Dear McDonald,—We ran over somebody last night—and the train therefore waited in mourning upon the track during a decorous period. We did not see Tōkyō till after eleven considerably. But the waiting was not unpleasant. Frogs sang as if nothing had happened, and the breeze from the sea faintly moved through the cars;—and I meditated about the sorrows and the joys of life by turns, and smoked, and thanked the gods for many things,—including the existence of yourself and Dr. Hall. I was not unfortunate enough to see what had been killed,—or the consequences to friends and acquaintances; and feeling there was no more pain for that person, I smoked in peace—though not without a prayer to the gods to pardon my want of seriousness.
Altogether I felt extremely happy, in spite of the delay. The day had been so glorious,—especially subsequent to the removal of a small h—l, containing several myriads of lost souls, from the left side of my lower jaw.
Reaching home, I used some of that absolutely wonderful medicine. It was a great and grateful surprise. (I am not trying to say much about the kindness of the gift—that would be no use.) After having used it, for the first time, I made a tactile investigation without fear, and found—
What do you think?
Guess!
Well, I found that—the wrong one had been pulled,—No. 3 instead of No. 2.
I don’t say that No. 3 didn’t deserve its fate. But it had never been openly aggressive. It had struggled to perform its duties under disadvantageous circumstances: its character had been modest and shrinking. No. 2 had been, on the contrary, Mt. Vesuvius, the last great Javanese earthquake, the tidal wave of ’96, and the seventh chamber of the Inferno, all in mathematical combination. It—Mt. Vesuvius, etc.—is still with me, and although to-day astonished into quiescence, is far from being extinct. The medicine keeps it still for the time. You will see that I have been destined to experience strange adventures.
Hope I may be able to see you again soon,—4th, if possible. Love to you and all kind wishes to everybody.
Lafcadio.
Dear McDonald,—I mailed you this morning the raw proofs, and the Revue des Deux Mondes. I fear you will find the former rather faulty in their present unfinished state. But if you mount Fuji you will be a glorious critic.
I don’t know how to tell you about the sense of all the pleasant episodes of yesterday, coupled with the feeling that I must have seemed too sombre toward the close,—instead of showing to you and friend Amenomori the happiest face possible. I was unusually naughty—I suppose; but I was worried a little. However, my sky is only clouded for moments—and my friends know that appearances signify nothing serious.
We had adventures at Shimbashi. I saw a well-dressed fellow getting rather close to my wife while she was counting some small change; and I pushed in between her and him—just in time; for she had found his hand on her girdle, trying to get her watch. Then I had a hand poked in my right side-pocket, and another almost simultaneously into my left breast-pocket. The men got nothing from either of us. What interested me was the style of the work. The man I noticed especially was a delicate-looking young fellow, very genteelly dressed, and wearing spectacles. He pretended to be very hot, and was holding his hat in his left hand before him, and working under it with his right. The touching of the pocket with the fingers reminded me of nothing so much as the motion of a cat’s paw in playing. You know the cat does not give a single stroke, but a succession of taps, so quickly following each other that you can scarcely see how it is done. The incident was rather curious and amusing than provoking.
I fear poor Amenomori was disappointed—after all his pains about Haneda.
It was just as well that we made the trip yesterday. To-day the weather is mean,—cloudy, hot, and dusty all at the same time. Yesterday we had clear azure and gold,—and lilac-flashing dragonflies,—and a glorious moon coming home.
After seeing your shoulders I have no doubt about your finding Fuji child’s-play—even Fuji could not break such a back as that; but I think that you will do well, on the climb, to eat very lightly. My experience was that the less eating the easier climbing. I took one drink on the stiff part of the climb,—contrary to the advice of the guides,—and I was sorry for it. The necessity is to reduce rather than stimulate the circulation when you get to the rarefied zone. Perhaps you will find another route better than the Gotemba route; but Amenomori would be the best adviser there.
Ever affectionately, with countless thanks,
Lafcadio.
Dear McDonald,—I am sending you two of Zola’s books, and a rather complex social novel by Maupassant—not, any of them, to be returned. I recommend “Rome” only; the others will just do to lend to friends, or to read for the sake of the French, when you have nothing better on hand.
What a glorious day we did have! Wonder if I shall ever be able to make a thumbnail literary study thereof,—with philosophical reflections. The naval officer, the Buddhist philosopher, and the wandering evolutionist. The impression is altogether too sunny and happy and queer to be forever lost to the world. I must think it up some day.
My back feels to-day as if those little sand-crabs were running over it; but the pain is nearly all gone. I shall be ready for another swim in a day or two.
And that supper at the Grand Hotel! I am awfully demoralized to-day—feeling gloriously well, but not in a working mood. A week more of holidays would ruin me! Discomfort is absolutely necessary for literary inspiration. Make a man perfectly happy, and what has he to work for? Nothing shall disturb my “ancient solitary reign” excepting the friends with whom I yesterday imposed upon the patience of certain crabs,—who suddenly found themselves facing a problem for which all their inherited experience had left them supremely unprepared.
Too soon we shall have winter upon us again; and I shall be struggling with problems of university-student peculiarities;—and I shall be working wonderfully hard at a new book. There will be all kinds of dull, dark, tiresome days; but whenever I want I can call back the summer sun,—simply by closing my eyes. Then, in blue light, between sand and sea-line, I shall discern a U.S. naval officer in Cape May costume, and a Buddhist philosopher, busied making little holes in the beach,—sapping and mining the habitations of small horrified crabs. Also I shall see a lemon yellow sky, with an amethystine Fuji cutting sharply against it. And many other things,—little dreams of gold.
Affectionately ever,
Lafcadio.
