TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Tōkyō, February, 1899.
Dear McDonald,—Now don’t give yourself all that trouble about coming up to Tōkyō. It would have been an ugly trip for you last Saturday or Sunday, anyhow: wait till the fine days, and till you don’t know what else to do. I think I shall see you before you go to the U. S. anyhow, in Tōkyō; but I don’t think you will be able to manage the trip very often. If I telegraph, “Dying—quick—murder:” then I know that you will even quit your dinner and come;—isn’t that pleasant to be sure of?
I was thinking the other day to ask you if you ever knew my dead friend,—W. D. O’Connor (U. S. Signal Service), Washington. He was very fond of me in his way—got me my first introduction to the Harpers. I believe that he died of overwork. I have his portrait. He was Whitman’s great friend. Thinking about him and you together, I was wondering how much nationality has to do with these friendships. Is it only Irish or Latin people who make friends for friendship’s sake? Or is it that I am getting old—and that, as Balzac says, men do not make friends after forty-eight? Coming to think of old times, I believe a man is better off in a very humble position, with a very small salary. He has everything then more or less trustworthy and real in his surroundings. Give him a thousand dollars a month, and he must live in a theatre, and never presume to take off his mask.
No, dear friend, I don’t want your book. I should not feel comfortable with it in hand: I cannot comfortably read a book belonging to another person, because I feel all the time afraid of spoiling it. I feel restrained, and therefore uncomfortable. Besides, your book is where it ought to be doing the most good. Nay! I shall wait even until the crack of doom, rather than take your book.
There is to be a mail sometime next week, I suppose. Ought to come to-day—but the City of Rio de Janeiro is not likely to fly in a blizzard, except downward. If she has my book on board she will certainly sink.
By the way, you did not know that I am fatal to ships. Every ship on which I journey gets into trouble. Went to America in a steamer that foundered. Came to Japan upon another that went to destruction. Travelled upon a half-dozen Japanese steamers,—every one of which was subsequently lost. Even lake-boats do not escape me. The last on which I journeyed turned over, and drowned everybody on board,—only twenty feet from shore. It was I who ran the Belgic on land. The only ship that I could not wreck was the Saikyō-Maru, but she went to the Yalu on the next trip after I had been aboard of her,—and got tolerably well smashed up; so I had satisfaction out of her anyhow. If ever I voyage on the Empress boats, there will be a catastrophe. Therefore I fear exceedingly for the Rio de Janeiro; she is not strong enough to bear the presence of that book in a typhoon.
Affectionately,
Lafcadio.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Tōkyō, March, 1899.
Dear Friend,—I really felt badly at not being able to see more of you yesterday,—especially to see you off to Shimbashi: I could not even slip down to the gate without putting on shoes that take a terrible time to lace. On the other hand, you left in the house a sense of warmth and force and sun,—that were like a tonic to me,—or like a South-wind from the sea on a summer’s day; and I felt in consequence better satisfied with the world at large.
Do you recognize this pen: a U.S. pen, contributed to my pen-holder by a U.S.N. officer whom I know a little, and like very much.
I hope by this time that the Gordian knot shows some inclination to unravel; and that the worry is diminishing. I remember, with much quiet laughter, your story of the bear. I think I have found nearly as good a simile—in an Indian paper. The fat Baboo got into a post-carriage, with many furious steeds, which the driver was accustomed to drive after the manner of the driving of Jehu,—and the driver was given further to meditation, during which he had no consciousness of the base facts of earth. And the bottom of the carriage fell out; and the Baboo landed feet first, and ran,—with the carriage round him,—and the horses were rushing at a speed not to be calculated. For the Baboo, it was death or run,—because the driver neither heard nor saw; and the exertions made are said to have been stupendous. The Baboo got off with a large amount of hospital, caused—or rather necessitated—by the unusual exercise....
Well, I hope I shall some day again see you. I feel, however, that something has been gained: you have been up; and I can’t find fault—even should you never again visit Tomihisa-chō.
By the way, you are a bad, bad boy to have given a present to those kurumaya. You spoil them. Talk again to me about ruining the morals of your “boy”! Won’t I be revenged! Affectionately,
Lafcadio.
Boy sends love to Ojisan McDonald.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Tōkyō, March, 1899.
Dear McDonald,—I don’t know what to say about “Cyrano de Bergerac” as a poem, except that as for fine workmanship, it is what we should expect the best dramatic French prosody of this sort to be. The verse-smith is certainly a great craftsman. But was the subject worth the labour spent upon it? I have no doubt that upon the French stage the effect would be glorious,—exciting,—splendid: all that sort of thing; and the story is “Frenchy,”—wrap-me-up-in-the-flag-of-honour style of extravagance. It isn’t natural—that is a great fault. Why it should please English and American readers I can’t quite see: I don’t believe the approbation is quite genuine,—any more than the admiration for Bernhardt was genuine on the part of those who went to see her without knowing a word of her language. I can understand why Frenchmen should enthusiastically praise the book, but not why Americans should. The heroine is a selfish, uninteresting little “chit;” the other characters are without any sympathetic quality that I can find. Cyrano wanting to fight with everybody about his nose—to impose his nose on the world at the point of the sword, while perpetrating rhymes the while—surely is not a very grand person. No poet could make such a nose attractive. We can forget the nose of Mephistopheles because his wit and force dazzle us; but Mephistopheles has no weaknesses,—not at least in the first part of “Faust.” Cyrano has many; and one even suspects that his virtues are the outgrowth of his despair about his nose. But I am glad to have read the wonderful thing; and I shall prize the book as long as I live,—because it came up here in your coat-pocket, and was given me with a smile and a twinkle of the eye that were (in my poor judgement) incomparably more beautiful than the writer’s best lines; for these latter are not quite out of the heart, you know.
