
The "linked sweetness" of my negociation negotiation
,
here in the eternal city has been so "long drawn out" that I I am in some fear of being
myself numbered and ticketed among the antiquities of Rome. This morning, dear Walt Whitman, Have a letter from my boy Maurice,
expressing great delight at the big book with your inscription—which I left out to be given to him on his birthday—the 11th.
His "flight into Egypt" is still in the air; but I should not be surprised if it now came before long. He tells how, to my great regret,
that
that poor young man Balestier whom I was to have
seen for you is dead—died
in a hospital at Dresden, aged 26. When I return I must look up Heinemann; &
find out with whom I have to treat; but it seems to me
Balestier's death may change your views of the whole business. I hope to be home for Christmas;
but it
seems at least doubtful. This is
a beautiful winter climate; but I want to be in the evil climate of London just now for many reasons. I hope you keep well up
to the mark, dear Walt Whitman.