Dear McDonald,—I thought the house would go last night; but we had only two trees blown down this time, and the fence lifted in a southwesterly direction. Truly I was wise not to go to Shinano as I intended: it would have been no easy thing to get back again. And you did well not to try Fuji. It might have been all right; and it might have been very dangerous work indeed. When a typhoon runs around Fuji, Amenomori tells me that it blows the big rocks away like a powder-explosion. Judging from the extraordinary “protection-walls” built about the hut at the mountain-top, and from the way in which the station-house roofs are purposely weighted down, I fancy this must be quite true. A lava-block falling from the upper regions goes down like a bounding shot from a cannon; and I should just about as soon stand in front of a 50-lb. steel shell.
The Japanese papers to-day are denouncing some rice-speculator who has been praying to the gods for bad weather! The gods do wisely not to answer anybody’s prayers at all. City-dwellers would pray for fine weather, while farmers pray for rain;—fellows like me would pray for eternal heat, while others would pray for eternal coolness;—and what would the gods do when begged by peace-lovers to avert war, and by military ambitions to bring it about? Think of twenty people praying for a minister’s death; and twenty others pleading for his life. Think of ten different men praying to the gods for the same girl! Why, really, the gods would in any event be obliged to tell us to settle our own little affairs in our own little way, and be d—d! One ought to write something some day about a dilemma of the gods;—Ludovic Halévy did something of the sort; but he did not exhaust the subject.
Affectionately,
Lafcadio.
Dear McDonald,—I have your delightful letter and throw all else overboard for the moment to send a few lines of greeting and chatter.
I have sent word to Mr. —— that I can receive no foreign visitors. I run away from the house on days of danger from calls,—and nevertheless I cannot entirely escape. Yet you would have me enter like Daniel into that lions’ den of the Grand Hotel, because you are the Angel of the Lord. Well, I suppose I must get down soon,—but I cannot say exactly a day. Better let me come after the fashion of the Judgement,—when no man knoweth.
I am right glad to hear you are well again....
Don’t know what my book will turn out to be after a few more months of work. It will be a queer thing anyhow: the Japanese part will be interesting enough; but the personal-impression parts do not develop well. And I must work very hard at it. You think that a day or two in the Grand Hotel is good for me once in a while; but you can’t imagine what difficulty it is to find any time while the thing is still in pupa-condition.
But what most injures an author is not means and leisure: it is society, conventions, obligations, waste of time in forms and vanities. There are very few men strong enough to stand the life of society, and to write. I can think of but one of importance,—that is Henry James;—but his special study is society.
And now for a lecture. (In haste.)
Affectionately,
Lafcadio.
Dear McDonald,—I find myself not only at the busiest part of the term, the part when professors of the university don’t find time to go anywhere,—but also in the most trying portion of the work of getting out a book,—the last portion, the finishing and rounding off.
And I am going to ask you simply not to come and see your friend, and not to ask him to come to see you, for at least three months more. I know this seems horrid—but such are the only conditions upon which literary work is possible, when combined with the duties of a professor of literature. I don’t want to see or hear or feel anything outside of my work till the book is done,—and I therefore have the impudent assurance to ask you to help me stand by my wheel. Of course it would be pleasant to do otherwise; but I can’t even think of pleasant things and do decent work at the same time. Please think of a helmsman, off shore, and the ship in rough weather, with breakers in sight.
Hate to send you this letter—but I think you will sympathize with me in spite of it.
Affectionately,
Lafcadio.
Dear McDonald,—I am very glad that I wrote you that selfish letter,—in spite of the protests of my little wife, who says that I am simply a savage. I am glad, because I felt quite sure that you would understand, and that the result would be a very sweet note, which I shall always prize. Of course, I mean three months at the outside: I have vowed to finish by the year’s end, and I think I can. As for letters, you can’t write too many. It takes me five minutes at most to write a letter (that is, to you); but if it took an hour I could always manage that.
“Like the little crab,”—yes, indeed. Thursday, three enemies dug at my hole, but I zigzagged away from them. I go in and out by the back way, now, so as to avoid the risk of being seen from afar off.
Ever most affectionately (with renewed thanks for that delicious letter),
Lafcadio.
Dear Hendrick,—Verily I think I ought to be apologizing for my blues. But it is such a relief to write them betimes—when you are sure of a patient hearing. Besides, it may interest you to hear of a small professional scribbler’s ups and downs. I used only to pray for opportunity: if I could only get an audience! Now I have one—a small one. An offer of $1200 from a syndicate, which would make for me nearly $3000 here; and plenty of others. And I can’t write. That is, I can do nothing except what would lower the little reputation I have gained. In such a case the duty is plainly not to try, but to wait for the Holy Ghost,—or (as I am out of his domain) the coming of the gods. I am now in a period of mental drought, but have written half of a book that will probably be dedicated to E. H.,—or will certainly unless another incomplete book should be ready first, a book to be called perhaps “Thoughts about Feelings.”
I am quite uncertain, however, as to the realization of this latter book. Looking back through my life I find that, with the exception of West-Indian and a few New Orleans experiences, I remember nothing agreeable. It was a rule with me from boyhood to try to forget disagreeable things; and in trying to forget them I made no effort to remember the agreeable,—just because “a sorrow’s crown of sorrows is remembering happier things.” So the past is nearly a blank. Then another queer thing is my absolute ignorance of realities. Always having lived in hopes and imaginations, the smallest practical matters, that everybody should know, I don’t know anything about. Nothing, for example, about a boat, a horse, a farm, an orchard, a watch, a garden. Nothing about what a man ought to do under any possible circumstances. I know nothing but sensations and books,—and most of the sensations are not worth penning. I really ought to have become a monk or something of that kind. Still, I believe I have a new key to the explanation of sensations,—if I can find the incident to peg the essays upon,—the dummies for the new philosophical robes. So far the book of reveries consists of only two little chapters. The better part of my life might just as well never have been lived at all. I am only waking up in the hoariness of age, and my next birth will probably see me a mud-turtle or a serpent, or something else essentially torpid and speechless.
Of course, I can write and write and write; but the moment I begin to write for money, vanishes the little special colour, evaporates the small special flavour, which is ME. And I become nobody again; and the public wonders why it ever paid any attention to so commonplace a fool. So I must sit and wait for the gods.
