nd
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 Falesa_, 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,[29] 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,