Fred Leighton.
Tangiers, April 25, 1895.
Dear Lina,—The day before yesterday I received your nice long letter—you had not yet got mine from Gib.—and yesterday one came from poor Gussy, and I am going, as you will both believe when this reaches you, to kill two birds with one epistolary stone. First, let me say that I am grieved—I dare hardly say, surprised, for it is, alas! a wicked way you both have—to hear that neither of you has derived any benefit, to speak of, by your outing, and you indeed, poor dear, appear to be a little worse. The fact is that at our ages, con rispetto, when one happens to have pretty homes, one does miss them under the discomforts and shortcomings of lodgings or inns. As for me, though I am fairly comfortable here, I have whiffs of a certain "House Beautiful" in Kensington which are very tantalising. How am I? Well, I think I may at last claim a little improvement, of course I give myself every chance, and am superlatively, disgracefully lazy, and put myself to no tests; but I notice this, that though I have my regulation three attacks (when not more) a day, they are milder, I think, and I know that I can get rid of them almost immediately by certain respiratory exercises my Swede taught me. This I assume is again no more capsules, we shall see.
Yes, I do perfectly remember the old home in St. Katherine's at Bath, and should hugely like to see it. I hope when the old inhabitant goes off, it will fall into reverent hands.
No, I have not yet tackled Nordau. I am looking forward to him much, but have so far, except some Pater (Greek studies), mostly fribbled; two or three Spanish novels; a few short tales by Hardy, clever, but his figures are talking dolls, taught out of a book; L'Innocente, dull, but not so coarse as I had understood. "Tales of Mean Streets"—now there, if you like, is powerful stuff. For pithy terseness and absolute sobriety of means, for subtle and humorous observation and scathing directness, they are unrivalled; but oh! what a picture! what a state of things, and who shall ever let the light into the tenebrous and foul depths? But how funny too, and grim; the old woman who pockets the ten shillings given for port, in order that she may have mutes at the funeral! Have also read "Keynotes." Clever, one or two even powerful, but other than I expected. Who is the woman? half Norse? half Irish? The writing is bad; intentionally, apparently; a cross between an interviewer and Ibsen for scrappy abruptness. Her keynote is belief in the immeasurable (but not explained) superiority of women, whom no man can understand; well, certainly, I don't know wo sie hinaus will.
I have had more kind notes, this is a kind world tout de même. When stodgy, elderly Englishmen talk to me of the number of people who love me, I feel quite a lump in my throat. Of another kind, but pretty, is the enclosed from W. Watson, the poet, whom I admire, you know; nice also the telegram. I wrote a menschlich letter when her husband died (I have known them nearly forty years), and again a pretty letter t'other day about the wedding.
But I must finish this scribble. I shall be gone when you get this, write Algiers (poste restante), I shall get it some time or other, but am still vague.
Love to poor Gussy.—Afft. bro.,
Fred.
Leighton enclosed the following from William Watson, and the telegram from the Comtesse de Paris:—