Yet a little while, I shall be all hope and pride and confidence; and again a little while, up to my ears in the Slough of Despond. And the beautifully milled dollars and exquisitely engraved notes you talk of will stay in the pockets of practical people.
Lafcadio.
Afterthought
Dear Old Man,—Speaking on the subject of “Life”—have you read “Amiel’s Journal” (Journal Intime)? If not, I would advise you to, as its fine delicate analysis of things is in pure harmony with your own way of thinking, so far as generalities go. In it there is a paragraph about Germans, of precisely the same tenor as the paragraph in your letter; and there is an admirable analysis of “society,” with some severe but just (just at the time written) animadversions upon American society.
It seems to me, however, that neither Amiel nor anybody else has exactly told us what society means. Amiel comes very close to it. I think, however, the real truth would be more brutal.... Is not the charm (and its display) of womanly presence and power the real force? Because it is not really intellectual, this society. Intellectual societies are societies of artists, men of letters, philosophers, where absolute freedom of speech and action and dress are allowed. The polite society only delicately sniffs or nibbles at intellectual life, or else subordinates it to its fairy shows and transformation scenes. I don’t suppose for a moment that I am suggesting even the ghost of anything new,—but I wish only to suggest that I think (in view of all this) that nobody has ever, in English, dared to say what society really is as a system or display,—to cut boldly into the heart of things. I don’t mean to say it is shocking, or wrong, or anything of that sort. It is quite proper in the existing order of things, or else it wouldn’t be. But there are evolutional illustrations in it....
By the way, a Japanese friend tells me I have only one soul,—confirming the Oxford beast’s revelation. “Why?” I asked. “You have no patience. Those who have no patience have only one soul. I have four souls.” “How many souls can one have?” I enquired. “Nine,” he said. “Men who can make other men afraid of them, men of strong will: they have nine souls, or at least a great many.”
Good-bye,—I think you have several souls.
Lafcadio.
Dear Mrs. Fenollosa,—I see that my little word “sympathy”—used, of course, in the fine French sense of fellow-feeling in matters not of the common—was as true as I could wish it....
I am the one now to give thanks,—and very earnest thanks; for I confess that I felt a little nervous about your opinion. Independently of the personal quality which makes it so precious for me, I believe that it must represent, in a general way, the opinion of a number of cultured ladies whom I never have seen, and never shall see, but who are much more important as critics than any editors,—for they make opinion, not in newspapers or magazines, but in social circles. And I was a little bit afraid of my new venture in “Retrospectives.” I picked out the little piece sent you, because it had a Japanese subject as a hanging-peg,—so that I thought you and the professor would feel more inclined to take the trouble of reading it....
Well, you are one of my Rewards in this world: I don’t know that I can expect any better return than your letter for a year’s work on a book,—and I certainly do not want anything better. In this particular case too, with a new venture, encouragement is positively a benefit as well as a pleasure. In other cases, it might make me too well satisfied with my work, and tempt me to be careless, or at least less careful....
I see Mr. Edwards has gone; and I am sorry to think that I may never see him again,—for he is in every way a man and a gentleman. Probably we shall have a book from him some day; and it will not be a common book, for that man is incapable of the common: he will think hard, work solidly, and put his own square-set Oxford self into every thought. It will certainly be interesting.
My best thanks for that volume of Watson.... I have a very strong liking for Watson; and there are bits in that book of delightful worth. I shall venture to impose on your good nature by keeping it just a “weeny” bit longer,—to copy a verse or two.
I sprained my foot nearly two weeks ago, and after a week in bed and bandages, managed to hobble around the university again, but I am now all over the main trouble. Tōkyō roads are dangerous after dark sometimes. The enforced homeing, however, did me good; for my next book is almost ready for the publisher.
And now that you understand my wishes to try to do something new—at least understand them well enough to write me so very pleasant a letter,—I am sure you won’t think me too selfish for being so rare a visitor. I am like a setting hen,—afraid to leave my eggs till the hatching is done and the shells are broken. With all best wishes and thanks,
Very truly yours,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear McDonald,—I have your precious letter. It came all right. I am very glad that I was mistaken about the registry-business being neglected—but I thought it my duty to make the remark. As one of my students says: “A friend is a man to whom you can tell all your suspicions.”
Now I am going to tell you something much more than “suspicions.” I think it time;—and I want you to listen, and to think over it.
You do not understand my situation.
One reason that you do not understand is because you are a bachelor. Another reason is because you are a naval officer and a bachelor,—consequently to a considerable degree independent of social conventions of the smaller and meaner kind.
I am in a somewhat critical position and time. Don’t make any mistake about it. Small as I am, I have mountains to lift; and if you do not realize it, you cannot help it, but can only get your fingers crushed. Only your fingers—mind! but that will hurt more than you think.
Here is my fix: I have “down upon me”—
I. Society. Civilized society conspires to starve certain men to death. It must do so in self-defence. There are privileged men; I may become one yet.
II. I have down on me the Church. By Church, you must not think of the Roman, Greek, Episcopalian, etc., persuasions,—but all Christendom supporting missionary societies, and opposing free-thinking in every shape. Do not be deceived by a few kindly notes about my work from religious sources. They are genuine,—but they signify absolutely nothing against the great dead weight of more orthodox opinion. As Professor Huxley says, no man can tell the force of a belief until he has had the experience of fighting it. Good! Church and Society together are pretty vigorous, you will acknowledge.
III. The English and American Press in combination,—the press that represents critical opinion in London as well as in New York. Don’t mistake the meaning of notices. All, or nearly all, are managed by the publishers. The policy is to praise the work—because that brings advertisements. Society, Church, Press—that means a big combination, rather. On my side I have a brave American naval officer—and the present good will of the Japanese Government, which has been vaguely aware that my books have been doing some good.
