What you say about your experience with Japanese poetry is indeed very telling and very painful to one who loves Japan. Depth, I have long suspected, does not exist in the Japanese soul-stream. It flows much like the rivers of the country,—over beds three quarters dry,—very clear and charmingly beshadowed;—but made temporarily profound only by some passional storm. But it seems to me that some tendencies in Japanese prose give hope of some beautiful things. There was a story some time ago in the Asahi Shimbun about a shirabyōshi that brought tears to my eyes, as slowly and painfully translated by a friend. There was tenderness and poetry and pathos in it worthy of Le Fanu (I thought of the exquisite story of Le Fanu, “A Bird of Passage,” simply as a superb bit of tender pathos) or Bret Harte—though, of course, I don’t know what the style is. But the Japanese poem, as I judge from your work and the “Anthologie Japonaise,” seems to me exactly the Japanese coloured print in words,—nothing much more. Still, how the sensation of that which has been is flashed into heart and memory by the delicious print or the simple little verse.
I go to-morrow or the next day to Shimo-ichi. If you get the shōryō-bune, let me know. Any of your servants can, I think, fix the little masts and pennons in place. A small incense vessel and kawarake with dango, or models of dango, might be added by Dr. Tylor to the exhibit; but I suppose these are not essential.
With sincerest regards, ever truly,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear Mr. Chamberlain,—Before leaving, I must trouble you with another note or two.
For “Things Japanese,” I would like to make a suggestion about the article “Theatre.” The refer ence to O-Kuni seems to me extremely severe; for her story is very beautiful and touching. She was a miko in the Great Temple of Kizuki, and fell in love with a ronin named Nagoya Sanza, and she fled away with her lover to Kyōto. On the way, another ronin, who fell in love with her extraordinary beauty, was killed by Sanza. Always the face of the dead man haunted the girl.
At Kyōto she supported her lover by dancing the Miko-kagura in the dry bed of the river Kamogawa.
Then they went to Tōkyō (Yedo) and began to act. Sanza himself became a famous and successful actor. The two lived together until Sanza died.
Then she came back to Kizuki. She was learned, and a great poet in the style called renga. After Sanza’s death she supported herself, or at least occupied herself, in teaching this poetic art. But she shaved off her hair and became a nun, and built the little Buddhist temple in Kizuki called Rengaji, in which she lived, and taught her art. And the reason she built the temple was that she might pray for the soul of the ronin whom the sight of her beauty had ruined. The temple stood until thirty years ago. Nothing is now left of it but a broken statue of Jizō. Her family still live in Kizuki, and until the restoration the chief of the family was always entitled to a share of the profits of the Kizuki theatre, because his ancestress, the beautiful miko, had founded the art.
So I would like to suggest that poor O-Kuni have a kind word said for her. And I am sure we would both think very highly of her if she were alive.
There is a little Japanese book about her history; but I do not know the title. With best regards,
Lafcadio.
Dear Page,—I answer your dear letter at once, as you wished me to do. It reached me to-day, on my return from Kizuki, the Holy City of Japan,—where I have become something of a favourite with the high pontiff of the most ancient and sacred shrine of the land,—which no other European was ever permitted to enter before me. And I am travelling now,—stopping at home only on my way to other curious and unknown places. For this part of Japan is so little known that I was the first to furnish Murray’s Guidebook editors with some information thereabout....
But I had unknown friends here who knew me through my “Chinese Ghosts”—so they applied to the Government for me, and I got an educational position under contract. The contract was renewed last March for a year—the extreme term allowed by law. My salary is only $100 per month; but that is equal here to more than double the sum in America. So that I am able to keep up nearly the nicest house in town,—outside of a few very rich men,—to have several servants, to give dinners, and to dress my little wife tolerably nicely. Moreover, life in Japan is something so placid and kindly and gentle—that it is just like one of those dreams in which everybody is good-natured about everything. The missionaries have no reason to like me,—for one had to be discharged to secure me; and I teach the boys to respect their own beautiful faith and the gods of their fathers, and not to listen to proselytism. However, the missionaries leave me alone. We have a tiff about Spencer in the Japan Mail sometimes; but as a rule I am completely isolated from all Europeans. It is only at long intervals one ever gets so far,—with the exception of an austere female stationed here in the vague hope of making a convert.
Of course I will send you a photograph of my little wife. I must tell you I am married only in the Japanese manner as yet,—because of the territorial law. Only by becoming a Japanese citizen, which I think I shall do, will it be possible to settle the matter satisfactorily. By the present law, the moment a foreigner marries a native according to English law, she becomes an English citizen, and her children English subjects, if she have any. Therefore she becomes subject to territorial laws regarding foreigners,—obliged to live within treaty limits, and virtually separated from her own people. So it would be her ruin to marry her according to English form, until I become a Japanese in law;—for should I die, she would have serious reason to regret her loss of citizenship.
