help it; I laughed. I tried not to, I knew there was nothing to laugh at, my rudeness shamed me; but—I laughed with increasing volume. The devil’s quiet dignity, the surprise and disgust of his raised eyebrows, did but the more dissolve me. I rocked to and fro; I lay back aching; I behaved deplorably.
“I am a gentleman, and,” he said with intense emphasis, “I thought I was in the company of GENTLEMEN.”
“Don’t!” I gasped faintly. “Oh, don’t!”
“Curious, nicht wahr?” I heard him say to Soames. “There is a type of person to whom the very mention of my name is—oh, so awfully—funny! In your theaters the dullest comedian needs only to say ‘The devil!’ and right away they give him ‘the loud laugh what speaks the vacant mind.’ Is it not so?”
I had now just breath enough to offer my apologies. He accepted them, but coldly, and re-addressed himself to Soames.
“I am a man of business,” he said, “and always I would put things through ‘right now,’ as they say in the States. You are a poet. Les affaires—you detest them. So be it. But with me you will deal, eh? What you have said just now gives me furiously to hope.”
Soames had not moved except to light a fresh cigarette. He sat crouched forward, with his elbows squared on the table, and his head just above the level of his hands, staring up at the devil.
“Go on,” he nodded. I had no remnant of laughter in me now.
“It will be the more pleasant, our little deal,” the devil went on, “because you are—I mistake not?—a diabolist.”
“A Catholic diabolist,” said Soames.
The devil accepted the reservation genially.
“You wish,” he resumed, “to visit now—this afternoon as-ever-is—the reading-room of the British Museum, yes? But of a hundred years hence, yes? Parfaitement. Time—an illusion. Past and future—they are as ever present as the present, or at any rate only what you call ‘just round the corner.’ I switch you on to any date. I project you—pouf ! You wish to be in the reading-room just as it will be on the afternoon of June 3, 1997? You wish to find yourself standing in that room, just past the swing-doors, this very minute, yes? And to stay there till closing-time? Am I right?”
Soames nodded.
The devil looked at his watch. “Ten past two,” he said. “Closing-time in summer same then as now—seven o’clock. That will give you almost five hours. At seven o’clock—pouf !—you find yourself again here, sitting at this table. I am dining to-night dans le monde—dans le high life. That concludes my present visit to your great city. I come and fetch you here, Mr. Soames, on my way home.”
“Home?” I echoed.
“Be it never so humble!” said the devil, lightly.
“All right,” said Soames.
“Soames!” I entreated. But my friend moved not a muscle.
The devil had made as though to stretch forth his hand across the table, but he paused in his gesture.
“A hundred years hence, as now,” he smiled, “no smoking allowed in the reading-room. You would better therefore—”
Soames removed the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it into his glass of Sauterne.
“Soames!” again I cried. “Can’t you”—but the devil had now stretched forth his hand across the table. He brought it slowly down on the table-cloth. Soames’s chair was empty. His cigarette floated sodden in his wine-glass. There was no other trace of him.
For a few moments the devil let his hand rest where it lay, gazing at me out of the corners of his eyes, vulgarly triumphant.
A shudder shook me. With an effort I controlled myself and rose from my chair. “Very clever,” I said condescendingly. “But—‘The Time Machine’ is a delightful book, don’t you think? So entirely original!”
“You are pleased to sneer,” said the devil, who had also risen, “but it is one thing to write about an impossible machine; it is a quite other thing to be a supernatural power.” All the same, I had scored.
Berthe had come forth at the sound of our rising. I explained to her that Mr. Soames had been called away, and that both he and I would be dining here. It was not until I was out in the open air that I began to feel giddy. I have but the haziest recollection of what I did, where I wandered, in the glaring sunshine of that endless afternoon. I remember the sound of carpenters’ hammers all along Piccadilly and the bare chaotic look of the half-erected “stands.” Was it in the Green Park or in Kensington Gardens or WHERE was it that I sat on a chair beneath a tree, trying to read an evening paper? There was a phrase in the leading article that went on repeating itself in my fagged mind: “Little is hidden from this August Lady full of the garnered wisdom of sixty ye
ars of Sovereignty.” I remember wildly conceiving a letter (to reach Windsor by an express messenger told to await answer): “Madam: Well knowing that your Majesty is full of the garnered wisdom of sixty years of Sovereignty, I venture to ask your advice in the following delicate matter. Mr. Enoch Soames, whose poems you may or may not know—” Was there NO way of helping him, saving him? A bargain was a bargain, and I was the last man to aid or abet any one in wriggling out of a reasonable obligation. I wouldn’t have lifted a little finger to save Faust. But poor Soames! Doomed to pay without respite an eternal price for nothing but a fruitless search and a bitter disillusioning.
Odd and uncanny it seemed to me that he, Soames, in the flesh, in the waterproof cape, was at this moment living in the last decade of the next century, poring over books not yet written, and seeing and seen by men not yet born. Uncannier and odder still that to-night and evermore he would be in hell. Assuredly, truth was stranger than fiction.
Endless that afternoon was. Almost I wished I had gone with Soames, not, indeed, to stay in the reading-room, but to sally forth for a brisk sight-seeing walk around a new London. I wandered restlessly out of the park I had sat in. Vainly I tried to imagine myself an ardent tourist from the eighteenth century. Intolerable was the strain of the slow-passing and empty minutes. Long before seven o’clock I was back at the Vingtieme.
I sat there just where I had sat for luncheon. Air came in listlessly through the open door behind me. Now and again Rose or Berthe appeared for a moment. I had told them I would not order any dinner till Mr. Soames came. A hurdy-gurdy began to play, abruptly drowning the noise of a quarrel between some Frenchmen farther up the street. Whenever the tune was changed I heard the quarrel still raging. I had bought another evening paper on my way. I unfolded it. My eyes gazed ever away from it to the clock over the kitchen door.
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