You, who are given a stable and solid surface to work out your problems of daily life, cannot fully realise what a trial it has been for us, these two days, to be tossed upon a wild sea every moment of our existence. I do not feel sea-sick, but the great fact for us is, that we are the children of the land. This is an immovable fact—and yet, when this fact begins to move, it is not only misery but an affront to us. The whole sea seems to laugh loud at the conceited creatures, who only have a pair of tottering legs and not even a fraction of a fin.
Every moment the dignity of man is outraged by making him helplessly tumble about in an infinite variety of awkwardness. He is compelled to take part in a very broad farce: and nothing can be more humiliating for him than to exhibit a comic appearance in his very sufferings. It is like making the audience roar with laughter by having the clown kicked into all manner of helpless absurdities. While sitting, walking, taking meals, we are constantly being hurled about into unexpected postures, which are shamefully inconvenient.
When Gods try to become funny in their sublime manner of perpetrating jokes, we, mortal creatures, find ourselves at a terrible disadvantage; for their huge laughter, carried by the millions of roaring waves, in flashing foam, keeps its divine dignity unimpaired, while we, on our side, find our self-respect knocked into pieces. I am the only individual in this steamer, who is vying with the Gods by fashioning my misery into laughing words and refusing to be a mere passive instrument of an elemental foolery. A laughter, which is tyranny, has to be answered by another laughter which is rebellion. And this letter of mine carries the laughter of defiance. I had no other object in sitting down to write this morning; I had nothing particular to say to you—and to try to think when the ship is rolling in such an insane manner, is like trying to carry a full vessel of water while one is drunk; the greater part of the content is spilt. And yet I must write this letter, merely to show, that, though at the present moment I cannot stand erect on my legs, I can write. This is to assert, in the face of the ironical clapping of hands of the mighty Atlantic, that my mind, not only can stand up straight in its world of language, but can run, and even dance. This is my triumph.
To-day is Tuesday—on the morning of Thursday we are expected to reach Plymouth. I had been nourishing in my heart the expectation of finding your letters waiting for me in London; for I had hoped that R— had cabled to Thos. Cook’s about our movements. But I find that he has not, and a number of your letters will take nearly a month to find me. I cannot tell you what a disappointment it is for me. Your letters have helped me more than anything else during these extremely trying months of my exile—they have been like food and water to a soldier who is dragging his wounded and weary limbs, counting every step, across a difficult and doubtful road back to his camp-fire. However, I am coming to my journey’s end and intensely hoping to see you, when I reach home. What I have suffered God only knows.—I am longing for rest. *