As for going abroad—I mean back to you all—I don’t know what to say. Just now, of course, I could not if I would; for I am under legal contract. Then my plans for a book on Japan are but a quarter finished. Then, my little woman would be very unhappy, I fear, away from her people and her gods;—for this country is so strange that it is impossible for any who have never lived here for a long time to understand the enormous difference between the thought and feeling of the Japanese and our own. But, later on, perhaps I must go back for a time to see about getting out a book. Then I will probably appeal to you for a year’s employ or something. The Orient is more fascinating than you may suppose: here, remember, the people really eat lotuses: they form a common article of diet. But no human being can tell exactly what the future has in store for him. So I cannot for the life of me say now what I shall do....
We are many years behind you here. In Matsue there is a little newspaper of which I must send you a copy as a curiosity. Every week or two there is an article in it about me. For “the foreigner’s” every act is a subject for comment. There is no such thing in Japan as privacy. There are no secrets. Every earthly thing a man does is known to everybody, and life is extravagantly, astoundingly frank. The moral effect is, in my opinion, extremely good,—though the missionaries, who lie hard about this country, say the reverse. Think of nothing but a paper screen dividing all your life from the lives about you,—a paper screen to poke a hole through, which is not considered outrageous, unless the screen be decorated with celebrated paintings. That is common life here. As for me, I have a secluded house, with three gardens round it. But, according to popular custom, I must never shut the door, or lock myself up except at night. One must not be nervous here, or impatient: it is impossible to remain either in such an atmosphere, or to be ill-natured, or to hide anything. And just think of it!—I having to give lectures and make speeches through an interpreter, which lectures and speeches are duly printed in a Japanese magazine! To speak before a Japanese audience, however, is delightful. One look at all the placid smiling faces reassures the most shrinking soul at once.
Well, at all events, I shall write you often, and send you something queer betimes. I must now get ready to take the little steamer by which I start.
With best regards to all, and to you best love, I remain,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear Professor Chamberlain,—I have discovered Yabase. No European seems to have ever been here before. On arriving at Shimo-ichi to see the Bon-odori, I found I had come three days too soon, and the little town is very hot and uncomfortable.
Well, Yabase is an extremely quiet, pretty little town, with a much better hotel than I have seen for quite a while,—and a superb beach. Strange to say, there are no boats and nobody ever thinks of going into the sea, except children. So whenever I go to swim, the entire population crowd the beach to look on. Happily I am a very good swimmer,—could swim for twenty-four hours without fatigue. Thus the people have a mezurashii mono to behold. Another queer thing about Yabase is that it is the only place I have seen in Japan where there is no shrine of Inari. It is a strictly Buddhist town, and Nichiren prevails. There is a yashiro on a neighbouring mountain, however. There is no Bon-odori here, one must go to the next town to see it, which I will do to-night. There has been much rough weather—tremendous seas breaking along the coast. At Kizuki I thought the hotel was going to be carried away; and all the approaches to it, bridges, etc., were dashed to pieces. Here, the sea is opposed by a loftier coast, but it becomes something one cannot laugh at on a windy day.
I must tell you an incident of the revival of pure Shintō. At Kizuki, until very recently, two of the hotels were kept by families belonging to some Buddhist sect, as well as to the Kizuki sect of Shintō, and so in their establishments, as in nearly every Izumo household, there was a butsudan as well as a kamidana. But some pilgrims who came to Kizuki, full of fiery Shintō zeal, were wroth to see a butsudan in the inns of the Sacred City, and girded up their loins, and sought out an hotel where no Buddha was, and went there,—and sent out word to their fellow pilgrims. The result has been that all the hotels in Kizuki have suppressed Buddhism, or at least its externals: they have become pure Shintō. This incident is rather anomalous, but it is a confirmation of what I said before, regarding the predominance of Shintō.
From Mionoseki, I hope to send you some o fuda of interest. The prospects of getting to Oki are growing small, however,—for the time being.
P.S. Alas! I have not discovered Yabase! Some detestable missionary was here before me—for one hour only, it is true, but he was here!—And to-day, being a day of high surf, there came down to the beach with planks, divers boys, who swam far out and came in, as the Americans say, “a-kite-ing,” on the crests of waves—swimming unspeakably well, after the fashion of the Polynesian islanders. So that I feel small! I offered to teach them what I know in exchange for instruction as to how to come “a-kite-ing” on the top of a wave.
