TŌKYŌ, January, 1898.
DEAR McDONALD,--I got your kindest reply to my note of the other
day,--actually apologizing for not writing sooner. But I told you never
to bother yourself about writing me when you do not feel like it or when
you are in the least busy; and I shall never feel neglected if you be
silent, but only think that you have business on hand, and hope that you
will have good luck in the undertaking.
Why, yes: I must get down some Saturday, or Friday afternoon--that would
be still better--so as to return to Tōkyō Sunday night: for my
Saturdays are free. But not _too_ soon. It is only about two weeks since
I was with you--though I acknowledge that it seems to me like three
months. I wish I could see you more often;--then again, I think, you
would be tired of my chatter soon. (I know what you would protest; but
it doesn't matter.) Well, not to argue too much, I promise to make a
visit during February,--though I shall scarcely be able to name an exact
day in advance.
I have never been in San Francisco, unfortunately. But that matters
little, if I can ask all the questions I want. The value in a literary
way of the scenes would be less the scenes themselves than the
impression which they made upon your own memory. I anticipate much
pleasure in asking you about it, as well as delight in hearing the story
itself.
What will you think of my wickedness? I am going to tell you a bad
story about myself. The other day (I mustn't try to pretend it was
long ago, like I did about the Club-Hotel story in your carriage, for
fear of being questioned as to direct facts) my publishers sent me
some rather nasty newspaper clippings, together with what affected to
be a manuscript history of my personal eccentricities and weaknesses.
They suggested that I should correct, amend, or reject, but that they
should be glad to publish it with my approval. (About 19 pp. I think.)
Having read it with considerable anger, I laid it aside for a couple
of days,--during which time I effectually restrained the first impulse
to write a furious letter. Then I most effectually amended that MS.; I
corrected it as thoroughly as it could possibly be corrected--but not
with pencil or pen: such instruments being quite inadequate for the
purpose. In short, I corrected, amended, and rejected it all at the same
time--with the assistance of a red-hot stove. They shall never know; but
as murder will out, I must tell somebody, and that somebody shall be
you. With best regards to the doctor,--ever with hopes to see you _soon_,