Thank you so much for the books and the inscription--which (as do all
other words of praise) affects me with a sad sense of my shortcomings
as writer and man. Things of that kind from too partial friends point
out to me with a disquieting significance what I ought to be; and the
contrast with what I am hurts. Maybe you feel enough that way
sometimes to understand. You are still young enough to profit by the
pain; _my_ character is made--_my_ opportunities are gone. But it does
not greatly matter--nothing does. I have some little testimony from
you and Scheff and others that I have not lived altogether in vain,
and I know that I have greater satisfaction in my slight connection
with your and their work than in my own. Also a better claim to the
attention and consideration of my fellow-men.
Never mind about the "slow sale" of my book; I did not expect it to be
otherwise, and my only regret grows out of the fear that some one may
lose money by the venture. _It is not to be you._ You know I am still
a little "in the dark" as to what _you_ have really done in the
matter. I wish you would tell me if any of your own money went into
it. The contract with Wood is all right; it was drawn according to my
instructions and I shall not even accept the small royalty allowed me
if anybody is to be "out." If _you_ are to be out I shall not only not
accept the royalty, but shall reimburse you to the last cent. Do you
mind telling me about all that? In any case don't "buy out Wood" and
don't pay out anything for advertising nor for anything else.
The silence of the reviewers does not trouble me, any more than it
would you. Their praise of my other books never, apparently, did me
any good. No book published in this country ever received higher
praise from higher sources than my first collection of yarns. But the
book was never a "seller," and doubtless never will be. That _I_ like
it fairly well is enough. You and I do not write books to sell; we
write--or rather publish--just because we like to. We've no right to
expect a profit from fun.
It is odd and amusing that you could have supposed that I had any
other reason for not writing to you than a fixed habit of
procrastination, some preoccupation with my small affairs and a very
burdensome correspondence. Probably you _could_ give me a grievance by
trying hard, but if you ever are conscious of not having tried you may
be sure that I haven't the grievance.
I should have supposed that the author of "Viverols" and several
excellent monographs on fish would have understood your poems. (O no;
I don't mean that your Muse is a mermaid.) Perhaps he did, but you
know how temperate of words men of science are by habit. Did you send
a book to Garrett Serviss? I should like to know what he thinks of the
"Testimony." As to Joaquin, it is his detestable habit, as it was
Longfellow's, to praise all poetry submitted to him, and he said of
Madge Morris's coyote poem the identical thing that he says of your
work. Sorry to disillusionize you, but it is so.
As to your health. You give me great comfort. * * * But it was not only
from Scheff that I had bad accounts of you and "your cough." Scheff,
indeed, has been reticent in the matter, but evidently anxious; and
you yourself have written despondently and "forecasted" an early
passing away. If nothing is the matter with you and your lungs some of
your friends are poor observers. I'm happy to have your testimony, and
beg to withdraw my project for your recovery. You whet my appetite for
that new poem. The lines
"The blue-eyed vampire, sated at her feast,
Smiles bloodily against the leprous moon"
give me the shivers. Gee! they're awful! Sincerely yours,