As for the little Japanese pipe:—
I cannot think that its form and dimensions simply evidence the Japanese fondness for “small things.” The ancient Samurai pipes, of which I have seen many fine specimens, were very much larger than the modern kiseru. The pipe seems to me rather the natural evolution of a utensil in its relation to the domestic life of Japan. The little pipe is admirably adapted to the multifarious interruptions of Japanese occupations. Long-sustained effort, protracted and unbroken study, are things foreign to Japanese existence. The Western pipe is good between the teeth of a man trained to remain on duty without remission of mental labour or relaxation of muscle for five or six hours at a stretch. But the Japanese idea of labour is blessed and full of interruptions as his year is full of matsuri. Thus, the little pipe, with its three conventional whiffs, exactly suits his wants. Its artistic evolution is also a matter worthy of study. Some of the best metal-work has been done upon it. From the pipe of 3 sen to the pipe of 30 yen, there is as great a range of artistic design and finish as in the realm of kakemono. Pipes of silver are the fashion. Without engraving, the silver must be very heavy. If the two metal parts be elaborately engraved and inlaid, the metal may be made as light as possible. A really fine pipe becomes an heirloom.
The introduction of European costume among the class of officials and teachers necessarily produced a change in the smoking paraphernalia which formed a part of the native Japanese outfit. The tabako-ire was reshaped, so as to accommodate itself to a breast or side pocket, and the little pipe shortened so as to be enclosed without the tobacco pouch, much as a pencil is enclosed in a pocket-book. Many beautifully designed things thus came into existence. A nice small pipe of silver may now be had to order for about 3 yen,—(designed). The netsuke has, of course, no place in this form of the tabako-ire. I have collected over a hundred different forms of the new pipe. This has no bamboo: the whole thing is one solid piece of metal. The best are inlaid or engraved:—the bowl and mouthpiece (at least) being usually of silver, worked into steel or brass.
Pipes with long stems are preferable for house use. They do not burn the tongue so quickly as the short pipe. However, the tobacco itself has much to do with this matter. Those jōros, geishas, and others, who smoke the greater part of the time, use a special tobacco which does not blister the tongue or lips.
With the pipe for an evolutionary centre, a whole intricate and complex world of smoking-furniture has come into existence,—of which the richest specimens are perhaps those lacquered tabako-bon for the use of aristocratic ladies, with plated or solid silver hibachi and haifuki. The winter hibachi for smoking purposes has, of course, many forms;—some of the daintiest being those invented for use in theatres, to be carried in the hand. The smoker, who finds a handsome bronze hibachi placed before him on a winter’s day, is not supposed to empty his pipe into it by knocking the metal head of the pipe upon the rim: if genteel, he will always insert the leather flap of his tobacco pouch between the pipehead and the hibachi—so as to prevent the tapping of the pipehead from causing a dent in the bronze. At present the most genteel tabako-bon for summer use has a small cup of bronze, instead of the usual cup of porcelain. The smoker empties his pipe, not into the hibachi of bronze or porcelain, but into the bamboo haifuki which is an indispensable part of the summer tabako-bon.
The foreigner who uses the Japanese pipe commences his experience with that apparently simple article by burning small round holes in everything near him—the tatami, the zabuton, and especially his own yukata or kimono. The small pellet of ignited tobacco contained in the kiseru becomes, after a few whiffs, a fiery pill, loose, and ready to leap from the pipe at a breath. Wherever it falls, it pierces holes like a red-hot shot. But the Japanese expert smoker rarely burns anything. He draws from his pipe at the very most three whiffs and at once empties it into the haifuki. To smoke a Japanese pipe to the bottom, moreover, results in clogging up the pipe. The art of cleaning it out afterwards is quite elaborate. A common plan is to heat the pipehead in the charcoal of the hibachi, and then blow out the refuse. But this method corrodes and spoils a fine pipe. The cleaning of the fine pipe must be done with a twist of tough fine paper passed up the stem and pulled out through the head.
Besides smoking-furniture, a special code of politeness has been evolved around the Japanese pipe.
The pipe, I regret to say, is in vulgar circles used as a domestic rod. The wife or child who is very naughty may receive a severe blow with the kiseru, or even many. However, it is not so bad as the instruments of punishment in vogue elsewhere.
I am not sure if I have been able to say anything worth your while to read about the pipe, but I think the Japanese pipe is really worth more consideration than is usually given it.
Note. Women’s pipes have a special, delicate form—and are made very small and dainty—also their tabako-ire.
Dear Professor Chamberlain,—If you are not frightfully busy, which I suppose nobody is at this time of the year, perhaps some of my adventures will interest you.