Speaking of an ugly subject for heroic treatment, I was thinking to-day about something that you would have done better than the man who did it,—the ugly subject being a hairy caterpillar in a salad at a banquet. The lady of the palace had ladled the salad and the caterpillar into the plate of some admiral or commodore, and saw what she had done when it was too late. The seaman caught her horrified eye, held it, and, smiling, swallowed the caterpillar unseen by the other guests. After the banquet, the beauty came to thank him—out of the innermost rosy chamber of her heart—when he is reported to have said: “Why, Madam, did you think that I would permit your pleasure of the evening to be spoiled by a miserable G—d d—d caterpillar!” Yes, you would have consumed the caterpillar; but you would not have “cussed” in the closing scene—though that was a lovable profanity in a man of the older school. Well, I think that commodore, or whatever his title may have been, a better man out and out than Cyrano. He would have done just as much, and made no fuss at all about it. Affectionately,
Lafcadio.
TO MRS. FENOLLOSA
April, 1899.
Dear Mrs. Fenollosa,—To say that you have sent me the most beautiful letter that I ever received—certainly the one that most touched me—is not to say anything at all! Of course I hope to see more of the soul that could utter such a letter,—every word a blossom fragrant like the lovely flower to which the letter was tied.
And yet—strange as it may seem—I feel like reproaching you!—It is not good for a writer to get such a letter;—he ought to be severely maintained rather in a state of perpetual self-dissatisfaction. You would spoil him! Nevertheless, how pleasant to know that there is somebody to whom I can send a book hereafter with a tolerable certainty of pleasing! I shall not even try to thank you any more now; and I shall not dare to reread your letter for at least a month. But I hope that my next publication—which is all new—will not have a less welcome in your heart.
Ever with kindliest sympathies,—and unspoken gratitude for the delicious letter and the delicious flower,
Lafcadio Hearn.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Tōkyō, May, 1899.
Dear Mitchell,—I am sending you the address of the great silk house, or rather dry-goods house, in Tōkyō; but a word in addition. If you and the consul are not afraid of taking cold by walking about in stocking-feet awhile, I strongly advise you to visit also the Japanese show-rooms,—just to see the crêpe-silks, spring goods, embroidered screens, etc.,—the things made to suit Japanese taste, according to real art principles. You will find them much more interesting, I imagine, than the displays made to please foreigners. Even the towels and the yukata stuffs ought to tempt you into a trifling purchase or two in spite of yourselves; but nobody will grumble even if you do not buy at all. It is just like a bazaar, you need only go upstairs and walk through, from room to room, looking at the cases.
I was delighted with the little book which good Consul Bedloe so kindly gave me—I read it in the train. Please thank him with the best thanks in your capacity (which is practically unlimited) for the picture: it will be always a souvenir for me of one of the most, if not the absolutely most, delightful days that I passed in Yokohama. If you think he would care for the enclosed shadow of this old owl, please kindly give it him. I would I had at the moment some better way of acknowledging the rare pleasure which his merry good fellowship and his inimitable stories and everything about himself filled me with. I can’t help feeling as if I had made a new friend—though that would not do to say, you know, upon such short acquaintance, to him. I only want to tell you just how the experience affected me.
I shall not thank you for my happy two days with you, and all the beautiful things that you “so beautifully did.” But I felt as if the sky had become more blue and the grass more green than could really be the case. You know what that means.
With hope to see you soon again,
Lafcadio.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Tōkyō, May, 1899.
Dear Mitchell,—I am still, o’ nights, holding imaginary conversations with you from the windows of a waiting train,—or listening to wonderful stories from a delightful phantom-consul. In other words, the impressions of my last days in Yokohama are still haunting me, and—I fear—creating too much desire after the flesh-pots of Egypt. But in spite of these moral and intellectual debaucheries, I have been doing fair work,—and have in hand a ghost-story of a new and pathetically penetrating kind.
Speaking of ghosts, the design for the cover is to be plum-blossoms against a grey-blue sky. Can’t say this is appropriate—the plum-blossom being the moral emblem of female virtue. A lotus in a golden lake,—a willow in rainy darkness,—would be better. But so long as I am not consulted, exact appropriateness cannot be expected; besides, it would be lost upon the public.
I’ve been thinking over all your plans and hopes for me, and I am going to blast them unmercifully. I am quite convinced that you can do nothing at all, until the day when I make a hit on my own spontaneous account. Then you can do anything. For the interval, I must be very careful not to seem anxious to want attention of any sort, and do better work than I ever did before. You will only be able to find me a literary agent—or something of that sort,—and to talk nicely about me to personal friends.
Give my most grateful, most sincere, most unchangeable regards to Dr. Bedloe. I think more on his subject than I am going to put on paper just now.
Affectionately,
Lafcadio.
Beauties of the landscape—scenery between Tōkyō and Yokohama.
TO MRS. FENOLLOSA
Tōkyō, May, 1899.
Dear Mrs. Fenollosa,—You will be shocked, I fear, when I tell you that I was careless enough to lose the address given me in your last charming letter. Your letters are too precious to be thus mislaid; and I am ashamed of negligence in this case. But though I forgot the address, I forgot no word of the letter,—nor of the previous charming letter, with its quotation from that very clever friend of yours (Miss Very)—the Emerson quotation from the Brahma-poem. I hope you will tell me more about your friend some day; for she seems to be intellectually my friend also. I liked very much what she said, as quoted by you,—who know curiously well how to give pleasure, and do it so generously, notwithstanding such meagre return.
I was struck by the paragraph in your last letter concerning the feeling of understanding a writer better than anybody else in the whole world. You seemed to think it presumptuous to make such a declaration about any writer; but the feeling, I believe, is always true. I have it in regard to all my favourite authors,—especially in regard to certain pages of French writers, like Anatole France, Loti, Michelet, Gautier, Hugo. And I know I am right—though I never can be a critic. The fact is that the greatest critics, each of them, think likewise; and their criticisms prove them correct. No two feel or appreciate an author in exactly the same way: each discerns a different value in him. For no two personalities being the same, and no personal understanding the same, the “equation” makes the judgement unique in this world, and so incomparably valuable, when it is a large one....
