Lafcadio.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Tōkyō, February, 1898.
Dear McDonald,—Your telegram made me feel comfortable. I had been a little uneasy,—especially because you never told me what really was the matter;—and when a man like you cannot bend his back, the matter could not have been a joke. Also the telegram convinced me that you were really thinking about coming up, and possibly might come up during the spring or the summer or the coming autumn season, and that I could squat on the floor and talk to you—which made me comparatively happy.
I have been otherwise disgracefully blue. When I want to feel properly humble, I read “Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan”—about half a page;—then I howl, and wonder how I could ever have written so badly,—and find that I am really only a very twenty-fifth-rate workman and that I ought to be kicked. Then the weather has been trying;—the mails are behind;—the afflictions of Tōkyō manifold. Also I have been provoked to think that there is no other person like you known to me in the entire world,—and that you are by no means immortal,—and that, even as it is, you think ever so much more of me than I deserve. Also I have been meditating on the unpermanency of the universe, and considering the possible folly of making books at all.—This must be the darkness before the dawn: at least I ought to think so.
I have partly in mind the plan for making the best part of number eight out of stories adapted from the Japanese. Not sure that I can carry the plan out satisfactorily;—but I am resolved that number eight must be worthy of your hopes for me,—and that it shall prove an atonement for the faults of the first book dedicated to you.
Take all care of yourself, and believe me most grateful for that telegram.
Affectionately,
Lafcadio.