Dear McDonald,—I got home safe and early,—thanks to your carriage! But I feel a little uneasy about you; and when you get perfectly right again in that strong back of yours, I want to hear from you—not before. Don’t imagine that I must have an answer to every scrawl. I don’t know what to say to you and the doctor,—except that you are both spoiling me. Tōkyō seems unusually tristful this rainy evening; and I feel that it is because you and the doctor are both far away,—and that the world is not really anything like what you make it appear to be.
I came up with three Americans, all of whom talked about Manila, Aguinaldo, “the people at home,” Boston, the Pennsylvania Central, Baldwin’s locomotives, the Pacific Coast,—and the commanders of the various iron-clads at Manila. It did me good to hear them. They cocked up their heels on the seats, home-fashion; and I felt sort of pulled towards them,—but we didn’t get acquainted. They knew everything about everything in the whole world; and it did one good to hear them. Wish we had a few men of that sort in the university.
It will feel lonesome in Japan after you go back: I think I should like to be one of those small eaglets that you used to supply with fish on the voyage,—and have a hen wander occasionally within reach of my rope.
Only a line before going to sleep. A stupid note—just to show that I am thinking of you. My wife is delighted with the photo, and says it is the best of all by far—in which I agree with her.
Love to you, and do take every care of your dear self.
Lafcadio.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Tōkyō, January, 1899.
Dear McDonald,—I suppose you have heard of a famous old drama which has for its title, “The Woman Killed with Kindness.” Presently, if you do not take care, you will be furnishing the material for a much more modern tragedy, to be called, “The Small Man Killed with Kindness.” Here I have been waiting three days to write you,—and have not been able to write, because of the extravagant and very naughty things which you have done. That whiskey! Those cigars! That wonderful beefsteak! Those imperial and sinfully splendid dinners! Those wonderful chats until ghost-time, and beyond it! And all these things—however pleasing in themselves—made like a happy dream by multitudes of little acts and words and thoughts (all observed and treasured up) that created about me an atmosphere not belonging at all to this world of Iron Facts and Granite Necessities. “Come soon again”—indeed! Catch me down there again this winter! Steep a man’s soul in azure and gold like that again, and you will utterly spoil him for those cold grey atmospheres under which alone good work can be done. It is all tropical down there at No. 20 Bund; and I must try to forget the tropics in order to finish No. 8. The last time I had such an evening was in 1889,—in a flat of Fifth Avenue, New York, where a certain divine person and I sat by a fire of drift-wood, and talked and dreamed about things. There was this difference, however, that I never could remember what passed as we chatted before that extraordinary fire (which burned blue and red and green—because of sea-ghosts in it). That was largely witchcraft, but at No. 20 Bund, without witchcraft, there is more power than that. And if I am afraid of it, it is not because I do not like it even more than the magic of Fifth Avenue, but because—No. 8 must be done quickly!
You must really promise to be less good to me if you want to see me again before the Twentieth Century. I wish I knew how to scold you properly;—but for the moment I shall drop the subject in utter despair!