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, with attempted cheerfulness. He said he never went