I found that the Bon-odori is different, not only in every village, but even in every commune. So I was very anxious to see all the varieties of this curious dance that I could. I heard that at Ōtsuka, near Yabase, there was a very remarkable kind of dance danced; and I went, in Japanese costume, with a dozen citizens of Yabase, to see it. It turned out to be not worth seeing at all: the people had no more knowledge of dancing—or rather, much less, than Sioux or Comanches.
Ōtsuka is a stony, large, primitive-looking village,—full of rude energy and, I am sorry to say, of bad manners,—a terrible thing to say about any Japanese town. But I have been in about 50 Japanese villages, where I loved all the people, and always made a few of them love me, and Ōtsuka is the first exception I found to the general rule about the relation between foreigners and hyakushō-no-jin. At Ōtsuka the people left their dance to pelt the foreigner with little pellets of sand and mud,—crying out: “Bikki!—bikki!” What that means I do not know. So both I and the whole of the Yabase people turned back. The pelting was not very savage—it was just like the work of naughty children: a foreign mob would have thrown stones, which these folk were very careful not to do—in spite of the fact that there were no police. I passed through this village twice since, and found the attitude of its people peculiarly rough—bordering upon hostility. Compared with the roughness of—say a Barbadoes mob—it was a very gentle thing, but it gave me the first decidedly unpleasant sense of being an alien that I have ever had in Japan.
I have just returned from Togo-ike,—a place described in your Guide.
Frankly, I detest Togo-ike. But it is extremely popular with travelling Japanese—especially the shōbai. Imagine a valley of rice-fields, ringed in by low jagged wooded hills, with a lakelet in the middle of it about a mile and a quarter long (at most) by half a mile broad, and hotels built out into the water. The coldest place I have yet been in Japan. The hotels are supplied with hot water from the volcanic springs through bamboo pipes, but the baths do not compare with those of the much humbler Izumo resort—Tama-tsukuri. The cold air to me was penetrating, sickly, but this may be idiosyncrasy. To one who has lived in the tropics the chill of rice-fields means fever and death; and some of my old tropical fears came up. Then the hotel has only mishido, no karakami,—so that one is never alone. One hour of Yabase is worth a season at Togo-ike—free of expense—to one who loves quiet and simple ways. So I shall spend a couple more days there before going to Mionoseki.
I have given up Oki, until winter. The health and strength I get from seawater bathing have made me delay too long. But I will get to Oki later.
Ever yours,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear Mr. Nishida,—I have had a pleasant time in different little drowsy sea-villages,—sleeping, eating, drinking sake, and bathing. Yabase is about the most pleasant place I ever stopped at here.
But, alas!—I saw no Bon-odori at all at Shimo-ichi. I seemed to have gone too soon;—at Yabase, there is no Bon-odori; and at Ōtsuka, where I next travelled, on foot, to see the Bon-odori, I had an adventure of a peculiar kind.
Ōtsuka seems to be a rough sort of place. Its folk are big hustling noisy countrymen; and when they are full of sake inclined to be mischievous. They stopped dancing to see the foreigner. The foreigner took refuge from the pressure of the crowd in a house, where he sat upon the floor, and smoked. The crowd came into the house and round the house, and uttered curious observations and threw sand and water at the foreigner. Therefore the people of Yabase, who had accompanied the foreigner to Ōtsuka, arose and made vigorous protests; and we all returned to Yabase together. At Yabase, the police and some of the principal people more than made up to me for the rudeness of the Ōtsuka folk,— they apologized for the Ōtsuka folk until I was really ashamed of being so kindly looked after; and I was entertained very generously; and the police told me that anything in the world I wished their advice or help about, only to send them word. (The hostility of the Ōtsuka folk was really a very childish sort of thing, not worth making a fuss about;—a Western crowd would have thrown stones or rotten eggs. Indeed I am not sure whether the crowd was really hostile at all. I rather think that they wanted to see the foreigner move,—so they tried to make him stir about,—like a kedamono in a cage.)
To-morrow I return to Matsue, by way of Mionoseki;—I really regret leaving Yabase: the people are the kindest, most honest, straightforward folk imaginable. And I have made several friends;—at the temple of Nichiren here, I got some beautiful o fuda.
Lafcadio Hearn..
Dear Professor Chamberlain,—Having reached a spot where I can write upon something better than a matted floor, I find three most pleasant letters from you. The whole of the questions in them I cannot answer to-night, but will do so presently, when I obtain the full information.
