Enoch Soames

In the summer term of 1893 a bolt from the blue flashed down on Oxford. It drove deep, it hurtlingly embedded itself in the soil. Dons and undergraduates stood around, rather pale, discussing nothing but it. Whence came it, this meteorite? From Paris. Its name? Will Rothenstein. Its aim? To do a series of 24 portraits in lithograph. These were to be published from the Bodley Head, London. The matter was urgent. Already the Warden of A, and the Master of B and the Regius Professor of C, had meekly "sat." Dignified and doddering old men, who had never consented to sit to anyone, could not withstand this dynamic little stranger. He was 21 years old. He wore spectacles that flashed more than any other pair ever seen. He was a wit. He was brimful of ideas. He knew Whistler. He knew Edmond de Goncourt. He knew everyone in Paris. He knew them all by heart. He was Paris in Oxford. It was whispered that, so soon as he had polished off his selection of dons, he was going to include a few undergraduates. It was a proud day for me when I-I-was included. I liked Rothenstein not less than I feared him; and there arose between us a friendship that has grown ever warmer, and been more and more valued by me, with every passing year. At the end of term he landed in London. It was to him I owed my first knowledge of that forever enchanting little world-in-itself, Chelsea, and my first acquaintance with Walter Sickert and other august elders who dwelt there. It was Rothenstein that took me to see, in Cambridge Street, Pimlico, a young man whose drawings were already famous among the few-Aubrey Beardsley, by name. With Rothenstein I paid my first visit to the Bodley Head. By him I was inducted into another haunt of intellect and daring, the domino room of the Cafe Royal. There, on that October evening-there amidst all those mirrors and upholding caryatids, and with the hum of presumably cynical conversation broken into so sharply now and again by the clatter of dominoes shuffled on marble tables-I drew a deep breath, and said to myself "This indeed is life!" 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. 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 grey 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 again approached our table, and this time paused. "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 two or three times when you were living there. We met at the Caf? 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, like a donkey looking over a gate. I was sorry for him; and Rothenstein, though he had not invited him to Chelsea, did ask him to sit down. 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 fidle," he told Rothenstein, "