My dear Ōtani,—I am pleased to hear that the incident was imaginary,—because this gives me a higher idea of your sense of art. True literary art consists very largely in skilful combination of real or possible facts in an imaginary succession. Literature artistic never can be raw truth, any more than a photograph can be compared with a painting. Here is a little sentence from one of the greatest of modern French writers:—
“L’art n’a pas la vérité pour objet. Il faut demander la vérité aux Sciences, parce qu’elle est leur objet;—il ne faut pas la demander a la littérature, qui n’a et ne peut avoir d’objet que le beau.” (Anatole France.)
Of course this must not be taken too literally; but it is substantially the most important of truths for a writer to keep in mind. I would suggest this addition: “Remember that nothing can be beautiful which does not contain truth, and that making an imagination beautiful means also to make it partly true.”
Your English is poor still; but your composition was artistic, and gave me both surprise and pleasure. You understand something about the grouping of facts in the dramatic sense, and how to appeal by natural and simple incidents to the reader’s emotion. The basis of art is there; the rest can only come with years of practice,—I mean the secret of compressed power and high polish. I would suggest that when writing in your own language, you aim hereafter somewhat in the direction of compression. You are now somewhat inclined to diffuseness; and a great deal is gained in strength by understanding how much of detail can be sacrificed....
Yours faithfully,
Y. Koizumi.
Dear McDonald,—I believe those three days, of mine in Yokohama were the most pleasurable in a pilgrimage of forty-seven years. I can venture to say little more about them per se. Such experience will not do for me except at vast intervals. It sends me back to work with much too good an opinion of myself,—and that is bad for literary self-judgement. The beneficial result is an offsetting of that morbid condition,—that utter want of self-confidence. On the whole, I feel “toned-up”—full of new energy; that will not be displeasing to you. I not only feel that I ought to do something good, but I am going to do it,—with the permission of the gods.
How nice of you to have invited Amenomori to our tiffin,—and the trip to Ōmori! I look forward in the future to a Kamakura day, under like circumstances, when time and tide permit. I believe A. can surprise us at Kamakura, which he knows better than any man living. He does not give his knowledge to many people.
I am sending you Knapp’s book, as I promised, and that volume of mine which you have not read. Excuse the shabbiness of the volumes. I think Dr. Hall knows much about the curious dialect which I have used,—the Creole. Please say to him for me what you feel ought to be said.
I won’t write any more now—and I settle down forthwith to work with fresh vim and hope.
With more than grateful remembrance,
Affectionately yours,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear McDonald,—I have both of your kindest letters. It gave me no small pleasure to find that you liked “Youma:” you will not like it less knowing that the story is substantially true. You can see the ruins of the old house in the Quartier du Fort if you ever visit Saint-Pierre, and perhaps meet my old friend Arnoux, a survivor of the time. The girl really died under the heroic conditions described—refusing the help of the blacks, and the ladder. Of course I may have idealized her, but not her act. The incident of the serpent occurred also; but the heroine was a different person,—a plantation girl, celebrated by the historian Rufz de Lavison. I wrote the story under wretched circumstances in Martinique, near the scenes described, and under the cross with the black Christ. As for the “Sylvestre Bonnard” I believe I told you that that was translated in about ten days and published in two weeks from the time of beginning—at the wish of the Harpers. Price $115, if I remember rightly,—and no commission on sales,—but the work suffers in consequence of the haste.
How to answer your kind suggestion about pulling me “out of my shell,” I don’t well know. I like to be out of the shell—but much of that kind of thing could only result in the blue devils. After seeing men like you and the other Guardsman,—the dear doctor,—one is beset with a foolish wish to get back into the world which produced you both, back to the U. S. A.,—out of Government grind, out of the unspeakable abomination and dulness and selfishness and stupidity of mere officialism. And I can’t afford that feeling often—not yet. I have too many little butterfly-lives to love and take care of. Some day, I know, I must get back for a time. Meanwhile I must face the enemy and stand the music.
Now I want you to tell me that Highbinder romance when I next meet you. Perhaps your solitary experience could give me more than one good story. Every good man’s life is full of romances. The trouble is to get him to tell them, and to understand them properly when told. Your “Prussian officer” is delicious; but I fear my talent is not quite up to the mark of telling it as it ought to be told. Maupassant—Kipling—they would delight the world with such a thing. Never mind!—I am sure, if you want me to write stories, that you can give me all the material you want or that I need. I shall sit again at the table, supporting that beautiful cap with its silver-eagle,—and I shall talk and talk and talk until you tell me more stories.
Won’t you be glad to hear that my new book will be finished this month,—perhaps this week? Then for the “Stories from Many Lips”—or something of that kind.
Ever affectionately yours,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear McDonald,—I got your kindest reply to my note of the other day,—actually apologizing for not writing sooner. But I told you never to bother yourself about writing me when you do not feel like it or when you are in the least busy; and I shall never feel neglected if you be silent, but only think that you have business on hand, and hope that you will have good luck in the undertaking.
Why, yes: I must get down some Saturday, or Friday afternoon—that would be still better—so as to return to Tōkyō Sunday night: for my Saturdays are free. But not too soon. It is only about two weeks since I was with you—though I acknowledge that it seems to me like three months. I wish I could see you more often;—then again, I think, you would be tired of my chatter soon. (I know what you would protest; but it doesn’t matter.) Well, not to argue too much, I promise to make a visit during February,—though I shall scarcely be able to name an exact day in advance.
I have never been in San Francisco, unfortunately. But that matters little, if I can ask all the questions I want. The value in a literary way of the scenes would be less the scenes themselves than the impression which they made upon your own memory. I anticipate much pleasure in asking you about it, as well as delight in hearing the story itself.