Now you may say, “How important the little mite thinks himself,—the cynosure of the world!” But that would be hasty thinking. I am pretty much in the position of a book-keeper known to have once embezzled, or of a man who has been in prison, or of a prostitute who has been on the street. These are, none of them, you will confess, important persons. But what keeps them in their holes? Society, Church, and public opinion—the Press. No man is too small to get the whole world’s attention if he does certain things. Talent signifies nothing. Talent starves in the streets, and dies in the ginhouse. Talent helps no one not in some way independent of society. Temporarily, I am thus independent.
At this moment the pressure is very heavy—perhaps never will be much heavier. Why? Because I have excited some attention,—because there is a danger that I might succeed. You must not think I mean that everybody in general, or anybody in special, thinks out these thoughts. Not at all. Society, Church, and Press work blindly, instinctively,—like machinery set in motion to keep a level smooth. The machinery feels the least projection, and tries to flatten it out of existence,—without even considering what it may be. Diamond or dung makes no difference.
But if the obstruction prove too hard, it is lifted out of the way of the machinery. That is where my one chance lies—in making something solid that forces this kind of attention.
You might ask me, if I think thus, why dedicate a book to our friend the doctor? That is a different matter. My literary work cannot be snubbed; and it goes into drawing-rooms where the author would be snubbed. Besides, a doctor can accept what other people can’t.
You see that there are many who come to Japan that want to see me; and you think this is a proof of kindly interest. Not a bit of it. It is precisely the same kind of curiosity that impels men to look at strange animals,—a six-legged calf, for instance. The interest in the book is in some cases genuine; the interest in the personality is of the New York Police Gazette quality. Don’t think I am exaggerating. When I get my fingers caught in the cogs, I can feel it.
So much for the ugly side of the question. Let us take the cheerful one.
Every man who has new ideas to express, at variance with the habits of his time, has to meet the same sort of opposition. It is valuable to him. It is valuable to the world at large. Weakness can’t work or burst through it. Only strength can succeed. The man who does get through has a right to be proud, and to say: “I am strong.” With health and time, I shall get through,—but I do feel afraid sometimes of physical disaster. Of course I have black moments; but they are also foolish moments—due to disordered nerves. I must just hammer on steadily and let money quarrels go to the deuce, and sacrifice everything to success. When you are in the United States you may be able to help me with the business part of the thing—providing that you understand exactly the circumstances, and don’t imagine me to be a possible Kipling or Stevenson. Not only am I a mere mite in literature, but a mite that has to be put forward very, very cautiously indeed. “Overestimate” me! well, I should rather say you did.
And now we’ll leave theory for practice. I don’t think you can do anything now—anything at all. You might—but the chances are not worth taking. You will be surprised to hear, I fancy, that the author must see his proofs—not for the purpose of assuring himself that the text is according to the copy, but for the purpose of making it different from the MS. Very few writers can perfect their work in MS.; they cannot see the colour and line of it, till it gets into type. When a statue is cast, it is cast exactly according to the mould, and shows the lines of the mould, which have to be removed: then the polishing is done, and the last touches are given. Very slight work—but everything depends upon it. So with artistic writing. It is by changes in the printed form that the final effect is obtained. Exactness according to the MS. means nothing at all; that is only the casting,—a matter of course; and another man can no more look after your proofs than he can put on your hat. Did you ever try the experiment of letting a friend try to fit your hat comfortably on your own head? It can’t be done.
Health is good; sprain about well; book nearly through—sixteen chapters written. Only, the flavour is not yet quite right.
Finally, dear friend, don’t think, because I write this letter, that I am very blue, or despondent, or anything of that sort. I am feeling to-day unusually well,—and remember something said to me ten years ago by a lady who at once detested me after our introduction. She said: “A man with a nose like you should not worry about the future—he will bore his way through the world.” I trust in my nose. With true love to you,
Lafcadio.
Dear McDonald,—I am very, very sorry that you had that accident,—and I fear that you are worse off than you let me know. I must get down to-morrow (Saturday), and see how you are—though I fear I can do no more than chatter to you like an usots’ki. Well, we’ve both had accidents lately—my foot isn’t quite well yet. We must have extra good luck to make up for these mishaps.
Yes, I should be glad to know your friend Bedloe,—or any of your naval friends: they are men as well as gentlemen, and I feel quite at home with them.
Ah! I had almost forgotten. I have Kipling’s “Day’s Work” already. It is great—very great. Don’t mistake him, even if he seems too colloquial at times. He is the greatest living English poet and English story-teller. Never in this world will I be able to write one page to compare with a page of his. He makes me feel so small, that after reading him I wonder why I am such an ass as to write at all. Love to you, all the same, for thinking of me in that connection.
Term’s over—all but a beastly “dinner.” D—n dinners! I’ll see you presently.
Lafcadio.
Dear McDonald,—Do you know we talked uninterruptedly the other day for ten hours,—for the period that people are wont to qualify when speaking of the enormity of time as “ten mortal hours”? What a pity that they could not be made immortal! They will be always with me,—though I really fear that I must have tired you, in spite of protests. Every time I can get such a chat with you, you become much dearer to me—so that I really cannot feel as sorry as I ought for keeping you engaged that long.
Well, I don’t quite know what I shall do about the “Ghostly Japan.” I shall think a little longer. My duty, I feel, is to sacrifice it: only I don’t want to have any tricks played upon me,—just because tricks annoy. Nevertheless I ought to accept the annoyance cheerfully: it is part of the price one must pay for success. Huxley says that one of the things most important for anybody to learn is that a heavy price must be paid for success.
I got a letter from a Yale lad, which I enclose, and a magazine which I am sending you. The wish is for an autograph; but there the case is meritorious and I want the sympathy of boys like that—who must be the writers and thinkers of 1900. So I wrote him as kind a letter as I could,—assuring him, however, that I am not a Buddhist, but still a follower of Herbert Spencer. It is a nice little magazine. I suppose that H. M. & Co.’s advertisement had something to do with the matter; but from the business point of view, it is an excellent idea to try to work a book through the universities. Those lads are thinkers in their own way. See the poem on page 90,—also on page 83: both show thinking. I ventured to advise the writer of “Body and Soul” to make a new construction of the thought. The conditions might be reversed. First the man is the body; the woman the soul. But the woman’s soul is withered up by the act of the man; and the body only remains. Then the man gets sorry, and gets a soul through the sorrow of the wrong that he has done. Then she becomes the Flesh, and he the Ghost. I did not explain all this—only suggested it. A case of vicarious sacrifice. How many women have to lose their own souls in order to give souls to somebody else!
