Dear McDonald,—I am sending you two of Zola’s books, and a rather complex social novel by Maupassant—not, any of them, to be returned. I recommend “Rome” only; the others will just do to lend to friends, or to read for the sake of the French, when you have nothing better on hand.
What a glorious day we did have! Wonder if I shall ever be able to make a thumbnail literary study thereof,—with philosophical reflections. The naval officer, the Buddhist philosopher, and the wandering evolutionist. The impression is altogether too sunny and happy and queer to be forever lost to the world. I must think it up some day.
My back feels to-day as if those little sand-crabs were running over it; but the pain is nearly all gone. I shall be ready for another swim in a day or two.
And that supper at the Grand Hotel! I am awfully demoralized to-day—feeling gloriously well, but not in a working mood. A week more of holidays would ruin me! Discomfort is absolutely necessary for literary inspiration. Make a man perfectly happy, and what has he to work for? Nothing shall disturb my “ancient solitary reign” excepting the friends with whom I yesterday imposed upon the patience of certain crabs,—who suddenly found themselves facing a problem for which all their inherited experience had left them supremely unprepared.
Too soon we shall have winter upon us again; and I shall be struggling with problems of university-student peculiarities;—and I shall be working wonderfully hard at a new book. There will be all kinds of dull, dark, tiresome days; but whenever I want I can call back the summer sun,—simply by closing my eyes. Then, in blue light, between sand and sea-line, I shall discern a U.S. naval officer in Cape May costume, and a Buddhist philosopher, busied making little holes in the beach,—sapping and mining the habitations of small horrified crabs. Also I shall see a lemon yellow sky, with an amethystine Fuji cutting sharply against it. And many other things,—little dreams of gold.
Affectionately ever,
Lafcadio.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Tōkyō, September, 1898.
Dear McDonald,—I thought the house would go last night; but we had only two trees blown down this time, and the fence lifted in a southwesterly direction. Truly I was wise not to go to Shinano as I intended: it would have been no easy thing to get back again. And you did well not to try Fuji. It might have been all right; and it might have been very dangerous work indeed. When a typhoon runs around Fuji, Amenomori tells me that it blows the big rocks away like a powder-explosion. Judging from the extraordinary “protection-walls” built about the hut at the mountain-top, and from the way in which the station-house roofs are purposely weighted down, I fancy this must be quite true. A lava-block falling from the upper regions goes down like a bounding shot from a cannon; and I should just about as soon stand in front of a 50-lb. steel shell.