The missionaries are furthermore wrong in sending women to the old-fashioned districts. The people do not understand the maiden-missionary, and if she receives a single foreign visitor not of her own sex, the most extraordinary stories are set in circulation. Of course, the people are not malicious in the matter; but they find such a life contrary to all their own social experience, and they judge it falsely in consequence.
For myself I could sympathize with the individual,—but never with the missionary-cause. Unconsciously, every honest being in the mission-army is a destroyer—and a destroyer only; for nothing can replace what they break down. Unconsciously, too, the missionaries everywhere represent the edge—the acies, to use the Roman word—of Occidental aggression. We are face to face here with the spectacle of a powerful and selfish civilization demoralizing and crushing a weaker and, in many ways, a nobler one (if we are to judge by comparative ideals); and the spectacle is not pretty. We must recognize the inevitable, the Cosmic Law, if you like; but one feels and hates the moral wrong, and this perhaps blinds one too much to the sacrifices and pains accepted by the “noble army.” ...
Lafcadio Hearn.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Tōkyō, June, 1899.
Dear Mitchell,—I reached my little Japanese house last night, carrying with me a sort of special tropic atmosphere or magnetic cloud—composed of impressions of hearts, hands, and minds dearer and altogether superior to the things of this world. Are you not as Solomon who “made silver to be in Jerusalem as stones, and cedars as the sycamore-trees that are in the lowland for multitude”?
Presently I squatted down before my hibachi, and smoked and viewed the landscape o’er—inverted in the pocket-lens of Dr. Bedloe, and invested thereby with iridescences of violet and crimson and emerald. And it occurred to me that the prismatic lights in question symbolized those fairy-tints and illusions which the two of you wove around me while I remained in the circle of your power. Spell it must have been—for I cannot yet assure myself that I left Tōkyō only yesterday morning, and not a month ago. The riddle reverses the case of Urashima;—I have been trying to argue out the question whether happiness does really make the hours shorter, or does rather stretch time infinitely, like the thread of a spider. No doubt, however, the true explanation lies in contrasts—the contrasts of the extraordinary change from real Japanese existence to the American colonial circle of the year of grace 1899. It is really, you know, like taking a single stride of a thousand years in measure,—and the result is, of course, more bewildering than the striding of Peter Schlemihl. He could only go from the Pole to the Tropics in an afternoon—just now you are like old acquaintances who come back at night to talk to us as if they had not been under the ground for thirty years and more. Are you all quite sure down there that you are alive? I believe I am,—though I have to pinch myself betimes to make sure. Then I have the evidence of that magnifying glass; and my shoes tell me that I must have been out.
Yet more—I have two letters to send you. (They need no comment, other than that which I have inscribed upon them.) I enclose them only because I know that you want to see them.
By the way, I feel otherwise displeased with you. I could forgive you for much besides getting off a moving train. There was a pillar right behind you as you stepped off. What would the not impossible Mrs. Mitchell McD. of my wishes say to you for that!
Affectionately,
Lafcadio.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Tōkyō, June, 1899.
Dear Mitchell,—Your delightful letter is with me. I did not get through that examination work till Sunday morning—had about 300 compositions to look through: then I had nearly a day’s work packing and sending out prizes which I give myself every year—not for the best English (for that depends upon natural faculty altogether), but for the best thinking, which largely depends upon study and observation.
Lo! I am a “bloated bondholder.” I am “astonished” and don’t know what to say—except that I want to hug you! About the semi-annual meeting, though—fear I shall be far away then. Unless it be absolutely necessary, I don’t think I shall be able to come. Can’t I vote by letter, or telegraph? If you make out a form, I’ll vote everything that you want, just as you want it. (By the way, I might be able to come—in case I am not more than fifty miles off. Perhaps I can’t get to where I want to go.) We’ll take counsel together. Yet, you ought to know that I hate meetings of all kinds with hatred unspeakable.
So it was a Mrs.——, not a Mr.——. I am afraid of Scotch people. However, that was a nice letter. Perhaps I ought to send her a copy of “Ghostly Japan.” But one never can tell the exact consequences of yielding to these impulses of gratitude and sympathy. My friends are enough for me—they are as rare as they are few; rare like things from the uttermost coasts,—diamonds, emeralds and opals, amethysts, rubies, and topazes from the mines of Golconda. What more could a fellow want? All the rest is useless even when it is not sham—which it generally is.
Haven’t been idle either. Am working on “The Poetry and Beauty of Japanese Female Names.” Got all the common names I want into alphabetical order, and classified. Aristocratic names remain to be done,—an awful job; but I think that I shall manage it before I get away.
Perhaps I shall not finish that dream-work for years,—perhaps I might finish it in a week. Depends upon the Holy Ghost. By the way, a thing that I had never been able to finish since I began it six years ago, and left in a drawer, has suddenly come into my present scheme,—fits the place to a “T.” So it may be with other things. I leave them to develop themselves; and if I wait long enough, they always do.
I have heard from the Society of Authors. The American public is good to me. I have only a very small public in England yet. I fancy at present that I shall do well to become only an associate of the Authors’ Society,—pay the fees,—and wait for fame, in order to take the publishers privately recommended to me. We shall see.
What a tremendous, square, heavy, settled, immoveable, mountainous thing is the English reading public! The man who can bore into the basalt of that mass must have a diamond-drill. I tell you that I feel dreadfully minute,—microscopic,—when I merely read the names of the roll of the Authors’ Society. Love to you from all of us,
Lafcadio.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD
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.
Lafcadio.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Yaidzu, August, 1899.
Dear Mitchell,—I am writing to you under very great difficulties, and on a floor,—and therefore you must not expect anything very good.
Got to Yaidzu last night, and took a swim in a phosphorescent sea.
To-day is cold and grey—and not a day for you to enjoy. I saw an immense crowd of pilgrims for Fuji at Gotemba, and wondered if you would go up, as this time you would have plenty of company.
Sorry I did not see dear Dr. Bedloe; but I hope to catch him upon his way back to the Far East.
