‘Tis quite surprising—the severity wherewith you have been missed, in this now very quiet household, since you looked down upon its members from the Servia’s upper-deck, very much like Campanini in Lohengrin when the Swan gets fairly under way! The quiet that settled down was all the stiller, because you and we had to get through with so much in your ten days chez nous. Lay one consolation to heart: you won’t have to do this again; when you return, ‘twill be to a city of which you have deduced a general idea, from the turbid phantasmagoria of your days and nights here. The conclusions on our side were that we had formed a liking for you such as we have retained after the visits of very few guests from the Old World or the New. Well as I knew your books and record I had the vaguest notion of your self. ‘Tis rare indeed that a clever writer or artist strengthens his hold upon those who admire his work, by personal intimacy. What can I say more than to say that we thoroughly enjoyed your visit; that we think immeasurably more of you than before you came; that you are upon our list of friends to whom we are attached for life—for good and ill. We know our own class, in taste and breeding, when we find them—which is not invariably among our different guests. Nor can one have your ready art of charm and winning, without a good heart and comradeship under it all: even though intent (and rightly) on nursing his career and making all the points he has a right to make—Apropos of this—I may congratulate you on the impression you made here on the men and women whom you chanced at this season to meet; that which you left with us passes the border of respect, and into the warm and even lowland of affection.
That is all I now shall say about our acquaintanceship. Being an Anglo-Saxon, ‘tis not once in half a decade that I bring myself to say so much.
And now, my dear boy, what shall I say of the charming surprise with which you and your florist so punctually greeted my birthday? At 56 (“oh, woeful when!”) one is less than ever used to the melting mood, but you drew a tear to my eyes. The roses are still all over our house, and the letter is your best autograph in my possession. We look forward to seeing you again with us, of course—because, if for no other reason, you and yours always have one home ready for you when in the States, at least while a roof is over our heads, even though the Latin wolf be howling at our door. Mrs. Stedman avows that I must give you her love, and joins with me in all the words of this long letter.
Affectionately your friend,
Edmund C. Stedman.
On our return to Hampstead we resumed our Sunday evening gatherings, and among other frequenters came Mr. and Mrs. Henry Harland, with an introduction from Mr. W. D. Howells. From Mr. George Meredith came a charming welcome home.
Box Hill (Dorking),
Nov. 22, 1889.
My dear Sharp,
I am with all my heart glad of your return and the good news you give of yourself and your wife. He who travels comes back thrice the man he was, and if you do not bully my poor Stayathoma, it is in magnanimity. The moccasins are acceptable for their uses and all that they tell me. Name a time as early as you can to come and pour out your narrative. There is little to attract, it’s true—a poor interior and fog daily outside. We cast ourselves on the benevolence of friends. Give your wife my best regards. I have questions for her about Tyrol and Carinthia.