What will you think of my wickedness? I am going to tell you a bad story about myself. The other day (I mustn’t try to pretend it was long ago, like I did about the Club-Hotel story in your carriage, for fear of being questioned as to direct facts) my publishers sent me some rather nasty newspaper clippings, together with what affected to be a manuscript history of my personal eccentricities and weaknesses. They suggested that I should correct, amend, or reject, but that they should be glad to publish it with my approval. (About 19 pp. I think.) Having read it with considerable anger, I laid it aside for a couple of days,—during which time I effectually restrained the first impulse to write a furious letter. Then I most effectually amended that MS.; I corrected it as thoroughly as it could possibly be corrected—but not with pencil or pen: such instruments being quite inadequate for the purpose. In short, I corrected, amended, and rejected it all at the same time—with the assistance of a red-hot stove. They shall never know; but as murder will out, I must tell somebody, and that somebody shall be you. With best regards to the doctor,—ever with hopes to see you soon,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear McDonald,—It would do me a great deal of harm if I could believe your appreciations and predictions; but I am quite sure you are mistaken about both. As to success, I think my greatest good fortune would consist in being able occasionally to travel for about six months,—just to pick up strange or beautiful literary material. If I can ever manage that much—or even if I can manage to get so far independent that I can escape from officialdom—I shall be very fortunate indeed. Want to get to Europe for a time, in any case, to put my boy there. But all this is dream and shadow, perhaps.
Literary success of any enduring kind is made only by refusing to do what publishers want, by refusing to write what the public want, by refusing to accept any popular standard, by refusing to write anything to order. I grant it is not the way to make money quickly; but it is the way—and the only way—to win what sincerity in literary effort ought to obtain. My publishers have frankly gone over to the Philistines. I could not write for them further even if they paid me $100 per line.
What a selfish letter I am writing! You are making me talk too much about my own affairs, and you would really spoil me, if you could. Talking to me of fame and hundreds of thousands of dollars! Of course I should like to have hundreds of thousands, and to hold them at your disposal; but I should also like to live in the realization of the life of the Arabian Nights. About the truth of life seems to be this: You can get what you wish for only when you have stopped wishing for it, and do not care about keeping it.
I see your name in the papers often now, and in connections that fill me with gladness. You are a power again in the land—wish you could be here for longer than you are going to stay. But, after all, that would not be best for you—would it?
Affectionately ever,
Lafcadio.
Dear McDonald,—After all, instinct isn’t a bad thing. Your just-received excellent advice is precisely what my “blind instinct”—as scientific men call it—told me. No: I shall do nothing without consulting you.
Well, I imagine that not next Friday, but the Friday after will be most convenient to you. I’ll try the later date, therefore. (Friday need not be a Black Friday in Japan—I used to hate to do anything on that day—landed in Japan on Good Friday (!) but now I belong to the Oriental gods.)
Wonder if you know that the Revue des Deux Mondes has sent a poet here to write up Japan—M. André Bellesort. He is a man of big literary calibre, and has a rare wife—who speaks Persian. About as charming a Frenchwoman as one could wish to know. She speaks English, Italian, and Spanish besides. Trying to get them interested in Amenomori. They are at the Hotel Metropole,—perhaps on account of the Legation.
Faithfully and affectionately yours,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear McDonald,—I ought to have answered you about the subject of investment the other day; but I thought it would be better to wait. However, now I think (I have just received your telegram, and I confess it made me uncomfortable) that I had better write my feelings frankly. I suppose that, being naturally born to bad luck, I shall lose my small savings in the ordinary course of the world’s events; but I would prefer this prospect to the worry of mind that I should have about any investment. In fact, rather than stand that worry again (I have had it once) I should prefer to lose everything now. The mere idea of business is a horror, a nightmare, a torture unspeakable. The moment I think about business I wish that I had never been born. I can assure you truthfully that I would rather burn a five hundred dollar bill than invest it,—because, having burned it, I could forget all about it, and trust myself to the mercy of the gods. Even if I had Jay Gould behind me, to pull me up every time I fell, I should not have anything to do with business. Even to have to write you this letter makes me wish that all the business in the world could be instantly destroyed. I am afraid to explain more. I think I won’t go to Yokohama on Friday next—but later,—well, what’s the use of writing more—you will understand how I feel. Ever most faithfully,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear McDonald,—When I saw that big envelope, I thought to myself, “Lord! what a lot of h—l I am going to get!” You see my conscience was bad. I was wrong not to have told you long ago of my peculiar ’phobia. And inside that envelope there was only the kindest of kind letters,—proving that you understood me perfectly well, and forthwith putting me at ease.
I read the prospectus with great interest (by the way, I am returning it, because, as it is still in the state of a private document, I think it is better that I do not keep it); and I am proud of my friend. He can do things! “Canst thou play with Leviathan like a bird? Or canst thou bind him for thy handmaidens?” No, I can’t, and I am not going to try; but I have a friend in Yokohama—an officer of the U. S. Navy—he plays with Leviathan, and makes him “talk soft, soft words”—indeed he even “presses down his tongue with a cord.” Well, I should like you to be as rich as you could be made rich, without having worry. But as for me!—the greatest favour you can ever do me is to take off my hands even the business that I have—contracts, and the like,—so that I need never again remember them. Besides, if I were dead, you are the one I should want to be profiting by my labours. Then every time you set your jaw square, and made them “fork over,” my ghost would squeak and chipper for delight,—and you would look around to see where the bats came from.
Well, next week I’ll try to get down. In fact I feel that I must go to Yokohama, for various reasons besides imposing upon a certain friend there. To-day I have been packing up my book all the time from morning until now—so as to send by registered letter.
About “the best.” You are a dreadful man! How could you think that I had got even halfway to the bottom. I have only drunk three bottles yet; but that is a shameful “only.” Three bottles in one month is simply outrageous; and I look into the glass often to observe the end of my nose. That “best” is too seductive.
With affectionate thanks for kindest letter,
Faithfully ever,
Lafcadio.
Dear McDonald,—Your telegram made me feel comfortable. I had been a little uneasy,—especially because you never told me what really was the matter;—and when a man like you cannot bend his back, the matter could not have been a joke. Also the telegram convinced me that you were really thinking about coming up, and possibly might come up during the spring or the summer or the coming autumn season, and that I could squat on the floor and talk to you—which made me comparatively happy.
