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,