to pay without respite an eternal price for nothing but a fruitless search and a bitter disillusioning. Odd and uncanny it seemed to me that he, Soames, in the flesh, in the waterproof cape, was at this moment living in the last decade of the next century, poring over books not yet written, and seeing and seen by men not yet born. Uncannier and odder still that to-night and evermore he would be in hell. Assuredly, truth was stranger than fiction. Endless that afternoon was. Almost I wished I had gone with Soames, not, indeed, to stay in the reading-room, but to sally forth for a brisk sight-seeing walk around a new London. I wandered restlessly out of the park I had sat in. Vainly I tried to imagine myself an ardent tourist from the eighteenth century. Intolerable was the strain of the slow-passing and empty minutes. Long before seven o'clock I was back at the Vingtième. I sat there just where I had sat for luncheon. Air came in listlessly through the open door behind me. Now and again Rose or Berthe appeared for a moment. I had told them I would not order any dinner till Mr. Soames came. A hurdygurdy began to play, abruptly drowning the noise of a quarrel between some Frenchmen farther up the street. Whenever the tune was changed I heard the quarrel still raging. I had bought another evening paper on my way. I unfolded it. My eyes gazed ever away from it to the clock over the kitchen door. Five minutes now to the hour! I remembered that clocks in restaurants are kept five minutes fast. I concentrated my eyes on the paper. I vowed I would not look away from it again. I held it upright, at its full width, close to my face, so that I had no view of anything but it. Rather a tremulous sheet? Only because of the draft, I told myself. My arms gradually became stiff; they ached; but I could not drop them-now. I had a suspicion, I had a certainty. Well, what, then? What else had I come for? Yet I held tight that barrier of newspaper. Only the sound of Berthe's brisk footstep from the kitchen enabled me, forced me, to drop it, and to utter: "What shall we have to eat, Soames?" "Il est souffrant, ce pauvre Monsieur Soames?" asked Berthe. some "He 's only-tired." I asked her to get wine-Burgundy-and whatever food might be ready. Soames sat crouched forward against the table exactly as when last I had seen him. It was as though he had never moved-he who had moved so unimaginably far. Once or twice in the afternoon it had for an instant occurred to me that perhaps his journey was not to be fruitless, that perhaps we had all been wrong in our estimate of the works of Enoch Soames. That we had been horribly right was horribly clear from the look of him. But, "Don't be discouraged," I falteringly said. "Perhaps it 's only that you-did n't leave enough time. Two, three centuries hence, perhaps-" "Yes," his voice came; "I 've thought of that." "And now now for the more immediate future! Where are you going to hide? How would it be if you caught the Paris express from Charing Cross? Almost an hour to spare. Don't go on to Paris. Stop at Calais. Live in Calais. He'd never think of looking for you in Calais." "It 's like my luck," he said, "to spend my last hours on earth with an ass." But I was not offended. "And a treacherous ass," he strangely added, tossing across to me a crumpled bit of paper which he had been holding in his hand. I glanced at the writing on it-some sort of gibberish, apparently. I laid it impatiently aside. "Come, Soames, pull yourself together! This is n't a mere matter of life or death. It 's a question of eternal torment, mind you! You don't mean to say you 're going to wait limply here till the devil comes to fetch you." "I can't do anything else. I've no choice." "Come! This is 'trusting and encouraging' with a vengeance! This is diabolism run mad!" I filled his glass with wine. "Surely, now that you 've seen the brute-" "It 's no good abusing him." reason, I know. I'll try to remember." "You must admit there 's nothing Mil- He sat plunged in thought. tonic about him, Soames." "That 's right. Try to remember little more bread. What did the reading-room look like?" "Much as usual," he at length muttered. "I don't say he 's not rather different everything. Eat from what I expected." "He's a vulgarian, he 's a swell mobsman, he 's the sort of man who hangs about the corridors of trains going to the Riviera and steals ladies' jewel-cases. Imagine eternal torment presided over by