so much as thought upon, all
by yourselves, in the water-closet. But God knows, I am glad enough of
five pounds; and this is almost as honest a way to get it as plain
theft, so what should I care?--Ever yours,

R. L. S.

TO J. A. SYMONDS

_Skerryvore, Bournemouth [Spring 1886]._

MY DEAR SYMONDS,--If we have lost touch, it is (I think) only in a
material sense; a question of letters, not hearts. You will find a warm
welcome at Skerryvore from both the lightkeepers; and, indeed, we never
tell ourselves one of our financial fairy tales, but a run to Davos is a
prime feature. I am not changeable in friendship; and I think I can
promise you you have a pair of trusty well-wishers and friends in
Bournemouth: whether they write or not is but a small thing; the flag
may not be waved, but it is there.

_Jekyll_ is a dreadful thing, I own; but the only thing I feel dreadful
about is that damned old business of the war in the members. This time
it came out; I hope it will stay in, in future.

Raskolnikoff[17] is easily the greatest book I have read in ten years; I
am glad you took to it. Many find it dull: Henry James could not finish
it: all I can say is, it nearly finished me. It was like having an
illness. James did not care for it because the character of Raskolnikoff
was not objective; and at that I divined a great gulf between us, and, on
further reflection, the existence of a certain impotence in many minds of
to-day, which prevents them from living in a book or a character, and
keeps them standing afar off, spectators of a puppet show. To such I
suppose the book may seem empty in the centre; to the others it is a
room, a house of life, into which they themselves enter, and are tortured
and purified. The Juge d'Instruction I thought a wonderful, weird,
touching, ingenious creation: the drunken father, and Sonia, and the
student friend, and the uncircumscribed, protoplasmic humanity of
Raskolnikoff, all upon a level that filled me with wonder: the execution
also, superb in places. Another has been translated--_Humilies et
Offenses_. It is even more incoherent than _Le Crime et le Chatiment_,
but breathes much of the same lovely goodness, and has passages of power.
Dostoieffsky is a devil of a swell, to be sure. Have you heard that he
became a stout, imperialist conservative? It is interesting to know. To
something of that side, the balance leans with me also in view of the
incoherency and incapacity