"In Seven Men the brilliant English caricaturist and critic Max Beerbohm turns his comic searchlight upon the fantastic fin-de-sičcle world of the 1890s — the age of Oscar Wilde, Aubrey Beardsley, and the young Yeats, as well of Beerbohm's own first success. In a series of luminous sketches, Beerbohm captures the likes of Enoch Soames, only begetter of the neglected poetic masterwork Fungoids; Maltby and Braxton, two fashionable novelists caught in a bitter rivalry; and "Savonarola" Brown, author of a truly incredible tragedy encompassing the entire Italian Renaissance. One of the masterpieces of modern humorous writing, Seven Men is also a shrewdly perceptive, heartfelt homage to the wonderfully eccentric character of a bygone age."
This man had striven unsuccessfully. He wore a soft black hat of clerical kind but of Bohemian intention, and a grey waterproof cape which, perhaps because it was waterproof, failed to be romantic. I decided that `dim' was the mot juste for him. I had already essayed to write, and was immensely keen on the mot juste, that Holy Grail of the period.
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 focussed 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.
`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