_To W. D. Howells._
34 De Vere Gardens, W.
January 22d, 1895.
My dear Howells,
...I am indebted to you for your most benignant letter of December last.
It lies open before me and I read it again and am soothed and cheered
and comforted again. You put your finger sympathetically on the place
and spoke of what I wanted you to speak of. I _have_ felt, for a long
time past, that I have fallen upon evil days--every sign or symbol of
one's being in the least _wanted_, anywhere or by any one, having so
utterly failed. A new generation, that I know not, and mainly prize not,
has taken universal possession. The sense of being utterly out of it
weighed me down, and I asked myself what the future would be. All these
melancholies were qualified indeed by one redeeming reflection--the
sense of how little, for a good while past (for reasons very logical,
but accidental and temporary,) I had been producing. I _did_ say to
myself "Produce again--produce; produce better than ever, and all will
yet be well;" and there was sustenance in that so far as it went. But it
has meant much more to me since _you_ have said it--for it _is_,
practically, what you admirably say. It is exactly, moreover, what I
meant to admirably do--and have meant, all along, about this time to get
into the motion of. The whole thing, however, represents a great change
in my life, inasmuch as what is clear is that periodical publication is
practically closed to me--I'm the last hand that the magazines, in this
country or in the U.S., seem to want. I won't afflict you with the now
accumulated (during all these past years) evidence on which this
induction rests--and I have spoken of it to no creature till, at this
late day, I speak of it to you.... All this, I needn't say, is for your
segretissimo ear. What it means is that "production" for me, as
aforesaid, means production of the little _book_, pure and
simple--independent of any antecedent appearance; and, truth to tell,
now that I wholly _see_ that, and have at last accepted it, I am,
incongruously, not at all sorry. I am indeed very serene. I have always
hated the magazine form, magazine conditions and manners, and much of
the magazine company. I hate the hurried little subordinate part that
one plays in the catchpenny picture-book--and the negation of all
literature that the insolence of the picture-book imposes. The
money-difference will be great--but not so great after a bit as at
first; and the other differences will be so all to the good that even
from the economic point of view they will tend to make up for that and
perhaps finally even completely do so. It is about the distinctness of
one's _book-position_ that you have so substantially reassured me; and I
mean to do far better work than ever I have done before. I have,
potentially, improved immensely and am bursting with ideas and
subjects--though the act of composition is with me more and more slow,
painful and difficult. I shall never again write a _long_ novel; but I
hope to write six immortal short ones--and some tales of the same
quality. Forgive, my dear Howells, the cynical egotism of these
remarks--the fault of which is in your own sympathy. Don't fail me this
summer. I shall probably not, as usual, absent myself from these
islands--not be beyond the Alps as I was when you were here last. That
way Boston lies, which is the deadliest form of madness. I sent you only
last night messages of affection by dear little "Ned" Abbey, who
presently sails for N.Y. laden with the beautiful work he has been doing
for the new Boston public library. I hope you will see him--he will
speak of me competently and kindly. I wish all power to your elbow. Let
me hear as soon as there is a sound of packing. Tell Mildred I rejoice
in the memory of her. Give my love to your wife, and believe me, my dear
Howells, yours in all constancy,