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 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 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 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.
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