I have been otherwise disgracefully blue. When I want to feel properly humble, I read “Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan”—about half a page;—then I howl, and wonder how I could ever have written so badly,—and find that I am really only a very twenty-fifth-rate workman and that I ought to be kicked. Then the weather has been trying;—the mails are behind;—the afflictions of Tōkyō manifold. Also I have been provoked to think that there is no other person like you known to me in the entire world,—and that you are by no means immortal,—and that, even as it is, you think ever so much more of me than I deserve. Also I have been meditating on the unpermanency of the universe, and considering the possible folly of making books at all.—This must be the darkness before the dawn: at least I ought to think so.
I have partly in mind the plan for making the best part of number eight out of stories adapted from the Japanese. Not sure that I can carry the plan out satisfactorily;—but I am resolved that number eight must be worthy of your hopes for me,—and that it shall prove an atonement for the faults of the first book dedicated to you.
Take all care of yourself, and believe me most grateful for that telegram.
Affectionately,
Lafcadio.
Dear Friend,—Two or three mornings ago I woke up with a vague feeling of pleasure—a dim notion that something very pleasant had occurred the day before. Then I remembered that the pleasure had come from your unanswered letter. I kept putting off writing, nevertheless, day after day, in consequence partly of the conviction that such a letter should not be answered in a dull mood, and partly because some of my college work this past week has been more than usually complicated—involving a study of subjects that I thoroughly hate, but must try to make interesting—the literature and spirit of the eighteenth century.
Well, even now, I do not quite know what to say about your letter. To tell me that I have something of your father’s spirit more than pleased me—not because I could quite believe it, but because you did. Your father must have been a very fine man, without any pettiness,—and I have more smallness in me than you can suspect. How could it be otherwise! If a man lives like a rat for twenty or twenty-five years, he must have acquired something of the disposition peculiar to house-rodents,—mustn’t he? Anyhow, I could never agree to let you take all the trouble you propose to take for me merely as a matter of “thank you.” I must contrive ways and means to better your proposal—not to cancel the obligation, for that could not be done, but at least to make you quite sure that I appreciate the extreme rarity of such friendship.
I am writing with hesitation to-day (chiefly, indeed, through a sense of duty to you),—for I fear that you are in trouble, and that my letter is going to reach you at the worst possible time. However, I hope you have not lost any very dear friends by that terrible accident at Havana. I think you told me that you were once on that ship, nevertheless; and I fear that you must receive some bad news. My sympathies are with you in any event.
My Boston friend is lost to me, certainly. I got a letter yesterday from him—showing the serious effect upon friendship of taking to one’s self a wife,—a fashionable wife. It was meant to be exactly like the old letters;—but it wasn’t. Paymaster M. M. must also some day take a wife, and ... Oh! I know what you are going to say;—they all say that! They all assure you that they both love you, and that their house will be always open to you, etc., etc., and then—they forget all about you—purposely or otherwise. Still, one ought to be grateful,—the dropping is so gently and softly done.
Affectionately ever,
Lafcadio Hearn.
My dear Friends,—I am going to address you together, as that will save me from the attempt to write in two keys corresponding to the differing charm of your two letters. Certainly it gave me, as you surmised, sincere pleasure to hear from you. Mrs. Albee surprised me at the same time by a most agreeable, though I fear somewhat generous, reference to a forgotten letter. I think I must have penned many extravagances in those days. I know it—in certain cases: anyhow I should be afraid to read my own letters to Mr. Albee over again. As for my old ambition then expressed, I don’t quite know what to say. The attempt referred to led me far at one time in the wrong direction—though whatever I have learned of style has certainly been due rather to French and Spanish studies than to English ones. I have now dropped theories, nevertheless; and I simply try to do the best I can, without reference to schools.
Do you know that I had a dim notion always that Mr. Albee was a millionaire,—or at least a very wealthy dilettante?—which would be the best of reasons for never sending him a book, notwithstanding my grateful remembrance of his first generous encouragement. (Here I use “generous” in the strongest meaning possible.) I am, selfishly, rather pleased to hear that the price of a book is sometimes for him, as for me, a question worth thinking over—because the fact permits me to offer him a volume occasionally. Otherwise indeed I wish he were rich as my fancy painted him.
You say that you have not read “all my books on Japan.” Any that you particularly care to read, I can send you—though I should not recommend the “Glimpses,” except for reference. “Kokoro” would probably best please Mrs. Albee, and after it, “Out of the East.” Hereafter I shall send a copy of every “new book” to you. Of course I shall be glad to have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Albee’s “Prose Idyls”—many sincere thanks for the kind remembrance!
With kindest and best regards, faithfully ever,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear Mr. Albee,—My best thanks for the “Prose Idyls.” The book leaves on the mind an impression of quiet brightness like that of a New England summer sky thinly veiled. Three idyls especially linger in my imagination,—each for a reason all its own. Hawthorne might have written “The Devil’s Bargain:” it is a powerful moral fancy, and the touch of grotesque humour in it is just enough to keep it from being out of tone in the gallery of optimist studies. “The Family Mirror” is haunting: the whole effect, to my notion, being brought out by that charming reference to the damaged spot at the back. Then “A Mountain Maid” much appealed to me by its suggestion of that beautiful and mysterious sauvagerie, as the French call it,—that wholly instinctive shrinking from caress, which develops with the earliest budding of womanhood, but which the girl could not herself possibly explain. Indeed I fancy that only evolutional philosophy can explain it at all. Analogous conditions in the boy of fourteen or fifteen are well worthy of study—already I had attempted a little sketch on this subject, which may be printed some day or other: “A Pair of Eyes.”
My next volume will have a series of what I might call metaphysical idyls, perhaps, at its latter end. I fear you will think them too sombre,—now that I have felt something of the sunshine of your soul. However, each of us can only give his own tone to the thread which he contributes to the infinite warp and woof of human thought and emotion. Is it not so? With kindest regards to Mrs. Albee, very gratefully yours,
Lafcadio Hearn (Y. Koizumi).
Dear McDonald,—I must try to forget some of your beautiful letter for fear that it should give me much too good an opinion of myself. A reverse state of mind is, on the whole, much better for the writer,—I mean for any professional writer.