How I wish you could come down some fine day here—only, I do fear that you could not stand the fleas. I must say that it requires patience and perseverance to stand them. But you can have glorious swimming. When I can get that—fleas and all other things are of no consequence.
Also I am afraid that you would not like the odours of fish below stairs, of daikon, and of other things all mixed up together. I don’t admire them;—but there is swimming—nothing else makes much difference.
You would wonder if you saw how I am quartered, and how much I like it. I like roughing it among the fisher-folk. I love them. I am afraid that you not only couldn’t stand it, but that you would be somewhat angry if you came down here—would tell me that “I ought to have known better,” etc. Nevertheless I want you to come for one day—see if you can stand it. “Play up the Boyne Wather softly till I see if I can stand it.” Ask Dr. Bedloe the result of playing the Boyne Wather softly. But I am warning you fairly and fully.
Affectionately,
Lafcadio.
P. S. I am sure that you could not stand it—perfectly sure. But then—think of the value of the experience. I had a Japanese officer here last year and he liked it.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Yaidzu, August, 1899.
Dear Mitchell,—Went to that new hotel this afternoon, and discovered that the people are all liars and devils and.... Therefore it would never do for you to go there. Then I went to an ice and fruit seller, who has a good house; and he said that after the fourteenth he could let you have sleeping room. The village festival is now in progress, so that the houses are crowded.
If this essay fails, I have the alternative of a widow’s cottage. She is a good old soul—with the best of little boys for a grandson, and sole companion; the old woman and the boy support themselves by helping the fishermen. But there will be fleas.
Oh! d—n it all! what is a flea? Why should a brave man tremble before a nice clean shining flea? You are not afraid of twelve-inch shells or railroad trains or torpedoes—what, then, is a flea? Of course by “a flea” I mean fleas generically. I’ve done my best for you—but the long and the short of it is that if you go anywhere outside of the Grand Hotel you must stand fleas—piles, multitudes, mountains and mountain-ranges of fleas! There! Fleas are a necessary part of human existence.
The iceman offers you a room breezy, cool,—you eat with me; but by all the gods! you’ve got to make the acquaintance of some fleas! Just think how many unpleasant acquaintances I run away from! yet—I have Buddha’s patience with fleas.
At this moment, a beautiful, shining, plump, gathered-up-for-a-jump flea is walking over my hand.
Affectionately,
Lafcadio.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Tōkyō, September, 1899.
Dear Mitchell,—I am sending you two documents just received—one from Lowder’s new company, I suppose; the other, which makes me rather vexed, from that —— woman, who has evidently never seen or known me, and who spells my name “Lefcardio.” (Wish you would point out to her somebody who looks small and queer,—and tell her, “That is Mr. Hearn—he is waiting to see you.”) At all events, these folks have simply been putting up a job to amuse themselves or to annoy me;—— has apparently been putting up a job to annoy you. We are in the same boat; but you can take much better care of yourself than I can. I do wish that you could find out something about those —— people: I am very much ashamed at having left my card at the hotel where they were stopping.
One thing sure is that I shall not go down to the Grand Hotel again for ages to come—I wish I could venture to say “never”—nevermore. It is one more nail in my literary coffin every time I go down. If I am to be tormented by folks in this way, I had better run away from the university and from Tōkyō at once.
That —— woman is a most damnable liar. I wonder who she can be.
Well, so much for an outburst of vexation—which means nothing very real; for I only want to pour my woes into your ear. I can’t say how good I think you are, nor how I feel about the pleasure of our last too brief meeting. But I do feel more and more that you do not understand some things,—the immense injury that introductions do to a struggling writer,—the jealousies aroused by attentions paid to him,—the loss to him of creative power that follows upon invitations of any kind. You represent, in a way, the big world of society. It kills every man that it takes notice of—or rather, every man that submits to be noticed by it. Their name is legion; and they are strangled as soon as they begin to make the shadow of a reputation. Solitude and peace of mind only can produce any good work. Attentions numb, paralyze, destroy every vestige of inspiration. I feel that I cannot go to America without hiding—and never can let you know where I go to. I shall have to get away from Tōkyō,—get somewhere where nobody wants to go. You see only one side—what you think, with good reason, are the advantages of being personally known. But the other side,—the disadvantages,—the annoyances, the horrors—you do not know anything about; and you are stirring them up—like a swarm of gnats. A few more visits to Yokohama would utterly smash me—and at this moment, I do wish that I never had written a book.
No: an author’s instincts are his best guide. His natural dislike to meet people is not shyness,—not want of self-appreciation: it is empirical knowledge of the conditions necessary to peace of mind and self-cultivation. Introduce him, and you murder his power,—just as you ruin certain solutions by taking out the cork. The germs enter; and the souls of him rot! Snubs are his best medicine. They keep him humble, obscure, and earnest. Solitude is what he needs—what every man of letters knows that an author needs. No decent work was ever done under any other conditions. He wants to be protected from admiration, from kindnesses, from notice, from attentions of any sort: therefore really his ill-wishers are his friends without knowing it.
Yet here I am—smoking a divine cigar—out of my friend’s gift-box,—and brutally telling him that he is killing my literary soul or souls. Am I right or wrong? I feel like kicking myself; and yet, I feel that I ought never again in this world to visit the Grand Hotel! I wonder if my friend will stand this declaration with equanimity. He says that he will never “misunderstand.” That I know. I am only fearing that understanding in this case might be even worse than misunderstanding. And I can’t make a masterpiece yet. If I could, I should not seem to be putting on airs. That is the worst of it.
Hope you will forgive and sympathize with
Lafcadio.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Tōkyō, October, 1899.
Dear Mitchell,—No news up here, to interest you.
I am not doing anything much at present. Don’t know whether I shall appear in print again for several years. Anyhow, I shall never write again except when the spirit moves me. It doesn’t pay; and what you call “reputation” is a most damnable, infernal, unmitigated misery and humbug—a nasty smoke—a foretaste of that world of black angels to which the wicked are destined. (Thanks for your promise not to make any more introductions; but I fear the mischief has been done; and Yokohama is now for me a place to be shunned while life lasts.)
