_To Howard Sturgis._
The proof-sheets in question were those of Mr. Sturgis's
forthcoming novel, _Belchamber_.
Lamb House, Rye.
November 8th, 1903.
My dear Howard,
I send you back the blooming proofs with my thanks and with no marks or
comments at all. In the first place there are none, of the marginal
kind, to make, and in the second place it is too late to make them if
there were. The thing goes on very solidly and smoothly, interesting and
amusing as it moves, very well written, well felt, well composed, well
written perhaps in particular. I am a bad person, really, to expose
"fictitious work" to--I, as a battered producer and "technician" myself,
have long since inevitably ceased to read with _naivete_; I can only
read critically, constructively, reconstructively, writing the thing
over (if I can swallow it at all) _my_ way, and looking at it, so to
speak, from within. But even thus I "pass" your book very--tenderly!
There is only one thing that, as a matter of detail, I am moved to
say--which is that I feel you have a great deal increased your
difficulty by screwing up the "social position" of all your people so
very high. When a man is an English Marquis, even a lame one, there are
whole masses of Marquisate things and items, a multitude of inherent
detail in his existence, which it isn't open to the painter _de gaiete
de coeur_ not to make some picture of. And yet if I mention this
because it is _the_ place where people will challenge you, and to
suggest to you therefore to expect it--if I do so I am probably after
all quite wrong. No one notices or understands _any_thing, and no one
will make a single intelligent or intelligible observation about your
work. They will make plenty of others. What I applaud is your sticking
to the real line and centre of your theme--the consciousness and view of
Sainty himself, and your dealing with things, with the whole
fantasmagoria, as presented to him only, not otherwise going behind
them.
And also I applaud, dearest Howard, your expression of attachment to him
who holds this pen (and passes it at this moment over very dirty paper:)
for he is extremely accessible to such demonstrations and touched by
them--more than ever in his lonely (more than) maturity. Keep it up as
hard as possible; continue to pass your hand into my arm and believe
that I always like greatly to feel it. We are two who can communicate
freely.
I send you back also Temple Bar, in which I have found your paper a
moving and charming thing, waking up the pathetic ghost only too
effectually. The ancient years and images that I too more or less
remember swarm up and vaguely moan round about one like Banshees or
other mystic and melancholy presences. It's _all_ a little mystic and
melancholy to me here when I am quite alone, as I more particularly am
after "grand" company has come and gone. You are essentially grand
company, and felt as such--and the subsidence is proportionally flat.
But I took a long walk with Max this grey still Sabbath afternoon--have
indeed taken one each day, and am possessed of means, thank goodness, to
make the desert (of being quite to myself) blossom like the rose.
Good-night--it's 12.30, the clock ticks loud and Max snoozes audibly in
the armchair I lately vacated.... Yours, my dear Howard always and ever,