However, as to cats’ tails I can answer at once. Izumo cats—(and I was under the impression until recently that all Japanese cats were alike)—are generally born with long tails. But there is a belief that any cat whose tail is not cut off in kittenhood, will become an obake or a nekomata, and there are weird stories about cats with long tails dancing at night, with towels tied round their heads. There are stories about petted cats eating their mistress and then assuming the form, features, and voice of the victim. Of course you know the Buddhist tradition that no cat can enter paradise. The cat and the snake alone wept not for the death of Buddha. Cats are unpopular in Izumo, but in Hōki I saw that they seemed to exist under more favourable conditions. The real reason for the unpopularity of the cat is its powers of mischief in a Japanese house;—it tears the tatami, the karakami, the shōji, scratches the woodwork, and insists upon carrying its food into the best room to eat it upon the floor. I am a great lover of cats, having “raised,” as the Americans say, more than fifty;—but I could not gratify my desire to have a cat here. The creature proved too mischievous, and wanted always to eat my uguisu.
The oscillation of one’s thoughts concerning the Japanese—the swaying you describe—is and has for some time been mine also.
There are times when they seem so small! And then again, although they never seem large, there is a vastness behind them,—a past of indefinite complexity and marvel,—an amazing power of absorbing and assimilating,—which forces one to suspect some power in the race so different from our own that one cannot understand that power. And as you say, whatever doubts or vexations one has in Japan, it is only necessary to ask one’s self:—“Well, who are the best people to live with?” For it is a question whether the intellectual pleasures of social life abroad are not more than dearly bought at the cost of social pettinesses which do not seem to exist in Japan at all.
Would you be horrified to learn that I have become passionately fond of daikon,—not the fresh but the strong ancient pickled daikon? But then the European Stilton cheese, or Limburger, is surely quite as queer. I have become what they call here a jōgo,—and find that a love of sake creates a total change in all one’s eating habits and tastes. All the sweet things the geko likes, I cannot bear when taking sake. By the way, what a huge world of etiquette, art, taste, custom, has been developed by sake. An article upon sake,—its social rules,—its vessels,—its physiological effects,—in short the whole romance and charm of a Japanese banquet, ought to be written by somebody. I hope to write one some day, but I am still learning.
As to Dr. Tylor and the anthropological institute. If he should want any paper that I could furnish, I would be glad and consider myself honoured to please him. As for your question about the o fuda, why, I should think it no small pleasure to be mentioned merely as one of your workers and friends. Though the little I have been able to send does not seem to me to deserve your kindest words, it is making me very happy to have been able to please you at all. Whatever I can write or send, make always any use of you please.
About “seeing Japan from a distance,”—I envy you your coming chance. I could not finish my book on the West Indies until I saw the magical island again through regret, as through a summer haze,—and under circumstances which left me perfectly free to think, which the soporific air of the tropics makes difficult. (Still the book is not what it ought to be, for I was refused all reasonable help, and wrote most of it upon a half-empty stomach, or with my blood full of fever.) But to think of Japan in an English atmosphere will be a delicious experience for you after so long an absence. I should not be surprised should the experience result in the creation of something which would please your own feelings as an author better than any other work you have made. Of course it is at the time one is best pleased that one does one’s real best in the artistic line.
By the way, since you like those Shintō prints,—and I might get you others,—what about a possible edition of your “Kojiki” illustrated by Japanese conceptions of this kind, colours and all? Such work can be so cheaply done in Japan! And an index! How often I wished for an index. I have made an imperfect one of my own. It is believed here that Hahaki is the ancient name of the modern Hōki. I was told this when I wanted to go to the legendary burial-place of Izanami.
As usual, I find I have been too presumptuous in writing offhand about cats’ tails. On enquiring, I learn that there are often, born of the same mother, Izumo kittens with short tails, and kittens with long tails. This would show that two distinct species of cats exist here. The long-tailed kittens are always deprived when possible of the larger part of their caudal appendage. The short tails are spared. If an old cat be seen with a short tail, people say,—“this cat is old, but she has a short tail: therefore she is a good cat.” (For the obake cat gets two tails when old, and every wicked cat has a long tail.) I am told that at the recent bon, in Matsue, cats of the evil sort were seen to dance upon the roofs of the houses.
What you tell me about those Shintō rituals and their suspicious origin seems to me quite certainly true. So the kara-shishi and the mon and the dragon-carvings and the tōrōs,—all stare me in the face as pillage of Buddhism. But the funeral rite which I saw and took part in, on the anniversary of the death of Prince Sanjō, struck me as immemorially primitive. The weird simplicity of it—the banquet to the ghost, the covering of the faces with white paper, the moaning song, the barbarian music, all seemed to me traditions and echoes of the very childhood of the race. I shall try to discover the genesis of the book you speak of as dubious in character. The Shintō christening ceremony is strictly observed here, and there are curious facts about the funeral ceremonies—totally at variance with and hostile to Buddhism.
