Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (102 page)

And I
was right. Soames' disappearance made no stir at all. He was utterly forgotten
before any one, so far as I am aware, noticed that he was no longer hanging
around. Now and again some poet or prosaist may have said to another,
"What has become of that man Soames?" but I never heard any such
question asked. The solicitor through whom he was paid his annuity may be
presumed to have made inquiries, but no echo of these resounded. There was
something rather ghastly to me in the general unconsciousness that Soames had
existed, and more than once I caught myself wondering whether Nupton, that babe
unborn, were going to be right in thinking him a figment of my brain.

In that extract from Nupton's repulsive book
there is one point which perhaps puzzles you. How is it that the author, though
I have here mentioned him by name and have quoted the exact words he is going
to write, is not going to grasp the obvious corollary that I have invented
nothing? The answer can be only this: Nupton will not have read the later passages
of this memoir. Such lack of thoroughness is a serious fault in any one who
undertakes to do scholar's work. And I hope these words will meet the eye of
some contemporary rival to Nupton and be the undoing of Nupton.

I
like to think that some time between
1992
and
1997
somebody will have looked up this memoir, and will have forced on the
world his inevitable and startling conclusions. And I have reasons for believing
that this will be so. You realise that the reading-room into which Soames was
projected by the Devil was in all respects precisely as it will be on the
afternoon of June
3,
1997.
You realise,
therefore, that on that afternoon, when it comes round, there the self-same
crowd
will
be,
and
there
Soames
too
will
be,
punctually,
he
and
they
doing precisely
what
they
did
before.
Recall
now
Soames'
account
of
the sensation
he
made.
You
may
say
that
the
mere
difference
of
his costume
was
enough
to
make
him
sensational
in
that
uniformed crowd.
You
wouldn't
say
so
if
you
had
ever
seen
him.
I
assure
you
that in
no
period
could
Soames
be
anything
but
dim.
The
fact
that
people are
going
to
stare
at
him,
and
follow
him
around,
and
seem
afraid
of him,
can
be
explained
only
on
the
hypothesis
that
they
will
somehow have
been
prepared
for
his
ghostly
visitation.
They
will
have
been awfully
waiting
to
see
whether
he
really
would
come.
And
when
he does
come
the
effect
will
of
course
be—awful.

An
authentic,
guaranteed,
proven
ghost,
but—only
a
ghost,
alas! Only
that.
In
his
first
visit,
Soames
was
a
creature
of
flesh
and
blood, whereas
the
creatures
into
whose
midst
he
was
projected
were
but ghosts,
I
take
it—solid,
palpable,
vocal,
but
unconscious
and
automatic ghosts,
in
a
building
that
was
itself
an
illusion.
Next
time,
that
building
and
those
creatures
will
be
real.
It
is
of
Soames
that
there
will
be but
the
semblance.
I
wish
I
could
think
him
destined
to
revisit
the world
actually,
physically,
consciously.
I
wish
he
had
this
one
brief escape,
this
one
small
treat,
to
look
forward
to.
I
never
forget
him
for long.
He
is
where
he
is,
and
forever.
The
more
rigid
moralists
among you
may
say
he
has
only
himself
to
blame.
For
my
part,
I
think
he has
been
very
hardly
used.
It
is
well
that
vanity
should
be
chastened; and
Enoch
Soames'
vanity
was,
I
admit,
above
the
average,
and
called for
special
treatment.
But
there
was
no
need
for
vindictiveness.
You say
he
contracted
to
pay
the
price
he
is
paying;
yes;
but
I
maintain
that he
was
induced
to
do
so
by
fraud.
Well-informed
in
all
things,
the Devil
must
have
known
that
my
friend
would
gain
nothing
by
his
visit to
futurity.
The
whole
thing
was
a
very
shabby
trick.
The
more
I think
of
it,
the
more
detestable
the
Devil
seems
to
me.

Of
him
I
have
caught
sight
several
times,
here
and
there,
since
that day
at
the
Vingtième.
Only
once,
however,
have
I
seen
him
at
close quarters.
This
was
in
Paris.
I
was
walking,
one
afternoon,
along
the Rue
d'Antin,
when
I
saw
him
advancing
from
the
opposite
direction —over-dressed
as
ever,
and
swinging
an
ebony
cane,
and
altogether behaving
as
though
the
whole
pavement
belonged
to
him.
At
thought of
Enoch
Soames
and
the
myriads
of
other
sufferers
eternally
in
this brute's
dominion,
a
great
cold
wrath
filled
me,
and
I
drew
myself
up
to my full height. But—well, one is so used
to nodding and smiling in the street to any body whom one knows that the action
becomes almost independent of oneself: to prevent it requires a very sharp
effort and great presence of mind. I was miserably aware, as I passed the Devil,
that I nodded and smiled to him. And my shame was the deeper and hotter because
he, if you please, stared straight at me with the utmost haughtiness.