Bath Hotel, Bournemouth.
Saturday [July 3, 1897].
Dearest Elly,
It is an immense satisfaction to get your news—and no figure of speech to say that it has found me literally on the point of reaching out, for it, into the thick twilight of your whereabouts. I have had my general silence much on my conscience—and especially my dumbness and darkness to Rosina and Bay, for whom my movements must have been enveloped in a perfidious mystery that has caused me, I fear, to forfeit all their esteem. But let me tell you first of all how I rejoice in your good conditions and in your having found your feet. It was "borne in" upon me, on general grounds, that Southwold would never do for long, and it is charming that you have found so near and so nice a substitute. I especially delight (without wanting to sacrifice the rest of you) in such a letting-down-easy of the Art-Daughters. Please give them my tender love and tell them that, preposterous as it sounds, I have never, all this time, and in spite of the rosiest asseverations, crossed the channel at all. The nearest I have come to it is to have, early last month, come down here to the edge of the sea and collapsed into the peace and obscurity of this convenient corner (long familiar to me,) which, having a winter season, is practically empty at present. I will tell R. and B. when I see them just how it was that I happened to be so false—it is too long a story now. Suffice it that my reasons (for continuing to hug this fat country) were overwhelming, and my regrets (at not tasting of their brave Bohemia) of the sharpest. Moreover all's well that ends well. If I had gone abroad I should be abroad now and the rest of the summer; and therefore unable to join you on your Suffolk shore—or at least alight upon you there—which is what I shall be enchanted to do. You describe a little Paradise—houris and all; and I beseech you to keep a divan for me there. The only thing is that I fear I shan't be able to come till toward the end—or by the end—of the month. I have more or less engaged myself (to a pair of friends who are coming down here next week for my—strange as it may seem—sweet sake) to remain on this spot till toward the 25th. But I will come then, and stay as long as you will let me. If you can bespeak any quarters for me at the inn, in advance, I will take it very kindly of you. Can they give me a little sitting-room as well as a bed-room? If you can achieve any effective [word illegible] at them to do so I shall be very grateful. I always need some small literary bower other than the British bed-room—and in this case I would of course "meal" there, as that makes them always more zealous. I don't know the East Coast to speak of at all—and I can imagine no more winsome introduction to it. I quite yearn to commune with the young Parisians. Bravo, McMonnies. Bravo everybody—especially Grenville. How I shall joy to frolic with him in the sand! Have they seen—the art-daughters—the image of the St. Gaudens Shaw? It is altogether great. William's oration was a first-class success. I encircle you all and will write again!
Ever, my dear Elly, so constantly yours,
HENRY JAMES.
P.S. The oddest trio of coincidences yesterday afternoon. I was reading the delightful Letters of that peculiarly Suffolk genius (of Woodbridge) Edward FitzGerald ("Omar Khayyam") and, just finishing a story in one of them about his relations with a boatman of Saxmundham (a name—seen for the first time—that struck me—by its strangeness and handsomeness,) laid down the book and went a long walk—five miles along this coast, to where, in a very picturesque and lonely spot, I met a sea-faring man with whom I fraternised.
"Do you belong to this place?"
"Oh no. I've been here five years; but I come from the Suffolk coast—Saxmundham."
"Did you know Mr. FitzGerald?"
"Know him? My brother was his boatman!"—and he tells me the story! Then I walk home and coming in, find your letter on my table. I tear it open and the first word I see in it—in your date—is Saxmundham! Tableau!!! It never rains but it pours!—