I believe all that you wish me to believe about your generous call—but, if friend McDonald does not think my house a poor rat-trap, that is because friend McDonald has not yet discovered what a beautiful Japanese house is like. Let me assure him, therefore, that it is something so dainty, so wonderful, that only by custom can one cease to be afraid to walk about in it.
Yes, as you surmised, one of your suggestions is wrong. The professional writer, however small his own powers may be, generally knows the range of literary possibilities; and I know that what you wish cannot be done by any Western writer with the least hope of success. It has been extensively tried—always with the result of failure. The best attempt, perhaps, was the effort of Judith Gautier,—a very delicate French writer; but it did not succeed. As for “A Muramasa Blade,” “Mito Yashiki,” etc., the less said the better. In any case, it is not so much that the subject itself is immensely difficult for a foreigner, as that even supposing this difficulty mastered, the Western public would not care twopence about the result. Material is everywhere at hand. Yearly, from the Japanese press are issued the most wonderful and thrilling stories of Japanese feudal life; but a master-translation of these, accompanied with illustrations of the finest kind, would fall dead in a Western book-market, and find its way quickly into the ten-cent boxes of second-hand dealers. And why? Simply because the Occidental reader could not feel interested in the poetry or romance of a life so remote.
No: the public want in fiction things taken raw and palpitating out of life itself,—the life they know,—the life everybody knows,—not that which is known only to a few. Stories from Japan (or India or China, for that matter) must be stories about Western people among alien surroundings. And the people must not be difficult to understand; they must be people like the owner of the “Mary Gloster” in Kipling’s “Seven Seas.” (You ought to buy that book—and love it.) Of course, I don’t mean to say that I could ever do anything of Kipling’s kind—I should have to do much humbler work,—but I am indicating what I mean by “raw out of life.”
As for the other suggestion,—who ever was such a pretty maker of compliments!—I can only say that I am happy to have a friend who thus thinks of me.
Gratefully, with much thanks for your charming letter,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear McDonald,—I did not think much of the title of Morrow’s book; but your judgement of the stories interested me, and the selfsame evening I began the volume—in bed. I read three quarters at a run, and the rest early in the morning. They are queer and sometimes powerful little stories—not less interesting because they are, most of them, improbable. They have the charm of the now old-fashioned stories of 1850-70,—perhaps not finished to the same extent as the Atlantic stories used to be; but they make me think of them a little. (The literary centres clamour for realism to-day; but I fancy that the taste for the romantic will live a good while longer.) Then again there is a little of the old-time gold light of California days here—that will always have a charm for readers. I wonder if Morrow is a young man: if he is, I should believe him likely to do still better in the future. If he writes for money, he need not do much finer work; but if just for love of the thing, I should say that he could finish his work better than he does,—as in the study of the emotions of the man who finds his wife untrue to him, and solves a moral problem after quite an ideal fashion. The subject was splendid: it might have been made more of.—But not to criticize things—especially things which I could not do myself—I must say that I enjoyed the tales, and that they ought to have a very good sale.
Somehow your own story—the “Highbinder story”—kept riding on the back of that gold dragon all the while I was reading. The real dominated the romantic, and yet betimes made the romantic seem possible. I could feel everything to be just as it was—my experience as a police-reporter gave verisimilitude to the least detail. You are after all a knight-errant in soul,—a real knight, tilting, not against shadows and windmills, but against the dragons of corrupted law and the giants of fraud who haunt the nineteenth century. You are a survival, I fear—there are few like you: you ride alone: all the more reason that you should take every care of yourself—care of your health; I fear you are not exercising enough, keeping too confined. If you are really, as I believe, fond of your little friend, don’t forget his prayer that you make health your No. 1 consideration.
Hope to be down Friday about 2 P. M. or 2.30 at latest.
Affectionately,
Lafcadio.
Dear McDonald,—I do not feel pleased at your returning to me the money and giving me your own copy of the book. I feel mean over it. But what can one do with a man who deliberately takes off his own coat to cover his friend during a nine minutes’ drive? I shall remember the feeling of that coat—warmth of friendship must also have been electrical in it—until I die.
Affectionately and somewhat reproachfully,—in haste,
Lafcadio Hearn.
I write in haste, so as not to keep your man waiting.
Dear McDonald,—Just got your letter,—your more than kind letter. Happily there is no occasion to send the telegram. I am getting well fast, and think I shall be lecturing on Monday. No: I did not minimize things. I have been laid up, but it was more painful than serious. Can’t tell what it was—a painful swelling of one side of the face, and nose. My picturesque nose suffered most. That a square mile of solid pain could be concentrated into one square inch of nose was a revelation! Anyhow, it felt just like a severe case of frost-bite; but I suppose it was only some sort of a cold. Going to Yokohama had nothing to do with it; but the weather must have had. It was rather trying, you know, last Tuesday.
You are the one who tries to minimize things, my dear friend, by assuring me that there are thousands of ... people like yourself. I am glad to think that you can believe thus well of the world; but I can’t, and I should not be glad to think you were right. I prefer the exceptional. Then you will remember my philosophical theory that no two living beings have even the same voice, and that it is the uniqueness of each that has value. I should have to abandon my theories to accept your opinion of things in general, and I am prejudiced in favour of my theories.
Perhaps next week I can run down, and if that be not a good time for you, the week following. Anyhow the term will be over in about two weeks more, and—I hope—the cold. Tuesday deceived even the creatures of the spring. Hundreds of little frogs began to chant their song of birth, and flowers were opening everywhere. Now there is no sound of a frog. They woke up too soon, the creatures,—and the flowers look as if they were dying of consumption. In your hotel you don’t know all this—because you keep up the atmosphere of the Bermudas under that roof. In Ushigome we are practically in the country, and observe the seasons.
Affectionately,
Lafcadio.
Dear McDonald,—Wasn’t I lucky in deciding to get back early last night? It would have been no easy matter getting back this morning—everything is drowned in snow! That was the reason of yesterday’s atrocious cold. Verily I was inspired by the gods—both as to going and returning.
