This waistcoat wasn't
wrong merely because of the heat, either. It was somehow all wrong in
itself. It wouldn't have done on Christmas morning. It would have
struck a jarring note at the first night of "Hernani." I was trying to
account for its wrongness when Soames suddenly and strangely broke silence.
"A hundred years hence!" he murmured, as in a trance.
"We shall not be here," I briskly, but fatuously, added.
"We shall not be here. No," he droned, "but the museum will still
be just where it is. And the reading-room just where it is. And people
will be able to go and read there." He inhaled sharply, and a spasm as
of actual pain contorted his features.
I wondered what train of thought poor Soames had been following.
He did not enlighten me when he said, after a long pause, "You think I
haven't minded."
"Minded what, Soames?"
"Neglect. Failure."
"FAILURE?" I said heartily. "Failure?" I repeated vaguely.
"Neglect--yes, perhaps; but that's quite another matter. Of course you
haven't been--appreciated. But what, then? Any artist who--who gives--" What I wanted to say was,
"Any artist who gives truly new and great
things to the world has always to wait long for recognition"; but the
flattery would not out: in the face of his misery--a misery so
genuine and so unmasked-- my lips would not say the words.
And then he said them for me. I flushed. "That's what you were
going to say, isn't it?" he asked.
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