_To W. D. Howells._
Strether's outburst to little Bilham, in Book V. of _The
Ambassadors_, during their colloquy in the Parisian garden,
represents the germ from which the novel sprang, and which H. J.
owed, as he here tells, to Mr. Howells. The development of the
subject from this origin is described in the preface afterwards
written for the book.
Lamb House, Rye.
August 10th, 1901.
My dear Howells,
Ever since receiving and reading your elegant volume of short tales--the
arrival of which from you was affecting and delightful to me--I've meant
to write to you, but the wish has struggled in vain with the daily
distractions of a tolerably busy summer. I should blush, however, if the
season were to melt away without my greeting and thanking you. I read
your book with joy and found in it recalls from far far away--stray
echoes and scents as from another, the American, the prehistoric
existence. The thing that most took me was that entitled A Difficult
Case, which I found beautiful and admirable, ever so true and ever so
_done_. But I fear I more, almost, than anything else, lost myself in
mere envy of your freedom to do, and, speaking vulgarly, to place,
things of that particular and so agreeable dimension--I mean the
dimension of most of the stories in the volume. It is sternly enjoined
upon one here (where an agent-man does what he can for me) that
everything--every hundred--above 6 or 7 thousand words is fatal to
"placing"; so that I do them of that length, with great care, art and
time (much reboiling,) and then, even then, can scarcely get them worked
off--published even when they've been accepted.... So that (though I
don't know why I inflict on you these sordid groans--except that I
haven't any one else to inflict them on--and the mere affront--of being
unused so inordinately long--is almost intolerable) I don't feel incited
in that direction. Fortunately, however, I am otherwise immersed. I
lately finished a tolerably long novel, and I've written a third of
another--with still another begun and two or three more subjects
awaiting me thereafter like carriages drawn up at the door and horses
champing their bits. And apropos of the first named of these, which is
in the hands of the Harpers, I have it on my conscience to let you know
that the idea of the fiction in question had its earliest origin in a
circumstance mentioned to me--years ago--in respect to no less a person
than yourself. At Torquay, once, our young friend Jon. Sturges came down
to spend some days near me, and, lately from Paris, repeated to me five
words you had said to him one day on his meeting you during a call at
Whistler's. I thought the words charming--you have probably quite
forgotten them; and the whole incident suggestive--so far as it was an
incident; and, more than this, they presently caused me to see in them
the faint vague germ, the mere point of the _start_, of a subject. I
noted them, to that end, as I note everything; and years afterwards
(that is three or four) the subject sprang at me, one day, out of my
notebook. I don't know if it be good; at any rate it has been treated,
now, for whatever it is; and my point is that it had long before--it had
in the very act of striking me as a germ--got away from _you_ or from
anything like you! had become impersonal and independent. Nevertheless
your initials figure in my little note; and if you hadn't said the five
words to Jonathan he wouldn't have had them (most sympathetically and
interestingly) to relate, and I shouldn't have had them to work in my
imagination. The moral is that you are responsible for the whole
business. But I've had it, since the book was finished, much at heart to
tell you so. May you carry the burden bravely!--I hope you are on some
thymy promontory and that the winds of heaven blow upon you all--perhaps
in that simplified scene that you wrote to me from, with so gleaming a
New England evocation, last year. The summer has been wondrous again in
these islands--four or five months, from April 1st, of almost merciless
fine weather--a rainlessness absolute and without precedent. It has made
my hermitage, as a retreat, a blessing, and I have been able, thank
goodness, to work without breaks--other than those of prospective
readers' hearts.--It almost broke mine, the other day, by the way, to go
down into the New Forest (where he has taken a house) to see Godkin,
dear old stricken friend. He gave me, in a manner, news of you--told me
he had seen you lately.... I am lone here just now with my sweet niece
Peggy, but my brother and his wife are presently to be with me again for
fifteen days before sailing (31st) for the U.S. He is immensely better
in health, but he must take in sail hand over hand at home to remain so.
Stia bene, caro amico, anche Lei (my Lei is my joke!) Tell Mrs. Howells
and Mildred that I yearn toward them tenderly.
Yours always and ever,
HENRY JAMES.
_To Edmund Gosse._
Lamb House, Rye.
Sept. 16th [1901].
My dear Gosse,
I hurl this after you, there, for good luck, like the outworn shoe of
ancient usage. Even a very, very old shoe will take you properly over
Venice. I wrote a week ago to Mrs. Curtis about you, and you will
doubtless hear from her, beckoningly, in respect to the ever-so-amiable
Barbaro: an impression well worth your having. For the rest I commit you
both, paternally, to Brown, to whose friendly memory I beg you to recall
me. I wish I could assist at some of your raptures. _Go to see the
Tintoretto Crucifixion at San Cossiano_--or never more be officer of
mine. And, apropos of master-pieces, read a thing called _Venice_ in a
thing called _Portraits of Places_ by a thing called H. J., if you can
get the book: I'm not sure if it's in Tauchnitz, but Mrs. Curtis may
have the same. Brown certainly won't, though J. A. Symonds, in the only
communication I ever got from him, told me he thought it the best image
of V. he had ever seen made. This is the first time in my life, I
believe, by the way, I ever indulged in any such--in _any_ fatuous
reference to a fruit of my pen. So there may be something in it. Drink
deep, both of you, and come home remorselessly intoxicated, and reeking
of the purple vine, to your poor old attached abstainer,