_December_ 7_th_, 1891.
MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,—Thanks for yours; your former letter was lost; so it
appears was my long and masterly treatise on the _Tragic Muse_. I
remember sending it very well, and there went by the same mail a long and
masterly tractate to Gosse about his daddy’s life, for which I have been
long expecting an acknowledgment, and which is plainly gone to the bottom
with the other. If you see Gosse, please mention it. These gems of
criticism are now lost literature, like the tomes of Alexandria. I could
not do ’em again. And I must ask you to be content with a dull head, a
weary hand, and short commons, for to-day, as I am physically tired with
hard work of every kind, the labours of the planter and the author both
piled upon me mountain deep. I am delighted beyond expression by
Bourget’s book: he has phrases which affect me almost like Montaigne; I
had read ere this a masterly essay of his on Pascal; this book does it; I
write for all his essays by this mail, and shall try to meet him when I
come to Europe. The proposal is to pass a summer in France, I think in
Royat, where the faithful could come and visit me; they are now not many.
I expect Henry James to come and break a crust or two with us. I believe
it will be only my wife and myself; and she will go over to England, but
not I, or possibly incog. to Southampton, and then to Boscombe to see
poor Lady Shelley. I am writing—trying to write in a Babel fit for the
bottomless pit; my wife, her daughter, her grandson and my mother, all
shrieking at each other round the house—not in war, thank God! but the
din is ultra martial, and the note of Lloyd joins in occasionally, and
the cause of this to-do is simply cacao, whereof chocolate comes. You
may drink of our chocolate perhaps in five or six years from now, and not
know it. It makes a fine bustle, and gives us some hard work, out of
which I have slunk for to-day.
I have a story coming out: God knows when or how; it answers to the name
of the _Beach of Falesà_, and I think well of it. I was delighted with
the _Tragic Muse_; I thought the Muse herself one of your best works; I
was delighted also to hear of the success of your piece, as you know I am
a dam failure, {245} and might have dined with the dinner club that
Daudet and these parties frequented.
_Next day_.
I have just been breakfasting at Baiae and Brindisi, and the charm of
Bourget hag-rides me. I wonder if this exquisite fellow, all made of
fiddle-strings and scent and intelligence, could bear any of my bald
prose. If you think he could, ask Colvin to send him a copy of these
last essays of mine when they appear; and tell Bourget they go to him
from a South Sea Island as literal homage. I have read no new book for
years that gave me the same literary thrill as his _Sensations d’Italie_.
If (as I imagine) my cut-and-dry literature would be death to him, and
worse than death—journalism—be silent on the point. For I have a great
curiosity to know him, and if he doesn’t know my work, I shall have the
better chance of making his acquaintance. I read _The Pupil_ the other
day with great joy; your little boy is admirable; why is there no little
boy like that unless he hails from the Great Republic?
Here I broke off, and wrote Bourget a dedication; no use resisting; it’s
a love affair. O, he’s exquisite, I bless you for the gift of him. I
have really enjoyed this book as I—almost as I—used to enjoy books when I
was going twenty—twenty-three; and these are the years for reading!