TO MRS. WETMORE
Tōkyō, January, 1900.
Dear Mrs. Wetmore,—Memories of handwriting must have become strong with me; for I recognized the writing before I opened the letter. And thereafter I did not do more than verify the signature—and put the letter away, so that I might read it in the time of greatest silence and serenity of mind. During the interval there rose up reproachfully before me the ghost of letters written and rewritten and again rewritten to you, but subsequently—I cannot exactly say why— posted in the fire! (This letter goes to you in its first spontaneous form—so much the worse for me!)
“Indifferent” you say. But you ought to see my study-room. It is not very pretty—a little Japanese matted room, with glass sliding windows (upstairs), and a table and chair. Above the table there is the portrait of a young American naval officer in uniform—he is not so young now;—that is a very dear picture. On the opposite wall is the shadow of a beautiful and wonderful person, whom I knew long ago in the strange city of New Orleans. (She was sixteen years old, or so, when I first met her; and I remember that not long afterwards she was dangerously ill, and that several people were afraid she would die in that quaint little hotel where she was then stopping.) The two shadows watch me while the light lasts; and I have the comfortable feeling of monopolizing their sympathy—for they have nobody else to look at. The originals would not be able to give me so much of their company.
The lady talks to me about a fire of wreckwood, that used to burn with red and blue lights. I remember that I used to sit long ago by that Rosicrucian glow, and talk to her; but I remember nothing else—only the sound of her voice,—low and clear and at times like a flute. The gods only know what I said; for my thoughts in those times were seldom in the room,—but in the future, which was black, without stars. But all that was long ago. Since then I have become grey, and the father of three boys.
The naval officer has been here again in the body, however. Indeed, I expect him here, upstairs, in a day or two,—before he goes away to Cavite,—after which I shall probably never see him again. We have sat up till many a midnight,—talking about things.
Whether I shall ever see the original of the other shadow, I do not know. I must leave the Far East for a couple of years, in order to school a little son of mine, who must early begin to learn languages. Whether I take him to England or America, I do not yet know; but America is not very far from England. Whether the lady of the many-coloured fires would care to let me hear her voice for another evening, sometime in the future, is another question.
Two of the boys are all Japanese,—sturdy and not likely to cause anxiety. But the eldest is almost altogether of another race,—with brown hair and eyes of the fairy-colour,—and a tendency to pronounce with a queer little Irish accent the words of old English poems which he has to learn by heart. He is not very strong; and I must give the rest of my life to looking after him.
I wish that I could make a book to please you more often than once a year. (But I have so much work to do!) Curiously enough, some of the thoughts spoken in your letter have been put into the printer’s hands—ghostly anticipation?—for a book which will probably appear next fall. I cannot now judge whether it will please you—but there are reveries in it, and sundry queer stories.
I think that you once asked me for a portrait of my boy. I send one—but he is now older than his portrait by some two years. I shall send a better one later on, if you wish. I should like to interest you in him—to the simple extent of advising me about him at a later day; for you represent for my imagination all the Sibyls, and your wisdom would be for me as the worth of things precious from the uttermost coasts.