This morning I woke up with an extreme feeling of comfort and lightness—which reminded me that something very pleasant must have happened the day before,—and I heard the U.S.C. cynically observing with a Mephistophelian smile, “Well, I guess our friend here will pull your chestnuts out of the fire for you!” And then I thanked all the host of heaven for that which had been, and also for that which would never again be. After all, I am rather a lucky fellow,—a most peculiarly lucky fellow. Principally owing to the note written some eight years ago by a certain sweet young lady whose portrait now looks down on me from the ceiling of No. 21 Tomihisa-chō, Ichigaya, Ushigome-ku, in the city of Tōkyō, Japan.
I send with this “Some Chinese Ghosts” in awfully bad condition. Early work of a man who tried to understand the Far East from books,—and couldn’t; but then, the real purpose of the stories was only artistic. Should I ever reprint the thing, I would change nothing,—but only preface the new edition with a proper apology.
You remember my anecdote yesterday of the Memphis man—“What! a d—d nigger? I’d as soon shoot a nigger as I’d shoot a rat!” He was a very pretty boy, too. I forgot to tell you something also about him that occurs to me this morning. He was walking lame in a pair of top-boots one morning, and I asked him what was the matter. “Only these d—d boots,” he said; “they’ve taken all the skin off my feet.” “Haven’t you another pair?” I asked. “Lots of ’em,” he answered; “but I’m not going to give in to these: I won’t let ’em get the better of me!—I won’t let them get the better of me!” I rather admired this vengeful and foolish pluck; and I am thinking now that I’d better follow the example. Spite of all conditions I’m getting No. 6 book under way; and I won’t give in either to publishers or to public.
Loving thanks for yesterday’s extraordinary enjoyableness and for all things. In haste.
Affectionately ever,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear McDonald,—I am looking and looking for your last kind letter; but for the moment I cannot find it. So I must give it up for to-night, if I am to write you.
I’m through with the university; and I must get down to Yokohama, either to-morrow or Monday, and try to bore you, and to coax that story from Mrs. Burns (is that the name?),—but I shall make another visit later, if the weather allows. This will be only an expedition—partly in search of literary material. I feel I must get a few stories, to keep on the surface. Otherwise I’ll get heavy and sink. I have been rather heavy lately. My dog-sketch has developed into such a nightmare that I myself am afraid of it, and don’t want to think about it for a few days. Then I have just finished a short sketch, “In a Pair of Eyes”—considerably metaphysical. Such things may interest; but they will not touch hearts; and an author must try to get loved by his readers. So I shall forage.
Consul General Gowey gave me an agreeable start the other day by sending me a number of “The Philistine”—you know the little thing, very clever—with a pretended quotation from one of my books. The quotation, however, hit what I think,—though I never put the matter in just that shape. It was nice of the consul to send it—made me feel jolly. I must some day send him something to amuse him. Not to like him is impossible.
I think you must have hosts of friends now calling on you,—since the battle-powers of the great Republic are gathering out this way. I hope you won’t have to get yourself killed for Uncle Sam; but if you have, I want to be in the conning-tower about the same time. I fancy, however, that Manila would not be a mouthful if the navy is ordered to gobble it; and that the chief result of the expedition to U. S. officers would be an uncommonly large and fine supply of cigars.
I have last week declined three dinners. It strikes me that the average university professor is circumstanced about thus:—
1. Twelve to fourteen lectures a week.
2. Average of a hundred official banquets per year.
3. Average of sixty private society-dinners.
4. Average of thirty to fifty invitations to charitable, musical, uncharitable, and non-musical colonial gatherings.
5. Average of a hundred and fifty social afternoon calls.
6. Average of thirty requests for contributions to Japanese publications.
7. Average of a hundred requests for pecuniary contributions from all sources.
8. Average of four requests per month for speeches or outside lectures.
9. Average of a hundred calls from students “wanting” things—chiefly to waste the professor’s time.
This is only about half the list. I say “No” to everything—softly, of course. Otherwise how should I exist, breathe, even have time to think?—much less write books? Oh dear, oh dear!—What a farce it is! When they first started, they wanted the professors to wear a uniform of scarlet and gold. (I am sure about the gold—not quite sure about the scarlet.) The professors kicked at the gold,—luckily for themselves!
Ever affectionately,
Lafcadio.
Dear McDonald,—Sunshine, warmth, and beauty in the world to-day; and sunshine and warmth of another sort in my heart—beautiful ghostly summer made by words and thoughts in Yokohama. “When the earth is still by reason of the South wind”—that is my mental world.
I am sending the photo of our friend, which reminds me that I was reproached very justly on reaching home last night. “But you did not bring your American friend’s picture?... Forgot to put it into the valise?... Oh! but you are queer—always, always dreaming! And don’t you feel just a little bit ashamed?” I do feel ashamed, but more than a little bit.
Also I send you a little volume containing “The House and the Brain”—published in other editions under the title “The Haunted and the Haunters.” (Usually it is bound up with that tremendous story about the Elixir of Life,—the “Strange Story” of Bulwer Lytton.) Professor Saintsbury calls this the best ghost-story ever written. But you ought to read it at night only—after the hotel becomes silent.
By way of precaution I must make a confession. I shall not be able to eat again until about Tuesday noon, I think. The tiffins, dinners, “irresistibles,” and above all that Blue Soul, were too much for me. I am getting old, sure enough,—and when I go down again to Yokohama I must live in the most ascetic manner. I feel constitutionally demoralized by all that luxurious living. Still, I must say that I suspect the sudden change of the weather is partly responsible for the feeling.
Now, really—don’t you feel tired of all this talk? Of course I know—but the conditions are so much like those of old college friendships that they seem more of dreams than of reality.
Ever affectionately,
Lafcadio.
Dear McDonald,—Your kindest letter came last night. I must confess to a feeling of remorse for transferring all my troubles to your broader shoulders,—a remorse tempered somewhat, of course, by the certainty that you find a pleasure in helping your friend, but nevertheless, a remorse. So pray do not do anything more than you find it pleasant and inexpensive to do.
