There is to be a mail sometime next week, I suppose. Ought to come to-day—but the City of Rio de Janeiro is not likely to fly in a blizzard, except downward. If she has my book on board she will certainly sink.
By the way, you did not know that I am fatal to ships. Every ship on which I journey gets into trouble. Went to America in a steamer that foundered. Came to Japan upon another that went to destruction. Travelled upon a half-dozen Japanese steamers,—every one of which was subsequently lost. Even lake-boats do not escape me. The last on which I journeyed turned over, and drowned everybody on board,—only twenty feet from shore. It was I who ran the Belgic on land. The only ship that I could not wreck was the Saikyō-Maru, but she went to the Yalu on the next trip after I had been aboard of her,—and got tolerably well smashed up; so I had satisfaction out of her anyhow. If ever I voyage on the Empress boats, there will be a catastrophe. Therefore I fear exceedingly for the Rio de Janeiro; she is not strong enough to bear the presence of that book in a typhoon.
Affectionately,
Lafcadio.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Tōkyō, March, 1899.
Dear Friend,—I really felt badly at not being able to see more of you yesterday,—especially to see you off to Shimbashi: I could not even slip down to the gate without putting on shoes that take a terrible time to lace. On the other hand, you left in the house a sense of warmth and force and sun,—that were like a tonic to me,—or like a South-wind from the sea on a summer’s day; and I felt in consequence better satisfied with the world at large.
Do you recognize this pen: a U.S. pen, contributed to my pen-holder by a U.S.N. officer whom I know a little, and like very much.
I hope by this time that the Gordian knot shows some inclination to unravel; and that the worry is diminishing. I remember, with much quiet laughter, your story of the bear. I think I have found nearly as good a simile—in an Indian paper. The fat Baboo got into a post-carriage, with many furious steeds, which the driver was accustomed to drive after the manner of the driving of Jehu,—and the driver was given further to meditation, during which he had no consciousness of the base facts of earth. And the bottom of the carriage fell out; and the Baboo landed feet first, and ran,—with the carriage round him,—and the horses were rushing at a speed not to be calculated. For the Baboo, it was death or run,—because the driver neither heard nor saw; and the exertions made are said to have been stupendous. The Baboo got off with a large amount of hospital, caused—or rather necessitated—by the unusual exercise....
Well, I hope I shall some day again see you. I feel, however, that something has been gained: you have been up; and I can’t find fault—even should you never again visit Tomihisa-chō.