Six hundred pages (about) represent my present quota of finished manuscript. But I shall this time let the thing mellow a good deal, and publish only after judicious delay. While every book I write costs me more than I can get for it, it is evident that literature holds no possible rewards for me;—and like a sensible person I am going to try to do something really good, that won’t sell.
In the meanwhile, however, I want not to think about publishers and past efforts at all. That is waste of time. I shall prepare to cross the great Pacific instead,—unless I have to cross a greater Pacific in very short order. I should like a chat with you soon; but I am not going down to Yokohama for an age. It is better not. When I keep to myself up here, things begin to simmer and grow: a sudden change of milieu invariably stops the fermentation. Wish you were anywhere else that is pleasant except—at the G. H.
Affectionately ever,
Lafcadio.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Tōkyō, October, 1899.
Dear Mitchell,—I cannot quite tell you how sorry I felt to part from you on the golden afternoon of yesterday: like Antæus, who got stronger every time he touched the solid ground, I feel always so much more of a man after a little contact with your reality. Not more of a literary man, however; for I try to shut the ears of my mind against your praise in that direction, and I close the door of Memory upon the sound of it. If I didn’t, I should be ruined by self-esteem.
And to think that you will be eight, ten or twenty thousand miles away, after next year!
Woke up this morning feeling younger—not quite fifty years of age. Gradually the sense of age will return: when I feel about sixty again—which will be soon—I shall run down to see you.
Want to say that those cigars of the doctor’s are too good for me: luxury, luxury, luxury. The ruin of empires! But I like a little of it—not too often—once in a year. It makes me buoyant, imponderable—fly in day dreams.
And I want to see Bedloe. Do not, if you can help it, fail to come up again, once anyhow, before the good year dies. Only this word of love to you.
In haste,
Lafcadio.
TO PROFESSOR FOXWELL
Tōkyō, October, 1899.
Dear Professor,—I had given up all expectation of seeing you again in Japan,—as a letter received from Mr. Edwards gave me to understand that you were on your way back to England. To-day, however, I learned by chance that you were still in Tōkyō,—though no longer an inhabitant of the Palace of Woe. Therefore I must convey to you by this note Mr. Edwards’s best regards, and express my own regret that you will not again help me through with a single one of those dreary quarters between classes. However, I suppose that the day of my own emancipation cannot be extremely remote.
I have had a number of pleasant letters from that wonderful American friend of ours. He has been in Siam,—where he sold to the King’s people more than two tons of dictionaries without emerging from the awning of his carriage; and I suppose that the books were carried by a white elephant with six tusks. He has been since then in Ceylon, Madras, Calcutta,—all sorts of places, too, ending in “bad,”—doing business. But he will not return to Japan—he goes to the Mediterranean. He sent me a box of cigars of Colombo: they are a little “sharp,” but very nice—strange in flavour, but fine.
No other news that could interest you. Excuse me for troubling you with this note—but the idea of seeking you at the Metropole would fill me with dismay. If you do go to England, please send me a good-bye card. If you do not go very soon, I shall probably see you somewhere “far from the madding crowd.”
Best regards,
Lafcadio Hearn.
TO PROFESSOR FOXWELL
November, 1899.
Dear Professor,—Nay! I return into my shell for another twelve months at least. You see—I thought you were going away, and felt a little sorry, and therefore went to that dreadful hotel and let you hand me over for an afternoon to your American friend who quotes Nordau’s “Degeneration,” but that was really, for me, supreme heroism of self-sacrifice.... (By the way, I have seen too much of that type of man elsewhere to be altogether delighted with him: superficies of bonhomie, studied suggestions of sympathy, core hard as Philadelphia pressed brick: he swarms in America; and I much prefer the Gullman brand.) As for a party of four,—“Compania de cuatro, compania del diablo!” The only way I can have a friend in these parts is to make this condition: “Never introduce me; and never ask me to meet you in a crowd.” You ought to recognize, surely, that I couldn’t afford to be known and liked, even if that were possible. I can “keep up my end” only by strictly following the good maxim: Tachez de n’avoir besoin de personne. Now, really, dear Professor, why should I lose an evening of (to me) precious work, and tire myself, merely to sit down with Mr. G. and Mr. M.? What do I care for Mr. G. or Mr. M.? What do I care for the whole foreign community of Tōkyō? Why should I go two steps out of my way for the sake of men that I know nothing about, and do not want to know anything about? “Life is too short,” as the Americans say. With thanks all the same,
Crankily yours,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Next time—next two times we meet—it is my turn to play host, remember.
TO MRS. WETMORE
Tōkyō, January, 1900.
Dear Mrs. Wetmore,—Memories of handwriting must have become strong with me; for I recognized the writing before I opened the letter. And thereafter I did not do more than verify the signature—and put the letter away, so that I might read it in the time of greatest silence and serenity of mind. During the interval there rose up reproachfully before me the ghost of letters written and rewritten and again rewritten to you, but subsequently—I cannot exactly say why— posted in the fire! (This letter goes to you in its first spontaneous form—so much the worse for me!)
“Indifferent” you say. But you ought to see my study-room. It is not very pretty—a little Japanese matted room, with glass sliding windows (upstairs), and a table and chair. Above the table there is the portrait of a young American naval officer in uniform—he is not so young now;—that is a very dear picture. On the opposite wall is the shadow of a beautiful and wonderful person, whom I knew long ago in the strange city of New Orleans. (She was sixteen years old, or so, when I first met her; and I remember that not long afterwards she was dangerously ill, and that several people were afraid she would die in that quaint little hotel where she was then stopping.) The two shadows watch me while the light lasts; and I have the comfortable feeling of monopolizing their sympathy—for they have nobody else to look at. The originals would not be able to give me so much of their company.
