Now, really--don't you feel tired of all this talk? Of course I know--but the conditions are so much like those of old college friendships that they seem more of dreams than of reality.
DEAR McDONALD,--Your kindest letter came last night. I must confess to a feeling of remorse for transferring all my troubles to your broader shoulders,--a remorse tempered somewhat, of course, by the certainty that you find a pleasure in helping your friend, but nevertheless, a remorse. So pray do not do anything more than you find it pleasant and inexpensive to do.
We are under the weather for the moment. We shall not be able to profit by the holidays. I have escaped cold and all other troubles; but I could not escape the generally depressing influence of this chilly, sunless, muddy, slimy season. In other words, I feel too stupid to do anything. Probably the sight of the sun will make us all feel happy again.
Of course I shall be unhappy till I get your photos,--both military and civilian. I fear to ask too many; but all I can get, I want. Don't hurry; but--don't forget me, if you think I deserve to be remembered.
I am a little anxious lest war take you away from Japan, which would leave me less satisfied with this world than I now am. But I should like indeed to accompany you in a descent on Manila, and to chronicle events picturesquely.
I should never be able, however, to do anything so wonderful as did Loti in describing the French attack on the coast of Annam. It was the greatest literary feat ever done by a naval officer; but it nearly cost him his place in the navy, and did in fact suppress him for several years. In his reissue of the narrative I see that he was obliged to suppress the terrible notes on the killing.
DEAR FRIEND,--The holidays are over; and the winter is still dying hard. We are all feeling pretty well now notwithstanding,--and my imp was down yesterday to Ueno, in the sea of people, trying to get a glimpse of things. Because he had a naval uniform on, he became quite angry at the _kurumaya_ for proposing to lift him up to look over the heads of the people. The K. wisely answered: "I know you are a man--but then you must think that I am a horse only, and ride on my back. Even military men ride horses, you know!" Subsequently, the imp had to submit to circumstances,--swallowed his pride,--and got on the man's back. I liked the pride, though: it was the first flash of the man-spirit in him.