[_Saranac Lake_, _October_ 1887.]
I know not the day; but the month it
is the drear October by the
ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir
MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,—This is to say _First_, the voyage was a huge
success. We all enjoyed it (bar my wife) to the ground: sixteen days at
sea with a cargo of hay, matches, stallions, and monkeys, and in a ship
with no style on, and plenty of sailors to talk to, and the endless
pleasures of the sea—the romance of it, the sport of the scratch dinner
and the smashing crockery, the pleasure—an endless pleasure—of balancing
to the swell: well, it’s over.
_Second_, I had a fine time, rather a troubled one, at Newport and New
York; saw much of and liked hugely the Fairchilds, St. Gaudens the
sculptor, Gilder of the _Century_—just saw the dear Alexander—saw a lot
of my old and admirable friend Will Low, whom I wish you knew and
appreciated—was medallioned by St. Gaudens, and at last escaped to
_Third_, Saranac Lake, where we now are, and which I believe we mean to
like and pass the winter at. Our house—emphatically ‘Baker’s’—is on a
hill, and has a sight of a stream turning a corner in the valley—bless
the face of running water!—and sees some hills too, and the paganly
prosaic roofs of Saranac itself; the Lake it does not see, nor do I
regret that; I like water (fresh water I mean) either running swiftly
among stones, or else largely qualified with whisky. As I write, the sun
(which has been long a stranger) shines in at my shoulder; from the next
room, the bell of Lloyd’s typewriter makes an agreeable music as it
patters off (at a rate which astonishes this experienced novelist) the
early chapters of a humorous romance; from still further off—the walls of
Baker’s are neither ancient nor massive—rumours of Valentine about the
kitchen stove come to my ears; of my mother and Fanny I hear nothing, for
the excellent reason that they have gone sparking off, one to Niagara,
one to Indianapolis. People complain that I never give news in my
letters. I have wiped out that reproach.
But now, _Fourth_, I have seen the article; and it may be from natural
partiality, I think it the best you have written. O—I remember the
Gautier, which was an excellent performance; and the Balzac, which was
good; and the Daudet, over which I licked my chops; but the R. L. S. is
better yet. It is so humorous, and it hits my little frailties with so
neat (and so friendly) a touch; and Alan is the occasion for so much
happy talk, and the quarrel is so generously praised. I read it twice,
though it was only some hours in my possession; and Low, who got it for
me from the _Century_, sat up to finish it ere he returned it; and, sir,
we were all delighted. Here is the paper out, nor will anything, not
even friendship, not even gratitude for the article, induce me to begin a
second sheet; so here with the kindest remembrances and the warmest good
wishes, I remain, yours affectionately,