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SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH,
December 26th, 1885.
MY DEAR LOW,—_Lamia_ has not yet turned up, but your letter came to
me this evening with a scent of the Boulevard Montparnasse that was
irresistible. The sand of Lavenue's crumbled under my heel; and the
bouquet of the old Fleury came back to me; and I remembered the day
when I found a twenty franc piece under my fetish. Have you that fetish
still? and has it brought you luck? I remembered, too, my first sight
of you in a frock coat and a smoking-cap, when we passed the evening
at the Café de Medicis; and my last when we sat and talked in the Parc
Monceau; and all these things made me feel a little young again, which,
to one who has been mostly in bed for a month, was a vivifying change.
Yes, you are lucky to have a bag that holds you comfortably. Mine is a
strange contrivance; I don't die, damme, and I can't get along on both
feet to save my soul; I am a chronic sickist; and my work cripples along
between bed and the parlour, between the medicine bottle and the cupping
glass. Well, I like my life all the same; and should like it none the
worse if I could have another talk with you: though even my talks now
are measured out to me by the minute hand like poisons in a minim glass.
A photograph will be taken of my ugly mug and sent to you for ulterior
purposes: I have another thing coming out, which I did not put in the way
of the Scribners, I can scarce tell how, but I was sick and penniless and
rather back on the world, and mismanaged it. I trust they will forgive
me.
I am sorry to hear of Mrs. Low's illness, and glad to hear of her
recovery. I will announce the coming _Lamia_ to Bob; he steams away at
literature like smoke. I have a beautiful Bob on my walls, and a good
Sargent, and a delightful Lemon; and your etching now hangs framed in
the dining-room. So the arts surround me,—Yours,