Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (100 page)

"And
then,"
he
droned,
"I
looked
up
the
'Dictionary
of
National Biography'
and
some
encyclopaedias.
...
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
wasn'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
modem
books
I
saw
were
phonetic."

"Then
I
don't
want
to
hear
any
more,
Soames,
please."

"The
proper
names
seemed
all
to
be
spelled
in
the
old
way.
But
for that,
I
mightn't
have
noticed
my
own
name."

"Your
own
name?
Really?
Soames,
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'
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
seventy-eight
years
hence.
.
.
.

From
p.
234
of
"Inglish
Littracher
1890-1900"
bi
T.
K.
Nupton, publishd
bi
th
Stait,
1992: 146

"Fr
egzarmpl, a riter ov th time, naimd Max Beerbohm, hoo woz stil alive in th
twentieth cenchri, 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 the littreri profeshn haz bin
augan-ized 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 hewn we hav no Enoch Soameses amung us
to-dai!"

I found that by murmuring the words aloud (a
device which I com-
mend 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. Tire 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 take in coming years, I should never be 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 temporised, "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 Soamses running around—or rather, 'Enoch Soames' is
a name that might occur to any one writing a story. And I don't write
stories: I'm an essayist, an observer, a recorder.
...
I admit that it's
an extraordinary coincidence. But you must see
-------------
"

"I see the whole thing," said
Soames quietly. And he added, with
a
touch
of
his
old
manner,
but
with
more
dignity
than
I
had
ever known
in
him,
"Parlons
d'autre
chose."

I
accepted
that
suggestion
very
promptly.
I
returned
straight
to
the more
immediate
future.
I
spent
most
of
the
long
evening
in
renewed appeals
to
Soames
to
slip
away
and
seek
refuge
somewhere.
I
remember
saying
at
last
that
if
indeed
I
was
destined
to
write
about
him,
the supposed
"stauri"
had
better
have
at
least
a
happy
ending.
Soames repeated
those
last
three
words
in
a
tone
of
intense
scorn.
"In
Life
and in
Art,"
he
said,
"all
that
matters
is
an
inevitable
ending."