TŌKYŌ, January, 1899.
DEAR McDONALD,--Our scare is pretty nearly over;--the fever was broken
to-day, and we had a consultation of doctors. It seems to have been
pneumonia of the nasty, sudden kind. The little fellow never lost his
senses; but for part of yesterday he lost all power to speak. I think he
will get strong from now. The other boy got laid up about the same time,
but much less severely. The night they caught cold, the thermometer went
down to 26°, and the change was too much for them. By constant care for
a few days, I think we shall have them all right again: then I shall
hope, either to coax you up here, or go down to see you--if only to
shake hands. So far I am lucky; for I have been working like a Turk, and
keeping well. Work is an excellent thing to keep a fellow from worrying,
and my "self-confidence" is growing in the proper cautious way again.
What a funny, funny episode is that story of Lieutenant Hobson, shipped
to Manila to keep him from being kissed to death by pretty girls! Wonder
if he would not prefer to face the Santiago forts again? The incident
is quite peculiarly American, and pretty in its way: it ought to make
heroes multiply. There is something to be a hero for,--to have one's
pick of the finest girls in the country. Still I have been thinking
that most of us would feel shy about marrying the woman who would stand
up and ask for a kiss in a theatre. It is the same sort of enthusiasm
that makes women tear out their earrings, and throw them on the stage
when a Liszt or a Gottschalk is improvising. I see no reason why
heroism should arouse less enthusiasm and affection than musical skill;
but don't you think that in either case we should prefer the silent
admiration of the giver that doesn't lose her head, but remains strongly
self-controlled--"all in an _iron glow_," as Ruskin calls it? When the
brave lieutenant wants a wife, I fancy he will be looking for that kind
of woman, rather than the other.
There is no news for me by mail,--but we shall have another mail next
week, I suppose. The university course runs smoothly: this is my third
year; and my subject happens to be the 19th century, in which I feel
more at home than in the other branches of the subject. Fancy! I am
lecturing now on Swinburne's poetry. They would not allow me to do
this in a Western university perhaps--yet Swinburne, as to form, is
the greatest 19th century poet of England. But he has offended the
conventions; and they try to d--n him with silence. I believe you can
trust me to do him justice here, when I get the chance.
Affectionately,
LAFCADIO.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD.
TŌKYŌ, January, 1899.
DEAR McDONALD,--Everything is bright and sunny with us again: we have
to keep the boys in a warm room, and nurse them carefully, but they are
safe now. I shall never forget your kindest sympathy, and the doctor's
generous message. Am I bad for not writing sooner? To tell the truth I
was a little tired out myself, and got a touch of cold; but I'm solid
and shipshape again, and full of hope to see you. I shall have no more
duties until Tuesday morning (31st); so, if you will persist in risking
a bad lunch and an uncomfortable room, and the trouble of travelling
to Tōkyō, I shall be waiting for you. I think you ought to come
up _once_ more, anyhow. I want you to see yourself _vis-à-vis_ with
Elizabeth. I want to chat about things. (No mail yet at this writing.)
If you cannot conveniently come this week, come just when you please any
_afternoon_ between Fridays (inclusive) and Mondays.
Odin said, in the Hávamál,--"_I counsel thee, if thou hast a trusty
friend, go and see him often; because a road which is seldom trod gets
choked with brambles and high grass._"
This is a case of "don't-do-as-I-do,--but-do-as-I-tell-you"--isn't it?
Besides, I am not worth a d--n as a friend, anyhow. I quote these most
ancient verses only because you expressed an interest in them during our
last delightful chat;--but whether you come or no, brambles will _never_
grow upon the pathway.