By the way, when I visited a tera in Mionoseki after having bought o fuda at the Miojinja, I was told I must not carry the o fuda into the court of the tera. The Kami would be displeased.
For the moment, good-bye.
Ever faithfully,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear Hendrick,— ... My household relations have turned out to be extremely happy, and to bind me very fast here at the very time that I was beginning to feel like going away. It does not now seem possible for me ever to go away. To take the little woman to another country would be to make her extremely unhappy; for no kindness or comfort could compensate for the loss of her own social atmosphere—in which all thoughts and feelings are so totally different from our own.
I find literary work extremely difficult here. The mental air about one has a totally disintegrating effect upon Western habits of thinking;—no strong emotion, no thrills or inspirations ever come to me, so I am still in doubt how to work. Whether I shall ever be able to make a really good book on Japan is still a question; but if I do, it will require years of steady dry work, without one real flash in it. The least fact in this Oriental life is so different from ours, and so complex in its relationship to other facts, that to explain it requires enormous time and patience.
I was made a little homesick by your letter about New Orleans, mentioning so many familiar names. It brought back many pleasant memories.
Ah! you are in a dangerous world now. You will meet some charming, unsophisticated Southern girl, so much nicer than most Northern girls, that the South may fascinate you too much.
My correspondents have all dropped off except you. Sometimes a letter wanders to me—six months old—announcing my nomination as vice-president of some small literary society; but the outer world is slowly and surely passing away. At the same time the harder side of Japanese character is beginning to appear—in spots. The women are certainly the sweetest beings I have ever seen, as a general rule: all the good things of the race have been put into them. They are just loving, joyous, simple-hearted children with infinite surprises of pretty ways. About the men,—one never gets very close to them. One’s best friends have a certain far-offness about them, even when breaking their necks to please you. There is no such thing as clapping a man on the back and saying, “Hello! old boy!” There is no such thing as clapping a fellow on the knee, or chucking a fellow under the ribs. All such familiarities are terribly vulgar in Japan. So each one has to tickle his own soul and clap it on the back, and say “Hello” to it. And the soul, being Western, says: “Do you expect me always to stay in this extraordinary country? I want to go home, or get back to the West Indies, at least. Hurry up and save some money.” As it is, I have two hundred dollars saved up, even after dressing my little wife like a queen.
And now I am about to journey to outrageous places, among very strange gods. Good-bye for a while.
Ever most affectionately,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear devilishly delightful old fellow,—I have been dancing an Indian war-dance of exultation in my Japanese robes, to the unspeakable astonishment of my placid household. After which I passed two hours in a discourse in what my Japanese friends ironically term “The Hearnian Dialect.” Subject of exultation and discourse,—the marriage of Miss Elizabeth Bisland. If she only knew how often I have written her name upon the blackboard for the eyes of the students of the Normal School to look upon when they asked me to tell them about English names! And they pronounce it after me with a pretty Japanese accent and lisp: “Aileesabbet Beeslan!” Well, well, well!—you most d—nably jolly fellow!!
... Civilization is full of deadly perils in small things,—isn’t it? and horrors in large things—railroad collisions, steamboat explosions, elevator accidents,—all nightmares of machinery. How funny the quiet of this Oriental life. The other day a man brought a skin to the house to sell,—a foreign skin. Very beautiful the animal must have been, and the price was cheap. But the idea of murder the thing conveyed was horrible to me, and I was glad to find my folks of the same mind. “No, no!—we don’t like to see it,” they said. And the man departed, and in his heart pain was lord.
Oh! as for vacation, I always get two months, or nearly two months,—the greater part of July and all of August. This time I have been travelling alone with my little wife, who translates my “Hearnian dialect” into Japanese,—eating little dishes of seaweed, and swimming across all the bays I could find on the Izumo coast. They take me to be a good swimmer out here; but I am a little afraid to face really rough water at a distance from shore.—About getting to you, I don’t really see my way clear to do it for another year or two—must wait till I feel very strong with the Japanese. Just now friend Chamberlain is trying to get me south, to teach Latin and English, at $200 per month, in a beautiful climate. I would like it—but the Latin—“hic sunt leones!” I am awfully rusty. Should I be offered the place and dare to take it, you would find me at Kumamoto, in Kyūshū,—much more accessible than Matsue. I think I have a better chance of seeing you here than you of seeing me. But what a dear glorious chap you are to offer me the ways and means;—I’ll never forget it, old boy—never!
