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Amongst the Hugh Walpole papers in the Bodleian Library at Oxford there is a small cache of material relating to Enoch Soames that, as far as I know, has never been published before. It deserves to be better known, not only for the light (dim enough) that it sheds on Soames himself but also for its telling allusions to several other figures of the period.
A pencil note by Walpole accompanying the documentsa manuscript poem and three lettersindicates that he bought them as a single lot from a Preston bookseller in 1923. The attached receipt reveals that he paid 4/ for his discovery. Even at todays prices we may consider it was twenty pence well spent.
The poem is by Soames, written in his hand, signed, and dated February 1894. The three letters are from diverse authors, but once assembled into their chronological order they tell their own tale readily enough, and it is perhaps best to let the documents speak for themselves.
The scent of my buttonhole
Flowed and ebbed in the gloom;
It was close in the supper-room.
Close, and then, in the throng,
Sudden, a crash, a blow.
And a hand on my arm I know.
And then, through the dark, a rush,
Heady and vague; the flair
(A rose?) of the cold night air.2Enoch Soames.
Paris/London Feb. 94.
144 Cromwell Road .Note 1
February 7, 1894.
My dear Soames,
Many thanks for your exemplary poem (herewith returned). It is in many waystoo many to enumerateadmirable.
But for various reasonstoo many to enumerate also, but none of them connected with ArtI feel that it would not be suitable for The Yellow Book Note 2 which, by-the-by, we hope will establish itself as a leading family-periodical.
You are quite right that A[line] and I do sometimes keep open house on Sat. evenings. And it would be a great pleasure for us to see you at Cromwell Road. But we are currently planning a trip over to Paris to visit Verlaine, and are rather unsure of our dates.
A bientôt,
Yours &c.
Henry Harland.
[Postmark 26 March 94]
Offices of the National Observer.
The Editor.1
Dear Mr. Soames,
No! I do not recall meeting you at Gosses. Note 2 And No!! I do not want your poem. It seems to me a distillation of all that is weakest and most morbid in current literature. Whibley Note 3 too tells me it is quite without merit.
Yours faithfully,
Henley.
From the Offices of Tit-Bits.
2 May 1894.
Dear Sir,
Thank you for your poemMood: Geranium [sic] and Black. You are to be congratulated on such a clever parody of the fin-de-siècle strain in contemporary verse. Alas, the current editorial policy is to ignore this Oscar Wilde tendency in all its forms. There is a feeling, which I am sure you will recognise, that even to mock it is to draw undue attention to it.
Should the editor alter his policy, however, we would certainly be happy to reconsider your ingenious skit. But until such time I am returning it to you, with my thanks.
Yours faithfully,
R. Nebley.
Assistant to the Asst. Editor.