to Henry James

December 7th, 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!

R. L. S.