Pretty to talk of “my pen of fire.” I’ve lost it. Well, the fact is, it is no use here. There isn’t any fire here. It is all soft, dreamy, quiet, pale, faint, gentle, hazy, vapoury, visionary,—a land where lotus is a common article of diet,—and where there is scarcely any real summer. Even the seasons are feeble ghostly things. Don’t please imagine there are any tropics here. Ah! the tropics—they still pull at my heart-strings. Goodness! my real field was there—in the Latin countries, in the West Indies and Spanish-America; and my dream was to haunt the old crumbling Portuguese and Spanish cities, and steam up the Amazon and Orinoco, and get romances nobody else could find. And I could have done it, and made books that would sell for twenty years yet. Perhaps, however, it’s all for the best: I might have been killed in that Martinique hurricane. And then, I think I may see the tropics on this side of the world yet,—the Philippines, the Straits Settlements,—perhaps Reunion or Madagascar. (When I get rich!)
Besides, I must finish my work on Japan, and that will take a couple of years more. It is the hardest country to learn—except China—in the world. I am the only man who ever attempted to learn the people seriously; and I think I shall succeed. But there is work ahead—phew! I have sent away about 1500 pp. MSS., and I have scarcely touched the subject—merely broken ground.
... Fact is, there is only one way to really marry a Japanese legally,—to be adopted into a Japanese family after marrying the daughter, and so become a Japanese citizen. Otherwise the wife loses her citizenship—a terrible calamity to a good girl. She would have to live in the open ports, unless I could always live in the interior. And the children—the children would have no rights or prospects in Japan. I don’t see any way out of it except to abandon my English citizenship, and change my name to Koi zumi,—my wife’s name. I am still hesitating a little—because of the Japanese. Would they try to take advantage, and cut down my salary? I am thinking, and waiting. But meantime, I am morally, and according to public opinion, fast married.
By the way, she would very much like to see E. B. If E. has a yacht, make her “sail the seas over” and come to this place; and she will be much pleased and humbly served and somewhat amused.
Well, so long, with best heart-wishes and thanks,
Lafcadio Hearn.
I have accepted a new position, in Southern Japan.
Oh! read Zola’s “L’Argent”—you will appreciate it. There are delicious financial characters in it. For goodness’ sake, don’t read a translation.
Dear Friend Nishida,—Your very welcome letter came to-day. I was beginning to be anxious about you, as my cook, who arrived here only yesterday, said that it was extremely cold in Matsue; and I was afraid the bitter weather might have given you cold. I am very glad you are taking care of yourself....
I am now a little more reconciled to Kumamoto; but it is the most uninteresting city I was ever in, in Japan. The famous shrines of Katō Kiyomasa (the Katō-sha and the Hommyōji) are worth visiting; they are at Akitagun, a little outside the town. The city is packed with soldiers. Things are dear and ugly here—except silks. This is quite a place for pretty silks, and they are cheaper than in Matsue: but there is nothing pretty in the shape of lacquer-ware, porcelain, or bronze. There is no art, and there are no kakemonos, and no curio-shops.
The weather here is queer—something like that of the Pacific slope, a few hundred miles north of San Francisco. The nights and the mornings are cold; and at sunrise, you see the ground covered with white frost, and mists all over the hills. But by noon it gets warm, and in the afternoon even hot; then after sundown it turns cold again.
Mr. Kano was too modest when he told me there were other teachers who spoke English better than he. There are not. He speaks and writes better English than any Japanese I know. However, there is a Mr. Sakuma here, from Kyōto, who has a very uncommon knowledge of literary English: he has read a great deal, has a good library, and has made a special study of Old English and Middle English. He teaches literature (English) and grammar, etc. Mr. Ōzawa (I think) is the second English teacher: I like him the best personally. He has that fine consideration for others which you have,—and which is not a common quality of men anywhere. He speaks French. The Head-master, Mr. Sakurai, a young and very silent man, also speaks French. Nearly all the teachers speak English,—except the delightful old teacher of Chinese, who has a great beard and a head like Socrates. I liked him at once,—just as I liked Mr. Katayama at first sight. I wonder if there is anything in the learning of Chinese which makes men amiable. Perhaps it is the constant need of patience and the æsthetic sentiment also involved by such studies, that changes or modifies character so agreeably. I don’t know much, however, about the teachers yet. I say good-morning and good-evening, and sit in my corner, and smoke my pipe. So far they all seem very gentle and courteous. I think I shall be able to get along pleasantly with them; but I don’t think I shall become as friendly with any of them as I was with you. Indeed there is nobody like you here—no chats in the ten minutes,—no curious information,—no projects and discoveries. I often look at your pretty little tea-tray, with the semi and the dragonflies upon it,—and wish I could hear your voice at the door....
Lafcadio Hearn.
