_To Percy Lubbock._
Lamb House, Rye.
March 9th, 1902.
My dear Percy Lubbock,
I've been very uncivilly silent, but I've also been still more dismally
hindered--I mean ever since receiving your good note of Feb. 22d. It
found me wearily, drearily ill, in bed; such had been my state ever
since Jan. 29th, and it ceased to be my state only ten days ago--since
when I have sat feebly staring at a mountain of unanswered letters. I
did go to London, Jan. 27th, but was immediately stricken, and scrambled
back here to be more commodiously prostrate. I've had to stay and
recuperate. But I am infinitely better--only universally behind. Still,
it isn't too late, I hope, to tell you it would have given me extreme
pleasure to see you in town had everything been different. Also that I
congratulate you with all my heart on the great event of your young,
your first, your never to be surpassed or effaced, prime Italiaenische
Reise. It's a great event (_the_ revelation) at any time of life, but
it's altogether immeasurable at _your_ lucky one. Yet there are things
to be said too. As that there would be no use whatever in my having
"told you what to do." There wouldn't be the remotest chance of your
doing it. The place, the time, the aspect, the colour of the light and
the inclination of Percy Lubbock, will already be making for you their
own law, or, better still, causing you to live generally lawless and
promiscuous. _Be_ promiscuous and incoherent and intelligent, absorbent,
happy: it's your great chance. Be further glad of every Italian vocable
you take to your heart, and help me to hope that our meeting over it all
is only moderately put off--when you'll have ever so interesting things
to tell to yours most truly,