In London I regarded
myself as very much indeed a graduate now--one whom no Soames could
ruffle. Partly to show off, partly in sheer good-will, I told Soames he
ought to contribute to "The Yellow Book." He uttered from the throat a
sound of scorn for that publication.
Nevertheless, I did, a day or two later, tentatively ask Harland if he
knew anything of the work of a man called Enoch Soames. Harland
paused in the midst of his characteristic stride around the room, threw up
his hands toward the ceiling, and groaned aloud: he had often met "that
absurd creature" in Paris, and this very morning had received some
poems in manuscript from him.
"Has he NO talent?" I asked.
"He has an income. He's all right." Harland was the most joyous
of men and most generous of critics, and he hated to talk of anything
about which he couldn't be enthusiastic. So I dropped the subject of
Soames. The news that Soames had an income did take the edge off
solicitude. I learned afterward that he was the son of an unsuccessful and
deceased bookseller in Preston, but had inherited an annuity of three
hundred pounds from a married aunt, and had no surviving relatives of
any kind. Materially, then, he was "all right." But there was still a
spiritual pathos about him, sharpened for me now by the possibility that
even the praises of "The Preston Telegraph" might not have been
forthcoming had he not been the son of a Preston man He had a sort of
weak doggedness which I could not but admire.
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