TŌKYŌ, June, 1899.
DEAR McDONALD,--Do you know that I felt a little blue after you went
away the other day,--which was ungrateful of me. A little while ago,
reading Marcus Aurelius, I found a quotation that partially explains:
"One man, when he has done a service to another, is ready to set it down
to his account. Another is not ready to do this.... A third in a manner
does not even know what he has done, but he is like a vine which has
produced grapes, and seeks for nothing more after it has once produced
fruit." And I feel somewhat displeased at the vine--inasmuch as I know
not what to do in regard to my own sense of the obligation of the grapes.
The heat is gorgeous and great. I dream and write. The article on
women's names is dry work; but it develops. I have got it nearly two
thirds--yes, fully two thirds done. I am going to change the sentence
"lentor inexpressible" which you did not like. It is a kind of old trick
word with me. I send you a copy of the old story in which I first used
it,--years and years ago. Don't return the thing--it has had its day.
I feel queerly tempted to make a Yokohama trip some afternoon, towards
evening, instead of morning: am waiting only for that double d--d
faculty meeting, and the finishing up of a little business. "Business?"
you may bewilderingly exclaim. Well, yes--business. I have been paying
a student's way through the university--making him work, however,
in return for it. And I must settle his little matters in a day or
so--showing him that he has paid his own way really, and has discharged
all his obligations. Don't think he will be grateful--but I must try to
be like the vine--like Mitchell--and though I can't be quite so good, I
must pretend to be--act as if I were. The next best thing to being good
is to imitate the acts and the unselfishness of Vines.