Seven Men | Page 4

He knew Whistler. He knew Edmond de
Goncourt. He knew every one 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 settled in--or rather, meteoritically into-- 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, in that exuberant vista of gilding and crimson
velvet set amidst all those opposing mirrors and upholding caryatids, with fumes of
tobacco ever rising to the 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 Cafe 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.
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 fidele,' he told
Rothenstein, `a la sorciere glauque.'

`It is bad for you,' said Rothenstein dryly.
`Nothing is bad for one,' answered Soames. `Dans ce monde il n'y a ni de bien ni de mal.'
`Nothing good and nothing bad? How do you mean?'
`I explained