I have become very strong, and weigh about 20 lbs. more than I did last summer. But I can’t tell just why. Perhaps because I am eating three full meals a day instead of two. My house is not quite so large as the one I had in Matsue. We are five here now—myself and wife, the cook, the kurumaya, and O-Yone. It was very funny about O-Yone when she first came. Nobody could understand her Izumo dialect (she is from Imaichi); but both she and the kurumaya can now get along. The hotels here are outrageously expensive: at least some of them. I cannot recommend the Shirakuin for cheapness. I paid, including tea-money, 24 yen for 6-1/2 days. No more of that!
About the boys? Yes, Ōtani writes to me, and Azukizawa,—and I got a charming letter from Tanabe, late of the 5th Class.
I was surprised to hear of the decision of the Council. But I cannot help thinking this is much better than that the boys should be taught by a missionary; 99 out of 100 will not teach conscientiously and painstakingly. And a clever Japanese teacher can do so much. I have now no one to prepare some of my classes for the English lesson; and I know what it means. The main use of a foreign teacher is to teach accent and conversational habits. But I suspect that within another generation few foreign teachers will be employed for English—except in higher schools and for special purposes. There will be thousands of Japanese teachers, speaking English perfectly well. I hope you will be the new Director. Please kindly remember me to Mr. Sato, Mr. Katayama, Mr. Nakamura (I wish I could hear him laugh now), and all friends.
P. S. Setsu insists that I shall tell you that the kurumaya of this town are oni, and that one must be careful in hiring them;—so that if you should come down here when the weather is better, you must be as careful as in Tōkyō,—where they are also oni. Also that rent is high: my house is eleven yen. But with any Izumo cook, living is just as cheap as in Matsue; and there is much good bread and meat and sake and food of all kinds.
I am sorry about that Tamatsukuri affair; for I wrote, as you will see, words of extreme praise,— never suspecting such possibilities. Why, the first duty of gentlemen is to face death like soldiers,—not like sailors on a sinking ship, who stave in the casks—sometimes. However, don’t such things make you wish for the chance to do the same duty better? They do me. That is one good effect of a human weakness: it makes others wish to be strong and to do strong things.
My dear Ōtani,—I have just received your most kind letter, for which my sincerest thanks. But I don’t want to correct it, and send it back to you: I would rather keep it always, as a pleasant remembrance.
It has been very cold in Kumamoto—a sharp frost came last night, with an icy wind. Everybody says such cold is extraordinary here; but I am not quite sure if this is really true, because they have told me everywhere I have been during the last twenty years: “Really we never saw such weather before.”
Kumamoto is not nearly so pretty a city as Matsue, although it is as neat as Tenjin-machi. There are some very beautiful houses and hotels, but the common houses are not so fine as those of Matsue. Most of the old Shizoku houses were burned during the Satsuma war, so that there are no streets like Kita-bori-machi, and it is very hard to find a nice house. I have been fortunate enough to find one nearly as nice as the one I had in Matsue, but the garden is not nearly so pretty; and the rent is eleven dollars—nearly three times more than what I paid in Matsue. There is, of course, no lake here, and no beautiful scenery like that of Shinji-ko; but on clear days we can see the smoke rising from the great volcano of Aso-san.
As for the Dai Go Kōtō-Chūgakkō, the magnificence of it greatly surprised me. The buildings are enormous,—of brick for the most part; and they reminded me at first sight of the Imperial University of Tōkyō. Most of the students live in the school. There is a handsome military uniform; but all the boys do not wear it,—some wear Japanese clothes, and the rules about dress (except during drilling-time, etc.) are not very strict. There is no bell. The classes are called and dismissed by the sound of a bugle. There are ten minutes between class-hours for rest; but the buildings are so long, that it takes ten minutes to walk through them to the teacher’s room, which is in a separate building. Two of the teachers speak French, and six or seven English: there are 28 teachers. The students are very nice,—and we became good friends at once. There are three classes, corresponding with the three higher classes of the Jinjō Chūgakkō,—and two higher classes. I do not now teach on Saturdays. There are no stoves—only hibachi. The library is small, and the English books are not good; but this year they are going to get better books, and to enlarge the library. There is a building in which jū-jutsu is taught by Mr. Kano; and separate buildings for sleeping, eating, and bathing. The bath-room is a surprise. Thirty or forty students can bathe at the same time; and four hundred can eat at once in the great dining-hall. There is a separate building also for the teaching of chemistry, natural history, etc.; and there is a small museum.
You have been kind enough to offer to find out for me something about Shintō. Well, if you have time, I will ask you to find out for me as much as you can about the miya of the household,—the household shrine and kamidana in Izumo. I would like to know what way the kamidana should face—north, south, east, or west.