Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (90 page)

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
fidèle,"
he
told
Rothenstein,
"à
Ja
sorcière
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
it
all
in
the
preface
to
'Negations.'
" "
'Negations'?"

"Yes;
I
gave
you
a
copy
of
it."

"Oh,
yes,
of
course.
But
did
you
explain—for
instance—that
there was
no
such
thing
as
bad
or
good
grammar?"

"N-no,"
said
Soames.
"Of
course
in
Art
there
is
the
good
and
the evil.
But
in
Life—no."
lie
was
rolling
a
cigarette.
He
had
weak
white hands,
not
well
washed,
and
with
finger-tips
much
stained
by
nicotine. "In
Life
there
are
illusions
of
good
and
evil,
but"—his
voice
trailed away
to
a
murmur
in
which
the
words
"vieux
jeu"
and
"rococo"
were faintly
audible.
I
think
he
felt
he
was
not
doing
himself
justice,
and feared
that
Rothenstein
was
going
to
point
out
fallacies.
Anyhow,
he cleared
his
throat
and
said
"Parlons
d'autre
chose."

It
occurs
to
you
that
he
was
a
fool?
It
didn't
to
me.
I
was
young, and
had
not
the
clarity
of
judgment
that
Rothenstein
already
had. Soames
was
quite
five
or
six
years
older
than
either
of
us.
Also,
he had
written
a
book.

It
was
wonderful
to
have
written
a
book.

If Rothenstein had not been there, I should
have revered Soames. Even as it was, I respected him. And I was very near
indeed to reverence when he said he had another book coming out soon. I asked
if I might ask what kind of book it was to be.

"My poems," he answered.
Rothenstein asked if this was to be the
title of the book. The poet meditated on this suggestion, but said he
rather thought of giving the book no title at all. "If a book is good
in itself
------
" he murmured,
waving his cigarette.

Rothenstein
objected that absence of title might be bad for the sale of a book.
"If," he urged, "I went into a bookseller's and said simply
'Have you got?' or 'Have you a copy of?' how would they know what I
wanted?"

"Oh,
of course I should have my name on the cover," Soames answered earnestly.
"And I rather want," he added, looking hard at Rothenstein, "to
have a drawing of myself as frontispiece." Rothenstein admitted that this
was a capital idea, and mentioned that he was going into the country and would
be there for some time. He then looked at his watch, exclaimed at the hour,
paid the waiter, and went away with me to dinner. Soames remained at his post
of fidelity to the glaucous witch.

"Why were you so
determined not to draw him?" I asked.

"Draw him? Him? How
can one draw a man who doesn't exist?"

"He
is dim," I admitted. But my mot
juste
fell
flat. Rothenstein repeated that Soames was non-existent.

Still,
Soames had written a book. I asked if Rothenstein had read
"Negations." He said he had looked into it, "but," he added
crisply, "I don't profess to know anything about writing." A
reservation very characteristic of the period! Painters would not then allow
that any one outside their own order had a right to any opinion about painting.
This law (graven on the tablets brought down by Whistler from the summit of
Fujiyama) imposed certain limitations. If other arts than painting were not
utterly unintelligible to all but the men who practised them, the law
tottered—the Monroe Doctrine, as it were, did not hold good. Therefore no
painter would offer an opinion of a book without warning you at any rate that
his opinion was worthless. No one is a better judge of literature than
Rothenstein; but it wouldn't have done to tell him so in those days; and I knew
that I must form an unaided judgment on "Negations."

Not
to
buy
a
book
of
which
I
had
met
the
author
face
to
face
would
have
been
for
me
in
those
days
an
impossible
act
of
self-denial.
When
I
returned
to
Oxford
for
the
Christmas
Term
I
had duly
secured
"Negations."
I
used
to
keep
it
lying
carelessly
on
the table
in
my
room,
and
whenever
a
friend
took
it
up
and
asked
what it
was
about
I
would
say
"Oh,
it's
rather
a
remarkable
book.
It
's by
a
man
whom
I
know."
Just
"what
it
was
about"
I
never
was
able to
say.
Head
or
tail
was
just
what
I
hadn't
made
of
that
slim
green volume.
I
found
in
the
preface
no
clue
to
the
exiguous
labyrinth
of contents,
and
in
that
labyrinth
nothing
to
explain
the
preface.