The lady talks to me about a fire of wreckwood, that used to burn with red and blue lights. I remember that I used to sit long ago by that Rosicrucian glow, and talk to her; but I remember nothing else—only the sound of her voice,—low and clear and at times like a flute. The gods only know what I said; for my thoughts in those times were seldom in the room,—but in the future, which was black, without stars. But all that was long ago. Since then I have become grey, and the father of three boys.
The naval officer has been here again in the body, however. Indeed, I expect him here, upstairs, in a day or two,—before he goes away to Cavite,—after which I shall probably never see him again. We have sat up till many a midnight,—talking about things.
Whether I shall ever see the original of the other shadow, I do not know. I must leave the Far East for a couple of years, in order to school a little son of mine, who must early begin to learn languages. Whether I take him to England or America, I do not yet know; but America is not very far from England. Whether the lady of the many-coloured fires would care to let me hear her voice for another evening, sometime in the future, is another question.
Two of the boys are all Japanese,—sturdy and not likely to cause anxiety. But the eldest is almost altogether of another race,—with brown hair and eyes of the fairy-colour,—and a tendency to pronounce with a queer little Irish accent the words of old English poems which he has to learn by heart. He is not very strong; and I must give the rest of my life to looking after him.
I wish that I could make a book to please you more often than once a year. (But I have so much work to do!) Curiously enough, some of the thoughts spoken in your letter have been put into the printer’s hands—ghostly anticipation?—for a book which will probably appear next fall. I cannot now judge whether it will please you—but there are reveries in it, and sundry queer stories.
I think that you once asked me for a portrait of my boy. I send one—but he is now older than his portrait by some two years. I shall send a better one later on, if you wish. I should like to interest you in him—to the simple extent of advising me about him at a later day; for you represent for my imagination all the Sibyls, and your wisdom would be for me as the worth of things precious from the uttermost coasts.
Perhaps something of me lives in that collie you describe: I think that I can understand exactly what she feels when the Invisible gathers about,—that is what she feels in regard to her mistress. A collie ought to recognize the ghostly, anyhow: her ancestors must have sat at the feet of Thomas of Ercildoune. By the way, my poor dog did get murdered after all,—killed by men from a strange village. They were chased by the police; but they “made good their escape.” She left behind her three weird little white puppies. We fed them and nursed them, and saved two. It is painful being attached to birds and dogs and cats and other lovable creatures: they die before us, and they have so many sorrows which we cannot protect them from. The old gods, who loved human beings, must have been very unhappy to see their pets wither and perish in a little space.
Good-bye for the moment. It was so kind to write me.
Lafcadio Hearn.
TO MASANOBU ŌTANI
Tōkyō, January, 1900.
My dear Otani,—I suppose that, when you ask me to express my “approval” or non-approval of a society for the study of literature, etc., you want a sincere opinion. My sincere opinion will not please you, I fear, but you shall have it.
There is now in Japan a mania, an insane mania, for perfectly useless organizations of every description. Societies are being formed by hundreds, with all kinds of avowed objects, and dissolved as fast as they are made. It is a madness that will pass—like many other mad fashions; but it is doing incomparable mischief. The avowed objects of these societies is to do something useful; the real object is simply to waste time in talking, eating, and drinking. The knowledge of the value of time has not yet even been dreamed of in this country.
The study of literature or art is never accompanied by societies of this kind. The study of literature and of art requires and depends upon individual effort, and original thinking. The great Japanese who wrote famous books and painted famous pictures did not need societies to help them. They worked in solitude and silence.
No good literary work can come out of a society—no original work, at least. Social organization is essentially opposed to individual effort, to original effort, to original thinking, to original feeling. A society for the study of literature means a society organized so as to render the study of literature, or the production of literature, absolutely impossible.
A literary society is a proof of weakness—not a combination of force. The strong worker and thinker works and thinks by himself. He does not want help or sympathy or company. His pleasure in the work is enough. No great work ever came out of a literary society,—no great original work.
A literary society, for the purpose of studying literature, is utterly useless. The library is a better place for the study of literature. The best of all places is the solitude of one’s own room.
I should not say anything against a society organized for the translation and publication of the whole of Shakespeare’s plays,—for example. But translation is a practical matter—not original work, nor even literary study in the highest sense.
Even in the matter of making a dictionary, no society, however, can equal the work of the solitary scholar. The whole French Academy could not produce a dictionary such as Littré produced by himself.
I have said that I think these Japanese societies mean a mischievous waste of time. Think of the young scholars who go from Japan to Europe for higher study. They are trained by the most learned professors in the world,—they are prepared in every way to become creators, original thinkers, literary producers. And when they return to Japan, instead of being encouraged to work, they are asked to waste their time in societies, to attend banquets, to edit magazines, to deliver addresses, to give lectures free of charge, to correct manuscripts, to do everything which can possibly be imagined to prevent them from working. They cannot do anything; they are not allowed to do anything; their learning and their lives are made barren. They are treated, not like human beings with rights, but like machines to be used, and brutally used, and worn out as soon as possible.
While this rage for wasting time in societies goes on there will be no new Japanese literature, no new drama, no new poetry—nothing good of any kind. Production will be made impossible and only the commonplace translation of foreign ideas. The meaning of time, the meaning of work, the sacredness of literature are unknown to this generation.
And what is the use of founding a new journal? There are too many journals now. You can publish whatever you want without founding a journal. If you found a journal, you will be obliged to write for it quickly and badly; and you know that good literary work cannot be done quickly,—cannot be made to order within a fixed time. A new journal—unless you choose to be a journalist, and nothing but a journalist—would mean not only waste of time, but waste of money.
I am speaking in this way, because I think that literature is a very serious and sacred thing—not an amusement, not a thing to trifle and play with.
Handicapped as you now are,—with an enormous number of class-hours,—you cannot attempt any literature work at all, without risking your health and injuring your brains. It is much more important that you should try to get a position allowing you more leisure.
And finally, I have small sympathy with the mere study of English literature by Japanese students and scholars. I should infinitely prefer to hear of new studies in Japanese literature. Except with the sole purpose of making a new Japanese literature, I do not sympathize with English or French or German studies.
