_To H. G. Wells._
Lamb House, Rye.
November 20th, 1899.
My dear H. G. Wells,
You reduce me to mere gelatinous grovel. And the worst of it is that you
know so well how. You, with a magnanimity already so marked as to be
dazzling, sent me last summer a beautiful and discouraging volume which
I never mastered the right combination of minutes and terms to thank you
for as it deserved--and then, perfectly aware that this shameful
consciousness had practically converted me to quivering pulp, you let
fly the shaft that has finished me in the fashion to which I now so
distressfully testify. It is really most kind and charming of you, and
the incident will figure largely in all your eventual biographies: yet
it is almost more than I can bear. Seriously, I am extremely touched by
your great humanity in the face of my atrocious bad manners. I think the
reason _why_ I didn't write to thank you for the magnificent romance of
three or four months ago was that I simply dreaded a new occasion for
still more purple perjury on the subject of coming over to see you! I
_was_--I _am_!--coming: and yet I couldn't--and I _can't_--say it
without steeping myself afresh in apparent falsehood, to the eyes. It is
a weird tale of the _acharnement_ of fate against an innocent action--I
mean the history of my now immemorial failure: which I must not attempt
to tell you thus and now, but reserve for your convinced (from the
moment it isn't averted) ear on the day, and at the very hour and
moment, that failure is converted to victory. I AM coming. I was lately
extremely sorry to hear that you have been somewhat unwell again--unless
it be a gross exaggeration. Heaven send that same. I AM coming. I thank
you very cordially for the two beautiful books. The new tales I have
already absorbed and, to the best of my powers, assimilated. You fill me
with wonder and admiration. I think you have too great an unawareness of
difficulty--and (for instance) that the four big towns and nice blue
foods and belching news-trumpets, etc., will be the _least_ of the
differences in the days to come.--But it's unfair to say that without
saying a deal more: which I can't, and [which] isn't worth it--and is
besides irrelevant and ungracious. Your spirit is huge, your fascination
irresistible, your resources infinite. _That_ is much more to the point.
And I AM coming. I heartily hope that if you _have_ been incommoded it
is already over, and for a corrigible cause. I AM coming. Recall me,
please, kindly to Mrs. Wells, and believe me (I AM coming,) very truly
(_and_ veraciously) yours,