TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Tōkyō, February, 1898.
Dear Friend,—Two or three mornings ago I woke up with a vague feeling of pleasure—a dim notion that something very pleasant had occurred the day before. Then I remembered that the pleasure had come from your unanswered letter. I kept putting off writing, nevertheless, day after day, in consequence partly of the conviction that such a letter should not be answered in a dull mood, and partly because some of my college work this past week has been more than usually complicated—involving a study of subjects that I thoroughly hate, but must try to make interesting—the literature and spirit of the eighteenth century.
Well, even now, I do not quite know what to say about your letter. To tell me that I have something of your father’s spirit more than pleased me—not because I could quite believe it, but because you did. Your father must have been a very fine man, without any pettiness,—and I have more smallness in me than you can suspect. How could it be otherwise! If a man lives like a rat for twenty or twenty-five years, he must have acquired something of the disposition peculiar to house-rodents,—mustn’t he? Anyhow, I could never agree to let you take all the trouble you propose to take for me merely as a matter of “thank you.” I must contrive ways and means to better your proposal—not to cancel the obligation, for that could not be done, but at least to make you quite sure that I appreciate the extreme rarity of such friendship.
I am writing with hesitation to-day (chiefly, indeed, through a sense of duty to you),—for I fear that you are in trouble, and that my letter is going to reach you at the worst possible time. However, I hope you have not lost any very dear friends by that terrible accident at Havana. I think you told me that you were once on that ship, nevertheless; and I fear that you must receive some bad news. My sympathies are with you in any event.
My Boston friend is lost to me, certainly. I got a letter yesterday from him—showing the serious effect upon friendship of taking to one’s self a wife,—a fashionable wife. It was meant to be exactly like the old letters;—but it wasn’t. Paymaster M. M. must also some day take a wife, and ... Oh! I know what you are going to say;—they all say that! They all assure you that they both love you, and that their house will be always open to you, etc., etc., and then—they forget all about you—purposely or otherwise. Still, one ought to be grateful,—the dropping is so gently and softly done.
Affectionately ever,
Lafcadio Hearn.