Wish I was with you to-day, and to-morrow, and many days in succession. But if we have plum pudding every day—! I mean not you by the plum pudding, but the circumstantial combination. I wanted to say that pleasure spoils the soul for working purposes,—but I am afraid to attempt to carry the simile further, lest you should turn it round, and hit me with it. I shall see you erelong, anyhow.
Affectionately,
Lafcadio.
Dear Friend,—“I’ve gone and been and done it.” This wise:—You see I kept thinking about things—discounts and money-profits and bargains, and publishers playing into each other’s hands,—and the possible worthlessness of the work,—and the necessity of improving it much more before insisting upon high prices,—and the wisdom of recopying half of it,—and the risks of shipment and shipwreck and fire and dishonest post-office clerks—till I got nearly crazy! If I listened much more to the echoes of your suggestions and advice, I should have gone absolutely crazy. Therefore in fifteen minutes I had the whole thing perfectly packed and labelled and addressed in various languages, and shot eastward by doubly-registered letter—dedicated to Mrs. Behrens, but entrusted largely to the gods. And to save myself further trouble of mind, I told the publishers just to do whatever they pleased about terms—and not to worry me concerning them. And I feel like a man liberated from prison,—smelling the perfumed air of a perfect spring day. “Ghostly Japan” will concern me no more—unless the ship is wrecked, or the manuscript lost in some way: which must not be thought about. The book is gone, and the illustrations go by next mail. Pray to the gods for the book—that’s all that we can do now.
I hope the foot is not any worse. You are an impatient boy, too, you know—when it comes to sitting still, instead of rushing things. Please take all good care of yourself till I run down, which will be very soon.
Affectionately,
Lafcadio.
My dear Professor,—I have been meditating, and after the meditation I came to the conclusion not to visit your charming new home again—not at least before the year 1900. I suppose that I am a beast and an ape; but I nevertheless hope to make you understand.
The situation makes me think of Béranger’s burthen,—Vive nos amis les ennemis! My friends are much more dangerous than my enemies. These latter—with infinite subtlety—spin webs to keep me out of places where I hate to go,—and tell stories of me to people whom it would be vanity and vexation to meet;—and they help me so much by their unconscious aid that I almost love them. They help me to maintain the isolation indispensable to quiet regularity of work, and the solitude which is absolutely essential to thinking upon such subjects as I am now engaged on. Blessed be my enemies, and forever honoured all them that hate me!
But my friends!—ah! my friends! They speak so beautifully of my work; they believe in it; they say they want more of it,—and yet they would destroy it! They do not know what it costs,—and they would break the wings and scatter the feather-dust, even as the child that only wanted to caress the butterfly. And they speak of communion and converse and sympathy and friendship,—all of which are indeed precious things to others, but mortally deadly to me,—representing the breaking-up of habits of industry, and the sin of disobedience to the Holy Ghost,—against whom sin shall not be forgiven,—either in this life, or in the life to come.
And they say,—Only a day,—just an afternoon or an evening. But each of them says this thing. And the sum of the days in these holidays—the days inevitable—are somewhat more than a week in addition. A week of work dropped forever into the Abyss of what might-have-been! Therefore I wish rather that I were lost upon the mountains, or cast away upon a rock, than in this alarming city of Tōkyō,—where a visit, and the forced labour of the university, are made by distance even as one and the same thing.
Now if I were to go down to your delightful little house, with my boy,—and see him kindly treated,—and chat with you about eternal things,—and yield to the charm of old days (when I must confess that you fascinated me not a little),—there is no saying what the consequences to me might eventually become. Alas! I can afford friends only on paper,—I can occasionally write,—I can get letters that give me joy; but visiting is out of the possible. I must not even think about other people’s kind words and kind faces, but work,—work,—work,—while the Scythe is sharpening within vision. Blessed again, I say, are those that don’t like me, for they do not fill my memory with thoughts and wishes contrary to the purpose of the Æons and the Eternities!
When a day passes in which I have not written—much is my torment. Enjoyment is not for me,—excepting in the completion of work. But I have not been the loser by my visits to you both—did I not get that wonderful story? And so I have given you more time than any other person or persons in Tōkyō. But now—through the seasons—I must again disappear. Perhaps le jeu ne vaudra pas la chandelle; nevertheless I have some faith as to ultimate results.
Faithfully, with every most grateful and kindly sentiment,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear Ōtani,—To-day I received the gift sent from Matsue,—and the very nice letter with which you accompanied it. I think that a better present, or one which could give me sincerer pleasure will never be received. It is a most curious thing, that strange texture,—and a most romantic thing also in its way,—seeing that the black speckling that runs through the whole woof is made by characters of letters or poems or other texts, written long ago. And I must assure you that I shall always prize it—not only because I like it, but particularly because your mother wove it. I am going to have it made into a winter kimono for my own use, which I shall always wear, according to season, in my study-room. Surely it is just the kind of texture which a man of letters ought to wear! My best thanks to you and your family,—most of all to your kind mother,—and my earnest wishes for a fortunate year to come.
Your collection of poems this month interested me a great deal in a new way—the songs separately make only a small appeal to imagination; but the tone and feeling of the mass are most remarkable, and give me a number of new ideas about the character of the “folk-work.” ...
With renewed best wishes for a happy and fortunate New Year to you and yours,
Sincerely,
Y. Koizumi.
Dear Friend,—I am afraid this letter which I am now writing will not please you altogether. Forgive anything in it which you do not like—for the sake of the friendship behind it.