him!" "You don't suppose I look forward to it, do you?" "Then why not slip quietly out of the way?" Again and again I filled his glass, and always, mechanically, he emptied it; but the wine kindled no spark of enterprise in him. He did not eat, and I myself ate hardly at all. I did not in my heart believe that any dash for freedom could save him. The chase would be swift, the capture certain. But better anything than this passive, meek, miserable waiting. I told Soames that for the honor of the human race he ought to make some show of resistance. He asked what the human race had ever done for him. "Besides," he said, "can't you understand that I'm in his power? You saw him touch me, did n't you? There's an end of it. I've no will. I 'm sealed." I made a gesture of despair. He went on repeating the word "sealed." I began to realize that the wine had clouded his brain. No wonder! Foodless he had gone into futurity, foodless he still was. I urged him to eat, at any rate, some bread. It was maddening to think that he, who had so much to tell, might tell nothing. "How was it all," I asked, "yonder? Come, tell me your adventures! a "Many people there?" "What did they look like?" My mind took a fearsome leap. "All dressed in sanitary woolen?" "Yes, I think so. Grayish-yellowish stuff." "A sort of uniform?" He nodded. "With a number on it perhaps a number on a large disk of metal strapped round the left arm? D. K. F. 78,910-that sort of thing?" It was even so. "And all of them, men and women alike, looking very well cared for? Very Utopian, and smelling rather strongly of carboli, and all of them quite hairless?" I was right every time. Soames was only not sure whether the men and women were hairless shorn. "I had n't time to look at them very closely," he explained. "No, of course not. But-" or "They stared at me, I can tell you. I attracted a great deal of attention." At last he had done that! "I think I rather scared them. They moved away whenever I came near. They followed me about, at a distance, wherever I went. The men at the round desk in the middle seemed to have a sort of panic whenever I went to make inquiries." "What did you do when you arrived?" Well, he had gone straight to the cata "They 'd make first-rate 'copy,' would logue, of course, - to the S volumes, -and n't they?" "I 'm awfully sorry for you, Soames, and I make all possible allowances; but what earthly right have you to insinuate that I should make 'copy,' as you call it, out of you?" The poor fellow pressed his hands to his forehead. "I don't know," he said. "I had some He had stood long before SN-SOF, unable to up his name, stared at the three little pasted slips he had known so well. Then he went and sat down for a long time. "And then," he droned, "I looked up the 'Dictionary of National Biography,' and some encyclopedias. I went back to the middle desk and asked what was the best modern book on late nineteenth-century literature. They told me Mr. T. K. Nupton's book was considered the best. I looked it up in the catalogue and filled in a form for it. It was brought to me. My name was n't in the index, but-yes!" he said with a sudden change of tone, "that's what I'd forgotten. Where 's that bit of paper? Give it me back." I, too, had forgotten that cryptic screed. I found it fallen on the floor, and handed it to him. He smoothed it out, nodding and smiling at me disagreeably. "I found myself glancing through Nupton's book," he resumed. "Not very easy reading. Some sort of phonetic spelling. All the modern books I saw were phonetic." "Then I don't want to hear any more, Soames, please." "The proper names seemed all to be spelt in the old way. But for that I might n't have noticed my own name." Fr egzarmpl, a riter ov th time, naimed Max Beerbohm, hoo woz stil alive in th twentith senchri, rote a stauri in wich e pautraid an immajnari karrakter kauld "Enoch Soames"-a thurd-rait poit hoo beleevz imself a grate jeneus an maix a bargin with th Devvl in auder ter no wot posterriti thinx ov im! It iz a sumwot labud sattire, but not without vallu az showing hou seriusli the yung men ov th aiteen-ninetiz took themselvz. Nou that th littreri profeshn haz bin auganized az a departmnt of publik servis, our riters hav found their levvl an hav lernt ter doo their duti without thort ov th morro. "Th laibrer iz werthi ov hiz hire" an that iz aul. Thank hevvn we hav no Enoch Soameses amung us to-dai! I found that by murmuring the words aloud (a device which I commend to my reader) I was able to master them little by little. The clearer they became, the greater was my bewilderment, my distress and horror. The whole thing was a nightmare. Afar, the great grisly background of what was in store for the poor dear art of letters; here, at the table, fixing on me a gaze that made me hot all over, the poor fellow whom-whom evidently-but no: whatever down-grade my character might "Your own name? Really? Soames, take in coming years, I should never be I 'm very glad." "And yours." "No!" "I thought I should find you waiting here to-night, so I took the trouble to copy out the passage. Read it." I snatched the paper. Soames's handwriting was characteristically dim. It and the noisome spelling and my excitement made me all the slower to grasp what T. K. Nupton was driving at. The document lies before me at this moment. Strange that the words I here copy out for you were copied out for me by poor Soames just eighty-two years hence! From page 234 of "Inglish Littracher 1890-1900" bi T. K. Nupton, publishd bi th Stait, 1992. such a brute as to Again I examined the screed. "Immajnari." But here Soames was, no more imaginary, alas! than I. And "labud" what on earth was that? (To this day I have never made out that word.) "It 's all very-baffling," I at length stammered. Soames said nothing, but cruelly did not cease to look at me. "Are you sure," I temporized, "quite sure you copied the thing out correctly?" "Quite." "Well, then, it 's this wretched Nupton who must have made-must be going to make some idiotic mistake. Look here. Soames, you know me better than to suppose that I- After all, the name Max Beerbohm is not at all an uncommon one, and there must be several Enoch Soameses running around, or, rather, Enoch Soames S ""They stared at me, I can tell you. I attracted a great deal of I think I rather scared them'" attention. ... up lis name, stared at the three Little pasted slips he had known so well Then he went and sat down for a long time. "And then," he droned, "I looked up the Dictionary of National Biography," and some encyclopedias. I went back to the middle desk and asked what was the best modern book on late nineteenth-century literature. They told me Mr. T. K. Nupton's book was considered the best. I looked it up in the catalogue and filled in a form for it. It was brought to me. My name was n't in the index, but-yes!" he said with a sudden change of tone, "that's what I'd forgotten. Where's that bit of paper? Give it me back." I, too, had forgotten that cryptic screed. I found it fallen on the floor, and handed it to him. He smoothed it out, nodding and smiling at me disagreeably. "I found myself glancing through Nupton's book," he resumed. "Not very easy reading. Some sort of phonetic spelling. All the modern books I saw were phonetic." "Then I don't want to hear any more, Soames, please." "The proper names seemed all to be spelt in the old way. But for that I might n't have noticed my own name." Fr egzarmpl, a riter ov th ti Max Beerbohm, hoo woz stil twentith senchri, rote a stauri pautraid an immajnari karra "Enoch Soames"-a thurd-rait leevz imself a grate jeneus an m with th Devvl in auder ter no riti thinx ov im! It iz a sumwo tire, but not without vallu az seriusli the yung men ov th a took themselvz. Nou that th feshn haz bin auganized az a c publik servis, our riters hav level an hav lernt ter doo the out thort ov th morro. "Th la thi ov hiz hire" an that iz hevon we hav no Enoch Soar us to-dai! I found that by murmurir aloud (a device which I con reader) I was able to maste by little. The clearer they greater was my bewildermen and horror. The whole thing mare. Afar, the great grisl of what was in store for the of letters; here, at the table a gaze that made me hot all fellow whom-whom evide whatever down-grade my cl "Your own name? Really? Soames, take in coming years, I sh I 'm very glad." "And yours." "No!" "I thought I should find you waiting here to-night, so I took the trouble to copy out the passage. Read it." I snatched the paper. Soames's handwriting was characteristically dim. It and the noisome spelling and my excitement made me all the slower to grasp what T. K. Nupton was driving at. The document lies before me at this moment, Strange that the words I here copy out for you were copied out for me by poor Soames just eighty-two years hence! From page 234 of "Ingl 1800-1000" bi T. K. Nup th Stait, 1992. |