There is my opinion for you. I hope you will think about it,—even if you do not like it. Work with a crowd, and you will never do anything great.
Many years ago, I advised you to take up a scientific study. It would have given you more leisure for literary work. You would not. You will have future reason to regret this. But if you want advice again, here it is: Don’t belong to societies, don’t write anything that comes into your head, don’t waste the poor little time you have. Take literature seriously,—or leave it alone.
Yours very truly,
Y. Koizumi.
TO YASUKOCHI
Tōkyō, November, 1901.
Dear Mr. Yasukochi,—Not the least of my pleasure in looking at the fine photograph, so kindly sent to my little son, was in observing how very well and strong you appear to be. Let me also have the privilege of thanking you—though my boy, of course, sends his small recognition of the favour.
Your letter of September 3d interested me very much; for I had not heard anything about you at all since the last visit you made to my little house in Tomihisa-chō. For example, I had not heard of your going to Kumamoto Ken; and although I often wondered about you, I knew nobody who could inform me. (I had, indeed, one Kumamoto pupil, Mr. Gōshō; but I quite forgot about his having been in my class at Kumamoto, until he came to see me after graduating—to say good-bye.) The experience of army-life which you have had must have been somewhat hard as discipline; but I imagine that, after all those years of severe study and mental responsibility, the change to another and physical discipline must have been good from the point of health. I think that it probably made you stronger; and I am glad you were in the artillery-corps,—where one has an opportunity to learn so many things of lasting value. But I trust that many years will elapse before Japan again needs your services in a military capacity.
It was kind of you to remember Numi. A curious thing happened after the last time we saw him. One in my household dreamed that he came back, in his uniform, looking very pale, and speaking of a matter concerning his family. The next day, the papers began to print the first accounts of the ship being missing. The coincidence was curious. The matter of which he seemed to have spoken was looked after, as he would have wished.
I have no doubt at all of good things to come for you, if you keep as strong as your picture now proves you to be. The rest will be, I think, only a question of time and patience. I look forward with pleasure to the probability of seeing you again. (Except that I have got greyer, I fear you will find me the same as of old,—somewhat queer, etc.) I have been working very steadily, rather than hard; but by systematically doing just exactly so much every day, neither more nor less, I find that I am able to do a good deal in the course of a year. I mean “good deal” in the sense of “quantity”—the quality, of course, depends upon circumstances rather than effort.
Thanks, again, for your kindness in sending the photograph, and for the pleasant letter about yourself. May all good fortune be yours is the earnest wish of
Y. Koizumi.
TO YRJÖ HIRN
Tōkyō, January, 1902.
Dear Professor,—About a week ago I received from Messrs. Wahlstrom and Weilstrand—how strangely impressive these Northern names!—the dainty “Exotica,” with its sunrise and flying-swallows-design, and—my name and private address in Japanese thereon!... I have sent a book for Mrs. Hirn. If there are any of my books that you do not know, and would like to have,—such as “Gleanings in Buddha-Fields” or “Youma”—I shall be glad to have them sent you from America.
Thanks indeed for the photograph. I had imagined a face with the same strong, precise lines, but in a blond setting. Yet some shades of fair hair come out dark in photographs—so that I am not yet quite sure how far my intuition miscarried. You are what I imagined—but a shade or two stronger in line.
As for myself, I have no decent photograph at present.... I am horribly disfigured by the loss of the left eye—so get photographed usually in profile, or looking downward. I am a very small person; and when young, was very dark, with the large alarming eyes of a myope.
I imagine that you have been tactfully kind in your prefatory notice of me. I could only guess; but your letter confirms a number of my guesses. The article by Zilliacus, to which you refer, I do not know: I cannot read German in any event. The paper by Dr. Varigny in the Revue des Deux Mondes was a mere fantasy,—unjust in the fact that it accredited me with faculties and knowledge which I do not possess. The mere truth of the matter is that I have had a rather painful experience of life, for lack of the very qualities ascribed to me. (In American existence one must either grind or be ground—I passed most of my time between the grindstones.)
As for the choice of the subjects translated, it gave me most pleasure to find some of my “Retrospectives” in that stern and sturdy tongue: it was a bracing experience. The selections from “Glimpses” I should not have advised; for the book is disfigured by faults of “journalistic” style, and was written before I really began to understand, not Japan, but how difficult it is to understand Japan. Nevertheless your judgement in this particular was coincident with the general decision: the story of the Shirabyoshi has, for example, appeared in four languages. It is a story of the painter Bunchō,—and the merit is in no wise mine, as I merely paraphrased a Japanese narrative. Don’t think me ungrateful, please, because I express my preferences thus. Really the experience of trying to follow in Swedish the meaning of my “Serenade,” etc., was more than a delight,—and I imagined that the translator had successfully aimed at reproducing in Swedish the rhythm of the English sentences.
I am happy in reading your words about the Japanese dances: as you have seen a living example of one kind, you will not judge them all severely hereafter. Of course there are dances and dances. I wish that you could see the dancing of a pair of miko,—little Shintō maid-priestesses: it is a simple performance, but as pleasing as a hovering of butterflies.
Your “Origins of Art” is a book that seems to have proved above the range of some small critics; but you have been felt and appreciated in higher spheres, I think. I was amused by the dullardism of some English critics, evidently incapable of perceiving that the sterling value of such a book is suggestive,—that it was intended to make men think, not to furnish some intellectual lazy-bones with ready-made ideas....
Finland I know only through Léouzon Le Duc’s delicious prose-translation. I think of forests of birch, and lakes interminably opening into lakes, and rivers that roar in lonely places, and “liver-coloured earth.” Wonder if the earth is really that colour?—the ground of my garden, after a shower, is exactly “liver-colour”—a rich reddish brown.
Please convey my humble thanks to Mrs. Hirn, and believe me
Yours most sincerely,
Lafcadio Hearn.
TO YRJÖ HIRN
Tōkyō, April, 1902.