We are under the weather for the moment. We shall not be able to profit by the holidays. I have escaped cold and all other troubles; but I could not escape the generally depressing influence of this chilly, sunless, muddy, slimy season. In other words, I feel too stupid to do anything. Probably the sight of the sun will make us all feel happy again.
Of course I shall be unhappy till I get your photos,—both military and civilian. I fear to ask too many; but all I can get, I want. Don’t hurry; but—don’t forget me, if you think I deserve to be remembered.
I am a little anxious lest war take you away from Japan, which would leave me less satisfied with this world than I now am. But I should like indeed to accompany you in a descent on Manila, and to chronicle events picturesquely.
I should never be able, however, to do anything so wonderful as did Loti in describing the French attack on the coast of Annam. It was the greatest literary feat ever done by a naval officer; but it nearly cost him his place in the navy, and did in fact suppress him for several years. In his reissue of the narrative I see that he was obliged to suppress the terrible notes on the killing.
Ever affectionately,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear Friend,—The holidays are over; and the winter is still dying hard. We are all feeling pretty well now notwithstanding,—and my imp was down yesterday to Ueno, in the sea of people, trying to get a glimpse of things. Because he had a naval uniform on, he became quite angry at the kurumaya for proposing to lift him up to look over the heads of the people. The K. wisely answered: “I know you are a man—but then you must think that I am a horse only, and ride on my back. Even military men ride horses, you know!” Subsequently, the imp had to submit to circumstances,—swallowed his pride,—and got on the man’s back. I liked the pride, though: it was the first flash of the man-spirit in him.
I wonder if you are ever tired simply of living! That is what the weather made me for a time. Glimpses of sun now seem quite delicious. Well, it is the same way with my Yokohama friend. If I saw him too often, I should not feel quite so warm in the sunshine that he can make—should begin to think the light a normal and usual, instead of a most extraordinary condition. There is one thing, however, that I hope to live to see: M. McD. in a private residence of his own, and a beautiful young Mrs. McD. therein.
If the quarrel with Spain does nothing else, perhaps it will stir up the American people to make a good-sized navy in short order. With so many thousand miles of coast to defend they are at a big disadvantage compared with most European powers. I see that Captain Mahan has been getting out a new book on the subject, just at the right time. What a lucky author he has been on the whole; and all circumstances seem to have actually bent themselves in his favour.
Affectionately, with regards to the doctor and all friends,
Lafcadio.
Dear McDonald,—Just after having posted my letter (dated 11th, but mailed 14th) yours came, together with the most precious photographs. My warmest thanks, not only for them, but also for the friend’s inscription upon them, which adds to their preciousness. But—see how mean I am!—I hope for at least one more,—the one with the full-dress hat on. You don’t like it; but I just love it, and I hope you will save one for me. The two you sent are admirable: I am going to put the large one in a frame.
Shall I climb Fuji? Perhaps; but I know that at this blessed moment I could not do it. I am too soft now. Must harden up first in the sea; and then, please the gods, I’ll climb with you. The climb is simply horrid; but the view is a compensation.
I don’t know what to do with you—after that remark about Loti. Unless I can manage in the next three years to write something very extraordinary indeed, I fear you will be horribly disappointed some day. You should try to consider me as a tenth-rate author, until the literary world shall have fixed my place. And don’t for a moment imagine me modest in literary matters. I am Satanically proud—not modest at all. If I tell you that much of my work is very bad, I tell you so, not because I am modest, but because, as a professional writer, I can see bad execution where you would not see it unless I pointed it out to you. It is like an honest carpenter, who knows his trade, and will tell his customer: “That isn’t going to cost you much, because the work is bad. See! this is backed with cheap wood underneath! It looks all right only because you don’t know how we patch up these things.”
Ever most affectionately,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear McDonald,—Your letter came this morning (Sunday), and it rejoiced me to find that you are not yet in likelihood of being allowed to attend the Asiatic side of the smash; while, as you suggest, before you could join ... on the other side, the serious part of the campaign would be over. That torpedo squadron at Porto Rico is apparently stronger than any force of the same kind possessed by the U.S.; and although Northern seamanship must tell in a fight, machinery in itself is a formidable thing, even without anything more than mere pluck behind it. But just think how a literary narrative of a battle would sell in America! Wouldn’t L. B. & Co. make money!
How kind of you to send photo of Amenomori! (Yes; you returned the little one.) This will not fade, and is a decided improvement. I need scarcely tell you that out of a million Japanese heads, you could not find another like this. It represents the cream of the race at its intellectual best.
In writing hurriedly the other day, I forgot to answer your question about the Athenæum paper. Yes: the notice was hostile,—but not directly so; for a literary work the book was highly praised. The critic simply took the ground of denying that what I wrote about existed. I was braced with a missionary, and while the missionary’s book was accepted as unquestionable fact, mine was pronounced a volume from Laputa. The Saturday Review knew better than that.
As to the royalties given to Kipling, they are fancy rates, of course, and probably never twice the same. Publishers bid against each other for the right of issuing even a limited edition. Macmillan & Co. hold the ultimate right in all cases; but they do not often print the first edition. Jas. Lane Allen probably gets only ten per cent. He may get more; but not much more—there is no American to compare with Kipling in the market, except Henry James and Marion Crawford. Kipling probably outsells both together. James is too fine and delicate a writer—a psychological analogist of the most complex society—ever to become popular. In short, any writer’s chances of good terms, in England or America, must depend upon his popularity,—his general market value. Once that he makes a big success—that is, a sale of 20,000 copies of a book within a year and a half, suppose—he can get fancy terms for his next book.
... As to when I shall have another MS. I don’t know. To-day, I am hesitating whether I ought or ought not to burn some MS. My work has lately been a little horrible, a little morbid perhaps. Everything depends upon exterior influence,—inspiration; and Tōky=[o] is the very worst place in all Japan for that. Perhaps within a year from now, I shall have a new book ready; perhaps in six months—according to what comes up,—suggestions from Nature, books, or mankind. At the very latest, I ought to have a new book ready by next spring.