The matter is difficult; and I cannot at this moment report any progress. I understand something of the matter. It is not any use to try to do anything further until I explain things as well as I can, and have heard your answer. Before I can do anything more, I want you to make some promises to me, your friend. After that you can make them to her, if you love her well enough.
To begin with, in regard to explanation, I think you are wrong, and that your wife and her father are quite right. Under the same circumstances, if I were her father, I should take her away from her husband if I could.
You are not wrong by heart—you are wrong only because you do not understand, do not know the conditions. Women of different classes cannot be all treated alike. Your wife is a refined, gentle lady—very sensitive and very easily hurt by harsh words or neglect. You cannot expect to treat such a lady like a farm-servant or a peasant-woman. It would kill her. But I have heard (not from your wife, but from other persons) that she was allowed by you to work in the garden, under a hot sun, thirty days after childbirth and the loss of her child. This seems to me a terrible thing, and you cannot have known what it means to a woman’s constitution.
A refined lady will not submit to be treated like a servant—unless she has no spirit at all. Your wife’s action shows that she has self-respect and spirit; and you want the mother of your children to be a woman of spirit and self-respect. Do not be angry with her because she shows this honourable pride. It is good.
I do not think that you can expect your wife to act as a daughter to your parents, or to live with them as a daughter exactly in the old way. Meiji has changed many things. Girls who have passed through the new schools are no longer hardy and strong like the Samurai women of old days. Observe how many of them die after a year of marriage. Then your parents and your wife belong to different eras,—different conditions,—different worlds. If they should expect your wife to be all to them that a daughter-in-law might have been in the old days, I fear that would be impossible. She has not the strength for that; and her whole nature is differently constituted.
I think you could only be happy by living alone with each other in your own house. Perhaps this seems wrong to you,—but that is Meiji. The fault is in the times, not in hearts.
If you marry another educated lady of the new school, you will have exactly the same trouble. The old conditions cannot be maintained under the new system of change.
But the chief trouble, of course, would be your attitude to your wife. You have not, I think, been considerate to her—regarded her too much as one bound to serve and obey. It will not do in her case. She has spirit, and she wants different treatment. It is better for a strong man to treat a wife exactly as he would treat a child that he loves. By her weakness and delicacy every educated woman is a child, and must be petted and loved like a child. If she be harshly treated, and have no pleasure—even if she be treated as well as you would treat a man-friend—then the result is unfortunate always, and the children born will show the mother’s pain.
Your wife is evidently afraid of the future—thinks it impossible that she can get from you the treatment or the consideration she ought to have, and must have in order to be happy. She will not say anything definite; but I am sure of this. She will not tell you her troubles—you should know them without being told. Not to know them shows the want of consideration.
The higher you go in society and in educated circles, the more the woman differs from the man. She cannot be judged or understood as a man. She becomes a distinct being with a distinct character, and very, very delicate feelings.
Well, this is enough to give you an idea of how I see the matter. Can you honestly promise to treat your wife in a completely new way,—with such delicacy as you never did before, and always? If you can, I think we can manage to do something. There is also something important to consider in regard to family matters. Can you not make this matter smooth also? Please answer before three o’clock. Do not come to the house until late this evening, or to-morrow. In haste,
Affectionately, your friend,
Y. Koizumi.
Dear Friend,—After you bid us good-bye, I began to think about things, and resolved to write you a little letter about my conclusions. Of course, because I am a foreigner, I cannot pretend to make absolutely correct conclusions; but I should like to be of use to you as a friend, and therefore believe that I cannot do any harm by presenting both sides of the question, as they appear to me.
It seems that there is one view of the matter which might not have been fully thought over yet. The woman’s side, I mean. It is true she has not stated it; but I imagine it might be this:—
A woman of cultivation, although seeming very strong, may be very sensitive and delicate—and may suffer more than a strong man can imagine possible, by reason of very little matters. When about to become a mother, her capacity for suffering greatly increases, and after childbirth it remains intense. These are natural conditions; but after the loss of a child, the condition is a very serious one, especially for a lady who has been well educated. I know this chiefly by some knowledge of medical physiology.—Now, what I mean is this: Anything that a wife does during or after pregnancy should, I believe, be not only forgiven, but lovingly forgiven,—because then, what she suffers no man can really understand. And the more educated she is, the more refined she is, the more she suffers.
Suppose now we look at her view,—or at what might be her view. She has a very affectionate and true husband; but he is very strong, has never been nervous or nervously sick, cannot understand what she suffers. She is ashamed to confess her weakness and her pain. So she does not tell him. She smiles and tries to make it appear that she is strong. The loss of her child is a very great pain to her—more than any man could understand; but she tries to forget it. Still, her husband does not know all this. She is not able to be quick and active and ready, and he does not understand why. Even a woman’s memory weakens during this painful period. Her mind is not so strong, and can only become as before after the weaning of her child, or many months after childbirth. To the strong peasant-woman this is a small trial; but to the educated lady it is a question of life and death, and not a few even lose their reason after losing a child—become insane. The physiologist knows this; but many do not. And the wife, in such a case, may seem not to be kind to the parents—simply because she cannot be. She has the will,—not the physical power. She is in the position of one who needs a servant—needs all the help and comfort she can get—all the love she can obtain. She cannot give help and do service; because neither body nor mind is strong enough. And neither is strong enough—because she has been strained to her uttermost by her years of education. It is the same way the world over. The lady cannot do or suffer as much as the woman who has not passed her youth at schools. Mind and body have been transformed by education.
Now, dear friend, I imagine that this must be the state of affairs. Your wife and her parents do not wish to do wrong, in my opinion. She feels that she is not strong enough to remain your wife under the same conditions. She cannot bear hardship, or do many things which seem to a man mere trifles, while in a delicate condition. And she fears that she would be unhappy and sick and lose another child. But she will never tell you. A woman will not tell those things. Unless a husband can understand without being told,—the two cannot live together long. The result must be, for the wife, death!