Dear Professor,—Many thanks for the archæological treatise, and for your kindness in sending me the “critical” news. (I think that I can appreciate the good will that can impel so busy a professor to give me so much of his time.) And please to convey my thanks to Mrs. Hirn for her charming letter.
Concerning your project for another volume of “Exotica,” kindly assure Mrs. Hirn that she is as fully authorized as I can authorize her to translate whatever she pleases to select from my books.
By the way, you appear to have been deceived by some bookseller; for none of my books are out of print, except “Some Chinese Ghosts,” and that by my own will and desire....
Far from being uninterested in the social and political changes of Finland, I feel, as every generous thinker ought to feel, sincere regret at the probable disappearance of a national civilization, and the inevitable loss of intellectual freedom. I think of the “absorption” as a great political crime.... Here in Japan, I watch, day by day, the destruction of a wonderful and very beautiful civilization, by industrial pressure. It strikes me that a time is approaching in which intellectual liberty will almost cease to exist, together with every other kind of liberty,—the time when no man will be able to live as he wishes, much less to write what he pleases. The future industrial communism, in its blind dull way, will be much less liberal than Russian rule, and incomparably more cruel. By that time, Russia herself will be getting less conservative; and I imagine that the Englishman and the American of the future may flee to the new Russia in search of intellectual freedom!
At present, however, the United States offers great opportunity to merit, and every latitude to mental liberty. If you should ever have to leave your own beloved country, I think you would be most happy in America.
The Far East is not impossible—if you wish very much to visit it. Government service anywhere is not a bed of roses; and Tōkyō is said to be the most “unsympathetic” place in the world. But salaries are fair; and a three years’ sojourn would furnish rich experience. If you ever want very much to see Japan, perhaps you may be able to obtain a Government post—especially if you have friends in legations, and “high places.” Then I can write more to you about the matter. But at present you are fortunate enough to be envied in a brotherly way. I wish you every happiness on your European journey.
How much I should like to see Europe again!—I have three boys to look after, however, and all things are uncertain. I am glad that you have a bright little son;—you know what hopes and fears the possession involves. His travels with you will be of priceless advantage to him. The best of all education is through Ear and Eye—while the senses are most fresh and plastic.
Sincerely yours,
Lafcadio Hearn.
TO DR. AND MRS. YRJÖ HIRN
Tōkyō>, May, 1902.
Dear Friends,—I am a little disappointed in being able to send you to-day only “Kokoro” and “Gleanings in Buddha-Fields”—these being the only books of mine, not in your possession, that I could lay hands on. However, they are the best of the earlier lot; and I imagine that you will be interested especially in the latter. Japan is changing so quickly that already some of the essays in “Kokoro”—such as the “Genius of Japanese Civilization”—have become out-of-date. By the way, have you seen Bellesort’s “La Société Japonaise?”—a wonderful book, considering that its author passed only about six months in Japan!
A few days ago I had the delightful surprise of your album-gift: I have lived in Finland! It is very strange that some of the pictures are exactly what I dreamed of—after reading the “Kalewala.” In fact, the book illustrates the “Kalewala” for me: even the weird expression in the eyes of the old Kantele-singers seems to me familiar. Of course, the views of city streets and splendid buildings were all surprises and revelations; but the hills and woods and lakes looked like the Finland of my reveries. Of all the views, that of Tmatia seemed to me most like the scenery of the Runoia: there was something in it of déjà vu, most ghostly, that gave me particular delight. My affectionate thanks to you both. I shall ever treasure the book and remember the kind givers.
Lafcadio Hearn.
TO MRS. HIRN
Tōkyō, June, 1902.
Dear Mrs. Hirn,—I have received the copy of Euterpe, so kindly sent me, containing your translation,—which gave me much pleasure.
What a nice little paper Euterpe is! Long ago we used to have good papers like that—real literary papers, in nearly the same format—in America. Now, alas! they have become impossible. The taste for good literature in America is practically dead: vulgar fiction has killed the higher fiction; “sensationalism” and blatant cheap journalism have murdered the magazines; and poetry is silent. I wish there could be another paper in America like Euterpe....
I have been wondering, in reading your translation, whether there is no better word for the English “ghostly” than mystika—surely, they are not alike in meaning. The old English name for a priest, you know, is “a ghostly father.” And I am wondering whether “ewigt” really has the sense of “infinitely.” The Buddhist thought is that the innermost eternal life in each of us becomes “infinite” by union with the One, when the shell of Karma is broken. Individuality and personality exist only as passing phenomena: the Reality is One and infinite.
Please pardon these little observations, which are not intended as criticisms, but only as suggestions.
Believe me ever most sincerely yours,
Lafcadio Hearn.
TO MRS. WETMORE
Tōkyō, July, 1902.
My dear Mrs. Wetmore,—Perhaps you can remember having said, twelve years ago, “I want you to go to Japan, because I want to read the books that you will write about it.” As my tenth volume on the subject is now in press,—you ought to be getting satisfied.
I am writing—not without some difficulty—to ask whether you would or could play the part of a fairy god-sister, in helping me to find, for the time of a year or two years, some easy situation in America.
As my eyes are nearly burnt out, I should have to depend upon quality rather than quantity of work. Some post upon a literary weekly—where I could employ a typewriter—would be good. I doubt whether the universities would give me a chance at English literature.
So much for the want. I must bring my boy with me: it is chiefly for his sake. Once that he learns to speak English well, the rest of his education will not disturb me. I am his only teacher and want to continue to teach him for a few years more.—South or West I should prefer to East—“where only a swordfish can swim.”
As you are a queen of fairies, you might touch with your wand the only thing that would exactly help me. England is hopeless, of course: I have no chance of earning anything in that “awful orderliness.” My family will be well provided for during my absence; but the provision will leave me under the necessity of earning something abroad....
What is worse still, I have been so utterly isolated here that I have no conception of the actual tone and state of things abroad. I do not know “how I stand.”
You should try to think of your old acquaintance as a small grey unpleasant “old man.” ...
Yours very sincerely,
Lafcadio Hearn.