_Vailima_, _Samoa_, _December_ 1, 1894.
I AM afraid, MY DEAR WEG, that this must be the result of bribery and
corruption! The volume to which the dedication stands as preface seems
to me to stand alone in your work; it is so natural, so personal, so
sincere, so articulate in substance, and what you always were sure of—so
rich in adornment.
Let me speak first of the dedication. I thank you for it from the heart.
It is beautifully said, beautifully and kindly felt; and I should be a
churl indeed if I were not grateful, and an ass if I were not proud. I
remember when Symonds dedicated a book to me; I wrote and told him of
‘the pang of gratified vanity’ with which I had read it. The pang was
present again, but how much more sober and autumnal—like your volume.
Let me tell you a story, or remind you of a story. In the year of grace
something or other, anything between ’76 and ’78 I mentioned to you in my
usual autobiographical and inconsiderate manner that I was hard up. You
said promptly that you had a balance at your banker’s, and could make it
convenient to let me have a cheque, and I accepted and got the money—how
much was it?—twenty or perhaps thirty pounds? I know not—but it was a
great convenience. The same evening, or the next day, I fell in
conversation (in my usual autobiographical and . . . see above) with a
denizen of the Savile Club, name now gone from me, only his figure and a
dim three-quarter view of his face remaining. To him I mentioned that
you had given me a loan, remarking easily that of course it didn’t matter
to you. Whereupon he read me a lecture, and told me how it really stood
with you financially. He was pretty serious; fearing, as I could not
help perceiving, that I should take too light a view of the
responsibility and the service (I was always thought too light—the
irresponsible jester—you remember. O, _quantum mutatus ab illo_!) If I
remember rightly, the money was repaid before the end of the week—or, to
be more exact and a trifle pedantic, the sennight—but the service has
never been forgotten; and I send you back this piece of ancient history,
_consule Planco_, as a salute for your dedication, and propose that we
should drink the health of the nameless one, who opened my eyes as to the
true nature of what you did for me on that occasion.
But here comes my Amanuensis, so we’ll get on more swimmingly now. You
will understand perhaps that what so particularly pleased me in the new
volume, what seems to me to have so personal and original a note, are the
middle-aged pieces in the beginning. The whole of them, I may say,
though I must own an especial liking to—
‘I yearn not for the fighting fate,
That holds and hath achieved;
I live to watch and meditate
And dream—and be deceived.’
You take the change gallantly. Not I, I must confess. It is all very
well to talk of renunciation, and of course it has to be done. But, for
my part, give me a roaring toothache! I do like to be deceived and to
dream, but I have very little use for either watching or meditation. I
was not born for age. And, curiously enough, I seem to see a contrary
drift in my work from that which is so remarkable in yours. You are
going on sedately travelling through your ages, decently changing with
the years to the proper tune. And here am I, quite out of my true
course, and with nothing in my foolish elderly head but love-stories.
This must repose upon some curious distinction of temperaments. I gather
from a phrase, boldly autobiographical, that you are—well, not precisely
growing thin. Can that be the difference?
It is rather funny that this matter should come up just now, as I am at
present engaged in treating a severe case of middle age in one of my
stories—‘The Justice-Clerk.’ The case is that of a woman, and I think
that I am doing her justice. You will be interested, I believe, to see
the difference in our treatments. _Secreta Vitæ_, comes nearer to the
case of my poor Kirstie. Come to think of it, Gosse, I believe the main
distinction is that you have a family growing up around you, and I am a
childless, rather bitter, very clear-eyed, blighted youth. I have, in
fact, lost the path that makes it easy and natural for you to descend the
hill. I am going at it straight. And where I have to go down it is a
precipice.
I must not forget to give you a word of thanks for _An English Village_.
It reminds me strongly of Keats, which is enough to say; and I was
particularly pleased with the petulant sincerity of the concluding
sentiment.
Well, my dear Gosse, here’s wishing you all health and prosperity, as
well as to the mistress and the bairns. May you live long, since it
seems as if you would continue to enjoy life. May you write many more
books as good as this one—only there’s one thing impossible, you can
never write another dedication that can give the same pleasure to the
vanished