Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (89 page)

painted
and
pagan
ceiling,
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 "This
indeed,"
said
I
to
myself,
"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, 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
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
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
focussed
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
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.