But there is just one possibility. In case that during this year, or any year, there should come to me a good idea for such a story as I have been long hoping to write,—a single short powerful philosophical story, of the most emotional and romantic sort,—then I shall abandon everything else for the time being, and write it. If I can ever write that, there will be money in it, long after I have been planted in one of these old Buddhist cemeteries. I do not mean that it will pay because I write it, but because it will touch something in the new thought of the age, in the tendencies of the time. All thought is changing; and I feel within myself the sense of such a story—vaguely, like the sense of a perfume, or the smell of a spring wind, which you cannot describe or define. What divine luck such an inspiration would be! But the chances are that a more powerful mind than mine will catch the inspiration first,—as the highest peak most quickly takes the sun. Whatever comes, I’ll just hand or send the MS. to you, and say, “Now just do whatever you please—only see that I get the proofs. The book is yours.”
Ever so many thanks for kind advice, and for everything else.
I read that war has begun. Hope it will soon end. Anyhow Uncle Sam does not lose time: he knows too well that time is money. And after it is over, he will probably start to build him the biggest fleet in creation; for he needs it. Ever affectionately,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear Friend,—Your kindest letter is with me. I cannot quite understand your faith in my work: it is a veritable Roman Catholic faith,—for it refuses to hear adverse arguments. I only say that I can see no reason to suppose or even hope that I can ever be worth to publishers nearly as much as the author of a blood-and-thunder detective story contributed to a popular weekly.
About getting killed:—I should like nothing so much if I had no one but myself in the world to take care of—which is just why I would not get killed. You never get what you want in this world. I used to feel that way in tight places, and say to myself: “Well, I don’t care: therefore it can’t happen.” It is only what a man cares about that happens. “That which ye fear exceedingly shall come upon you.” I fear exceedingly being burned alive slowly, in an earthquake fire,—being eaten by sharks,—being blinded or maimed so as to prove of no further use;—but dying is probably a very good thing indeed, and as much to be desired for one’s self as dreaded for one’s friends.
But my work is not done yet: I can’t afford luxuries till it is done, I suppose—at least so the gods think.
No: I shall not burn the MS. yet; but if I decided, after deliberation, to burn it, I think I should be right. How much I now wish I had burned things which I printed ten or twelve years ago!
I think with you that the U.S.N. will sweep the Spaniards off the sea; but still I feel slightly uneasy.
I have met a most extraordinary man to whom I gave your address,—in case he should need advice, or wish to see Amenomori. He is going to the hotel, but is now at Nikko. His name is E. T. Sturdy. He has lived in India,—up in the Himalayas for years,—studying Eastern philosophy; and the hotel delicacies will do him no good, because he is a vegetarian. He is a friend of Professor Rhys-Davids, who gave him a letter of introduction to me; and has paid for the publication of several Eastern texts—Pali, etc. Beyond any question, he is the most remarkable person I have met in Japan. Fancy a man independent, strong, cultivated, with property in New Zealand and elsewhere, voluntarily haunting the Himalayas in the company of Hindoo pilgrims and ascetics,—in search of the Nameless and the Eternal. Yet he is not a Theosophist exactly, nor a Spiritualist. I did not get very near him—he has that extreme English reserve which deludes under the appearance of almost boyish frankness; but I think we might become fast friends did we live in the same city. He told me some things that I shall never forget,—very strange things. I envy, not him, but his independence. Think of being able to live where one pleases, nobody’s servant,—able to choose one’s own studies and friends and books. On the other hand, most authors write because they are compelled to find occupation for their minds. Would I, being independent, become idle? I don’t think so; but I know that some of my work has been done just to keep the mind from eating itself,—as does the stomach without food. Ergo, perhaps, I ought to be maintained in a condition of “eternal torment”?
Well, it is not impossible that you may eventually suggest to me something of the great story that is eventually to be written—let us hope. Assuredly if I once start in upon it, I shall be asking you questions, and you will be able to help me very much.
Ever affectionately,
Lafcadio.
Dear Professor,—It is too bad that I should twice have missed the pleasure of seeing you,—and still worse that Mrs. Fenollosa should have come into my wretched little street to find me absent. But it were better always when possible to let me know in advance of any chances for a visit—otherwise I can seldom be relied upon; especially in these months, for I am over head and ears in work,—with the dreadful prospect of examinations and the agonies of proof-reading to be rolled upon me at the same moment. You are so far happy to be able to command your time: I cannot often manage it.
Well, even if I had been free, I do not think I should have cared to go to the Ukioy-e exhibition again—except, of course, to hear you talk about it. I am inclined to agree with one who said that the catalogue was worth more than the view. It (not the catalogue) left me cold—partly, perhaps, because I had just been looking at a set of embroidered screens that almost made me scream with regret at my inability to purchase them. I remember only three or four at Ukioy-e,—the interesting Kappa; Shōki diverting himself; a Listening Girl—something of that sort: nothing excited in me any desire to possess it, even as a gift, except the Kappa and the Shōki. (I know I am hopeless—but it were hopeless to try to be otherwise.) Verily I prefer the modern colour-prints, which I can afford sometimes to buy. What is more, I do not wish to learn better. While I know nothing I can always follow the Shintō code and consult my heart about buying things. Were I to know more, I should be less happy in buying cheap things. It is like the Chinese characters on the shop-fronts. Once you begin to know the meaning of a few, the magical charm—- the charm of mystery—evaporates. There’s heresy for you! As for the catalogues—especially the glorious New York catalogue—I think them precious things. If they do me no other good, they serve the purpose of suggesting the range and unfathomability of my ignorance. I only regret that you do not use legends,—do not tell stories. If you did, Andersen would be quickly superseded. We buy him only for the folk-lore and the references.
Now I must thank Mrs. Fenollosa for the exceeding kindness of bringing those books so far for me. I fear I shall have little chance to read within the next couple of weeks; but if I get the least opportunity, I must try to read the “Cardinal” anyhow. I shall, whatever happens, return the volumes safely before very long. As for the Stevenson, it was not worth while thanking me for; besides, I do not candidly think it an example of the writer at his highest. But one reads these things because the times force you to.
