18 September 1900

 

I received this morning a letter from the Sphinx.

 

My dear Oscar,

I have written to you now on three occasions, but you have not been 'at home'.  Pray tell me why.  I hear nothing but gossip about you, which in the past I always assumed to be true - but only when it came from you.  Without the god, the Sphinx is silent and can only scatter absurd messages on the parched land.  Do write.  Ever yours, dear Oscar -

                                                                    Ada

 

I have drafted a letter in reply.

 

My dear Sphinx,

Your words strike me like thunder.  Alas I have been living wisely but not well and have had, as a consequence, nothing whatever to write about.  Do you remember that I once told you how terrible it was for a man to discover, at the end of his life, that he had always spoken nothing but the truth?  Well, it is falsehood - and so now words frighten me.  Dear Sphinx, I shall tell you a secret which, like all secrets, I expect you to forget.  I have been writing the story of my life.  You know, as I do, that the world does not care for memoirs from those it has already forgotten.  And so I write for myself - at least I am a good audience.  Do you remember how I would come to you amazed after my first nights, and ask you to explain to me in simple words what I had done?  It was you who comforted me in my success, and understood me in my -

 

And then I threw away the letter; confessions on hotel notepaper are always dreary.  I have begun another:

 

My Dear Sphinx,

I was so charmed with hearing from you this morning that I must write a line to tell you how sweet and good it is of you to write to me.  Robbie tells me that you are still making mortals immortal in Punch.  I wish that you were writing for a Paris newspaper, that I could seek your work making the French tongue lovely.

      I have been in great distress, but friends are kind to me and sometimes send me strange green notes which I use in restaurants.  I long to dine with you again.  Ever yours,

                                                                                                              Oscar

 

That is all there is to be said, is it not?