TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Yaidzu, August, 1899.
Dear Mitchell,—Went to that new hotel this afternoon, and discovered that the people are all liars and devils and.... Therefore it would never do for you to go there. Then I went to an ice and fruit seller, who has a good house; and he said that after the fourteenth he could let you have sleeping room. The village festival is now in progress, so that the houses are crowded.
If this essay fails, I have the alternative of a widow’s cottage. She is a good old soul—with the best of little boys for a grandson, and sole companion; the old woman and the boy support themselves by helping the fishermen. But there will be fleas.
Oh! d—n it all! what is a flea? Why should a brave man tremble before a nice clean shining flea? You are not afraid of twelve-inch shells or railroad trains or torpedoes—what, then, is a flea? Of course by “a flea” I mean fleas generically. I’ve done my best for you—but the long and the short of it is that if you go anywhere outside of the Grand Hotel you must stand fleas—piles, multitudes, mountains and mountain-ranges of fleas! There! Fleas are a necessary part of human existence.
The iceman offers you a room breezy, cool,—you eat with me; but by all the gods! you’ve got to make the acquaintance of some fleas! Just think how many unpleasant acquaintances I run away from! yet—I have Buddha’s patience with fleas.
At this moment, a beautiful, shining, plump, gathered-up-for-a-jump flea is walking over my hand.
Affectionately,
Lafcadio.