As for the Mountain of Skulls—yes: I have written it,—about seven or eight times over; but it still refuses to give the impression I feel, and can’t define,—the impression that floated into my brain with the soft-flowing voice of the teller. I shall try again later; but, although I feel tolerably sure about the result, nothing but very hard work will develop the thing. Had I only eleven more stories of such quality, what a book could be made out of them! Still, it is quite impossible that a dozen such tales could exist. I read all the Jatakas to no purpose: one makes such a find only by the rarest and most unexpected chance.
By the way, it puzzled me to imagine how the professor knew of my insignificance having visited the exhibition! But a charming professor who made three long visits there wants very much to make Professor Fenollosa’s acquaintance,—E. Foxwell, a fellow of Cambridge, and an authority on economics. Quite a rare fine type of Englishman,—at once sympathetic and severely scientific,—a fine companion and a broad strong thinker.
Faithfully, with best regards and thanks,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear McDonald,—I wonder if you are perfectly disgusted with my silence and general invisibility. But perhaps you have been far too busy to think enough about me even to say, “D—n his lying little soul!” (which is what I would have said under like circumstances); for I have been reading about you,—and know that you have had some sad and very important duties to perform, of an unexpected character.
I got by the last steamer only two notices for you; they are amusing, because they represent two entirely different religious points of view in Methodist criticism. Perhaps you will think the favourable notice very kindly under the circumstances.
What to say about the Manila matter I don’t know. My notion is that you will not be likely to get the furlough so soon. Events are thickening, and looking very dark as well as strange. What most delights me is the prospect of an Anglo-American alliance. Then will come the world-struggle of races—British and Yankee against the Slav and his allies. Hope we shall not see that—it will be a very awful thing,—a vast earthquake in all the world’s markets. And the Latins, curiously enough, are being drawn together by the same sense of their future peril. Their existence is in danger. Loti offers his services to Spain, after having been dropt from the French navy,—not because the moral justice of the question is understood by him, or even felt by him; but because his blood and ancestral feelings naturally attract him to Spain rather than to America. I should be sorry to see the best writer of prose of any country in this world blown to pieces for his chivalrous whim; but he is very likely to get killed if he goes into this mess. All men of letters will feel then very sorry; and a marvellous genius will have been thrown away for nothing—since there is no ghost of a hope for Spain.
I shall get down to Yokohama unexpectedly, I suppose, very soon—if I feel well enough: the weather has been so atrocious that I had fire in my room up to last week. I hope you have not felt any the worse for these abominable changes of temperature. Another such “spring” would drive me wild! In spite of it I have nearly completed a sixth chapter or essay for book Number Six. I am full of projects and suggestions; but cannot yet decide which among the multitude are strong enough to survive and bear development.
Ever affectionately, with faint hopes of forgiveness,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear Wizard, Magician, Thaumaturgist,—Your letter was wonderful. It made things quite vivid before me; and I can actually see G. and M. and the others you speak of (including myself, under the influence of demophobia). Also you cannot imagine how much good such a letter does a fellow in my condition. It is tonicky,—slips ozone of hope into a consumptive soul. I must now keep out of blues for at least another seven years.
Anyhow, things are about right. My little wife is getting strong again; my eyes are all right; the examinations are over; the vacation begins; Little, Brown & Company send me heaps of books; and we go to the seaside as soon as I can manage it,—with an old pupil of mine,—an officer now of engineers.
Speaking of pupils reminds me that just as you keep me from follies, or mischief, by a bit of sound advice at times,—not to say by other means,—so here I have learned to be guided by K.’s mamma. Indeed, no Occidental-born could manage a purely Japanese household, or direct Japanese according to his own light. Things are so opposite, so eccentric, so provoking at times,—so impossible to understand. A foreign merchant, for example, cannot possibly manage his own Japanese clerks—he must trust their direction to a Japanese head clerk. And this is the way all through the Orient,—even in Aryan India. Any attempt to control everything directly is hopelessly mischievous. By learning to abstain therefrom, I have been able to keep my servants from the beginning, and have learned to prize some of them at their weight in gold.
What I was going to say especially is in reference to pupils and students. In Tōkyō students do everything everywhere for or against everybody. They are legion,—they are ubiquitous. The news-vender, the hotel-clerk, the porter of a mansion, the man-servant of any large house is sure to be a student, struggling to live. (I have had one for a year—a good boy, and inconceivably useful, who soon enters the army.) A Tōkyō resident is obliged to have students about him. They are better guards than police, and better servants than any servants. If you don’t have a student or two, you may look out for robbers, confidence-men, rowdies, trouble of all kinds at your house. Students police Tōkyō.
Well, I found I could not be familiar with my students. It spoiled matters. I had to be a little unpleasant. Then reserved. As a consequence all is admirable. Direct interference won’t do. I have to leave that to the lady of the house; and she can manage things without ever getting angry. But another student, whom I am educating, did give me much heart-burning, until I became simply cruel with him. I should have dropped him; but I was told: “You don’t understand: have patience, and wait.” “But,” I said, “his work is trash—worthless.” “Never mind,” was the answer, “wait and see!” At the end of the year, I am surprised by the improvement and the earnestness. “You see,” I am told, “that boy was a spoiled child while his family were rich; but his heart is good. He will do well yet.” And I find this quite probable. How the Japanese can manage with perfect gentleness and laughter what we cannot manage by force or fraud or money, ought to be a lesson. And I sympathize with this character—only, my own character is much too impatient and cranky to allow of correct imitation.
I am, or have been, the teacher of men who, although insignificant in English, are literary celebrities in their own tongue. Their portraits are known over Japan; their poems and stories celebrated. Naturally they feel proportionately averse to being treated as mere boys. Still, an appeal to their honour, gently made, will sometimes work wonders. I tried it the other day, by advice of the director, when there had been a refusal to obey. He said: “Don’t write to them; don’t order them: just go and talk to them. You know what to say.” And they obeyed—in spite of the fact that the whole room laughed at them for their change of resolve. There is hope for this class of men: if the university system were better managed, they would be splendidly earnest....
Affectionately,
Lafcadio Hearn.