I think, dear friend, that this is the truth of the matter. Now you can separate good friends, or else—what could you do?
If I were in your place, perhaps I should try to prevent the separation. I should let the wife have her own gentle way. I should try to make her comfortable, and not ask her to help me or my parents in any way,—but only to bear my children and to love me, and to make home happy. But unless she has a good heart, I should be wrong.
There is no question, I think, about the good heart. Your wife has that, surely. It seems to me only a case of misunderstanding. Remember, dear friend, that you are a very strong man, and that you can afford to be very considerate to a weak woman, after the torture of childbirth and the loss of the love—the child-love—for which Nature has been changing the whole body. Remember also, that even your parents—not knowing the strain of this new education on the physical system of the girl—might judge her a little severely. Certainly she must love you, and wish that she could be to you all you wish.
Forgive this long letter. What I want to say is this: If it be not too late, let us try whether a reconciliation is not possible. If you can make allowances, and change conditions a little, all would be well, perhaps. If not,—if you want a stronger woman for a wife,—perhaps it is better to separate. But it would be a great pity to separate simply because of a misunderstanding. So let us try to make things as they were before.
Affectionately your friend,
Y. Koizumi.
Dear McDonald,—I got home safe and early,—thanks to your carriage! But I feel a little uneasy about you; and when you get perfectly right again in that strong back of yours, I want to hear from you—not before. Don’t imagine that I must have an answer to every scrawl. I don’t know what to say to you and the doctor,—except that you are both spoiling me. Tōkyō seems unusually tristful this rainy evening; and I feel that it is because you and the doctor are both far away,—and that the world is not really anything like what you make it appear to be.
I came up with three Americans, all of whom talked about Manila, Aguinaldo, “the people at home,” Boston, the Pennsylvania Central, Baldwin’s locomotives, the Pacific Coast,—and the commanders of the various iron-clads at Manila. It did me good to hear them. They cocked up their heels on the seats, home-fashion; and I felt sort of pulled towards them,—but we didn’t get acquainted. They knew everything about everything in the whole world; and it did one good to hear them. Wish we had a few men of that sort in the university.
It will feel lonesome in Japan after you go back: I think I should like to be one of those small eaglets that you used to supply with fish on the voyage,—and have a hen wander occasionally within reach of my rope.
Only a line before going to sleep. A stupid note—just to show that I am thinking of you. My wife is delighted with the photo, and says it is the best of all by far—in which I agree with her.
Love to you, and do take every care of your dear self.
Lafcadio.
Dear McDonald,—I suppose you have heard of a famous old drama which has for its title, “The Woman Killed with Kindness.” Presently, if you do not take care, you will be furnishing the material for a much more modern tragedy, to be called, “The Small Man Killed with Kindness.” Here I have been waiting three days to write you,—and have not been able to write, because of the extravagant and very naughty things which you have done. That whiskey! Those cigars! That wonderful beefsteak! Those imperial and sinfully splendid dinners! Those wonderful chats until ghost-time, and beyond it! And all these things—however pleasing in themselves—made like a happy dream by multitudes of little acts and words and thoughts (all observed and treasured up) that created about me an atmosphere not belonging at all to this world of Iron Facts and Granite Necessities. “Come soon again”—indeed! Catch me down there again this winter! Steep a man’s soul in azure and gold like that again, and you will utterly spoil him for those cold grey atmospheres under which alone good work can be done. It is all tropical down there at No. 20 Bund; and I must try to forget the tropics in order to finish No. 8. The last time I had such an evening was in 1889,—in a flat of Fifth Avenue, New York, where a certain divine person and I sat by a fire of drift-wood, and talked and dreamed about things. There was this difference, however, that I never could remember what passed as we chatted before that extraordinary fire (which burned blue and red and green—because of sea-ghosts in it). That was largely witchcraft, but at No. 20 Bund, without witchcraft, there is more power than that. And if I am afraid of it, it is not because I do not like it even more than the magic of Fifth Avenue, but because—No. 8 must be done quickly!
You must really promise to be less good to me if you want to see me again before the Twentieth Century. I wish I knew how to scold you properly;—but for the moment I shall drop the subject in utter despair!
I hope what you say about my being still a boy may have a grain of truth in it,—so that I can get mature enough to make you a little bit proud of encouraging me in this out-of-the-way corner of the world. But do you please take good care of that health of yours, if you want to see results: I am just a trifle uneasy about you, and you strong men have to be more careful than midges and gnats like myself. Please think twice over these little remarks.
I have no news at all for you;—there is no mail, of course, and nothing interesting in this muddy place. I can only “report progress.” I have a very curious collection of Japanese songs and ballads, with refrains, unlike any ever published in English; and I expect to make a remarkable paper out of them.
By the way, I must tell you that such enquiries as I tried to make for you on the subject of waterfalls only confirm what I told you. The mere idea of such a thing is horribly shocking to the true Japanese nature: it offends both their national and their religious sense. The Japanese love of natural beauty is not artificial, as it is to a large degree with us, but a part of the race-soul; and tens of thousands of people travel every year hundreds of miles merely to enjoy the sight and sound of a little waterfall, and to please their imagination with the old legends and poems concerning it. (The Japanese heart never could understand American willingness to use Niagara for hydraulic or electric machinery—never! And I must confess that I sympathize altogether with them.) But that is not all: the idea of a foreigner using a waterfall for such a purpose would seem to millions of very good, lovable people like a national outrage. The bare suggestion would excite horror. Of course there are men like —— who have suppressed in themselves all these feelings,—but they represent an almost imperceptible minority. They regard the ruin of Fairy-land as certain;—but the mass are still happy in their dreams of the old beauty and the old gods.
Lafcadio.
