‘How did you know?’
‘It’s what you said to me three years ago, when “Fungoids” was published.’ I flushed the more. I need not have done so at all, for ‘It’s the only important thing I ever heard you say,’ he continued. ‘And I’ve never forgotten it. It’s a true thing. It’s a horrible truth. But—d’you remember what I answered? I said “I don’t care a sou for recognition.” And you believed me. You’ve gone on believing I’m above that sort of thing. You’re shallow. What should YOU know of the feelings of a man like me? You imagine that a great artist’s faith in himself and in the verdict of posterity is enough to keep him happy.... You’ve never guessed at the bitterness and loneliness, the’—his voice broke; but presently he resumed, speaking with a force that I had never known in him. ‘Posterity! What use is it to ME? A dead man doesn’t know that people are visiting his grave—visiting his birthplace—putting up tablets to him—unveiling statues of him. A dead man can’t read the books that are written about him. A hundred years hence! Think of it! If I could come back to life then—just for a few hours—and go to the reading-room, and READ! Or better still: if I could be projected, now, at this moment, into that future, into that reading-room, just for this one afternoon! I’d sell myself body and soul to the devil, for that! Think of the pages and pages in the catalogue: “SOAMES, ENOCH” endlessly—endless editions, commentaries, prolegomena, biographies’—but here he was interrupted by a sudden loud creak of the chair at the next table. Our neighbour had half risen from his place. He was leaning towards us, apologetically intrusive.
‘Excuse—permit me,’ he said softly. ‘I have been unable not to hear. Might I take a liberty? In this little restaurant-sans-facon’—he spread wide his hands—‘might I, as the phrase is, “cut in”?’
I could but signify our acquiescence. Berthe had appeared at the kitchen door, thinking the stranger wanted his bill. He waved her away with his cigar, and in another moment had seated himself beside me, commanding a full view of Soames.
‘Though not an Englishman,’ he explained, ‘I know my London well, Mr. Soames. Your name and fame—Mr. Beerbohm’s too—very known to me. Your point is: who am I?’ He glanced quickly over his shoulder, and in a lowered voice said ‘I am the Devil.’
I couldn’t help it: I laughed. I tried not to, I knew there was nothing to laugh at, my rudeness shamed me, but—I laughed with increasing volume. The Devil’s quiet dignity, the surprise and disgust of his raised eyebrows, did but the more dissolve me. I rocked to and fro, I lay back aching. I behaved deplorably.
‘I am a gentleman, and,’ he said with intense emphasis, ‘I thought I was in the company of GENTLEMEN.’
‘Don’t!’ I gasped faintly. ‘Oh, don’t!’
‘Curious, nicht wahr?’ I heard him say to Soames. ‘There is a type of person to whom the very mention of my name is—oh-so-awfully-funny! In your theatres the dullest comedian needs only to say “The Devil!” and right away they give him “the loud laugh that speaks the vacant mind.” Is it not so?’
I had now just breath enough to offer my apologies. He accepted them, but coldly, and re-addressed himself to Soames.