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Updated: June 18, 2025
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.
The dim man was now again approaching our table, and this time he made up his mind to pause in front of it. "You don't remember me," he said in a toneless voice. Rothenstein brightly focused him. "Yes, I do," he replied after a moment, with pride rather than effusion pride in a retentive memory. "Edwin Soames." "Enoch Soames," said Enoch.
'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.
An old English lady next to me said apropos of something "that is because you are not clever like Mr. and do not have to work with your brains." To which I said, I did not mind not being clever as my father was a many times millionaire," at which she became abjectly polite. Young Rothenstein is going to do a picture of me to-morrow morning.
Rothenstein scoffed. He said I was trying to get credit for a kind heart which I didn't possess; and perhaps this was so. But at the private view of the New English Art Club, a few weeks later, I beheld a pastel portrait of "Enoch Soames, Esq." It was very like him, and very like Rothenstein to have done it.
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.
'Enoch Soames, repeated Rothenstein in a tone implying that it was enough to have hit on the surname. 'We met in Paris two or three times when you were living there. We met at the Cafe Groche. 'And I came to your studio once. 'Oh yes; I was sorry I was out. 'But you were in. You showed me some of your paintings, you know.... I hear you're in Chelsea now. 'Yes. I almost wondered that Mr.
With Rothenstein I paid my first visit to the Bodley Head. By him I was inducted into another haunt of intellect and daring, the domino-room of the Cafe Royal.
Rothenstein scoffed. He said I was trying to get credit for a kind heart which I didn't possess; and perhaps this was so. But at the private view of the New English Art Club, a few weeks later, I beheld a pastel portrait of 'Enoch Soames, Esq. It was very like him, and very like Rothenstein to have done it.
Rothenstein, to whom I once sat for a lithograph, was another of the young artists who came a good deal to the Lyceum. I am afraid that I must be a very difficult "subject," yet I sit easily enough, and don't mind being looked at an objection which makes some sitters constrained and awkward before the painter. Poor Mr.
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