Dear McDonald,—Our scare is pretty nearly over;—the fever was broken to-day, and we had a consultation of doctors. It seems to have been pneumonia of the nasty, sudden kind. The little fellow never lost his senses; but for part of yesterday he lost all power to speak. I think he will get strong from now. The other boy got laid up about the same time, but much less severely. The night they caught cold, the thermometer went down to 26°, and the change was too much for them. By constant care for a few days, I think we shall have them all right again: then I shall hope, either to coax you up here, or go down to see you—if only to shake hands. So far I am lucky; for I have been working like a Turk, and keeping well. Work is an excellent thing to keep a fellow from worrying, and my “self-confidence” is growing in the proper cautious way again.
What a funny, funny episode is that story of Lieutenant Hobson, shipped to Manila to keep him from being kissed to death by pretty girls! Wonder if he would not prefer to face the Santiago forts again? The incident is quite peculiarly American, and pretty in its way: it ought to make heroes multiply. There is something to be a hero for,—to have one’s pick of the finest girls in the country. Still I have been thinking that most of us would feel shy about marrying the woman who would stand up and ask for a kiss in a theatre. It is the same sort of enthusiasm that makes women tear out their earrings, and throw them on the stage when a Liszt or a Gottschalk is improvising. I see no reason why heroism should arouse less enthusiasm and affection than musical skill; but don’t you think that in either case we should prefer the silent admiration of the giver that doesn’t lose her head, but remains strongly self-controlled—“all in an iron glow,” as Ruskin calls it? When the brave lieutenant wants a wife, I fancy he will be looking for that kind of woman, rather than the other.
There is no news for me by mail,—but we shall have another mail next week, I suppose. The university course runs smoothly: this is my third year; and my subject happens to be the 19th century, in which I feel more at home than in the other branches of the subject. Fancy! I am lecturing now on Swinburne’s poetry. They would not allow me to do this in a Western university perhaps—yet Swinburne, as to form, is the greatest 19th century poet of England. But he has offended the conventions; and they try to d—n him with silence. I believe you can trust me to do him justice here, when I get the chance.
Affectionately,
Lafcadio.
Dear McDonald,—Everything is bright and sunny with us again: we have to keep the boys in a warm room, and nurse them carefully, but they are safe now. I shall never forget your kindest sympathy, and the doctor’s generous message. Am I bad for not writing sooner? To tell the truth I was a little tired out myself, and got a touch of cold; but I’m solid and shipshape again, and full of hope to see you. I shall have no more duties until Tuesday morning (31st); so, if you will persist in risking a bad lunch and an uncomfortable room, and the trouble of travelling to Tōkyō, I shall be waiting for you. I think you ought to come up once more, anyhow. I want you to see yourself vis-à-vis with Elizabeth. I want to chat about things. (No mail yet at this writing.) If you cannot conveniently come this week, come just when you please any afternoon between Fridays (inclusive) and Mondays.
Odin said, in the Hávamál,—“I counsel thee, if thou hast a trusty friend, go and see him often; because a road which is seldom trod gets choked with brambles and high grass.”
This is a case of “don’t-do-as-I-do,—but-do-as-I-tell-you”—isn’t it? Besides, I am not worth a d—n as a friend, anyhow. I quote these most ancient verses only because you expressed an interest in them during our last delightful chat;—but whether you come or no, brambles will never grow upon the pathway.
Lafcadio.
Dear McDonald,—I have just got your dear letter: don’t think me neglectful for not writing to you sooner;—this is the heavy part of the term; and the weather has been trying me.
Well, I am glad to hear that you have read a book called “Exotics and Retrospectives.” I have not seen it. Where did it come from? How did you get it? When was it sent? Did the doctor get his copy? (Don’t answer these questions by letter in a hurry: I am not asking very seriously,—as I suppose I shall get my copies by the Doric.)
I have been doing nothing to speak of lately: too tired after a day’s work,—and the literary jobs on hand are mechanical mostly,—uninteresting,—mere ruts of duty. I hate everything mechanical; but romances do not turn up every day.
Thanks for your interest in my lecture-work; but you would be wrong in thinking the lectures worth printing. They are only dictated lectures—dictated out of my head, not from notes even: so the form of them cannot be good. Were I to rewrite each of them ten or fifteen times, I might print them. But that would not be worth while. I am not a scholar, nor a competent critic of the best; there are scores of men able to do the same thing incomparably better. The lectures are good for the Tōkyō University, however,—because they have been adapted, by long experience, to the Japanese student’s way of thinking and feeling, and are put in the simplest possible language. But when a professor in Japan prints his lectures, the authorities think they have got all that he knows in hand, and are likely to look about for a new man. It is bad policy to print anything of the kind here, and elsewhere the result would be insignificant. I had better reserve my force for work that other people cannot do better,—or at least won’t do.
Affectionately,
Lafcadio.
Dear McDonald,—You should never take the pains to answer the details of my letters: it is very sweet of you to do it,—but it means the trouble of writing, as it were, with a sense of affectionate obligation, and it also means the trouble of re-reading, line by line, letters which are not worth reading more than once—if even once. Please forget my letters always, and write whatever you like, and don’t think that I expect you to take me very seriously. Why, I cannot even take myself always very seriously!—By the way, that was a very pretty simile of yours about the nebula condensing into a sun. But the nucleus, to tell the truth, has not yet begun to integrate: there is a hardening here and there upon the outermost edges only,—which is possibly contrary to the law that makes great suns.
It is pleasant to know that the sickness was not very severe. Still, I am inclined to suspect that you underrate it. Naval men always call a typhoon “a gale,” or “a smart breeze”—don’t they?
I did receive a book and various letters, and I have had by this mail four requests for autographs—two from England. The book I would send you if it were worth it, but it is a very stupid attempt at an anti-Christian-Spiritist-Theosophico-Buddhist novel, written anonymously. I don’t like this kind of thing, unless it be extremely well done, and does not meddle with “astral bodies,” “luminiferous ether,” and “sendings.” There has been so much disgusting nonsense written about Buddhism by Theosophists and Spiritists that ridicule is unjustly sprinkled upon the efforts of impartial men to explain the real beauties and truths of Eastern religion.
Affectionately,
Lafcadio.