Suppose I try to illustrate by reference to the scope of human thinking in general. Ethical theology might be represented then as an inverted pyramid,—thus ; hard, skeptical science by a larger figure, pressing it down; the highest philosophy by a circle,—something like this figure. The largest thought accepts all, surrounds all, absorbs all,—like light itself. The ugly and the beautiful, the ignorant and the wise, the virtuous and the vile,—all come within its recognition; nature and sins as well as societies and clubs,—prisons and churches, brothels and houses. The very duties of observation forced upon you compel two things: the study of all moral and material details; the study of all combinations and wholes. And the larger the grasp of the whole the larger must become your power and value; for you will have to see eternal laws working down out of the unknown and thereafter ramifying and inter-ramifying into innumerable actions, reactions, disintegrations, and crystallizations. The horrible thing about business, men say, is that it considers men as pawns. But if your sight becomes large enough,—if your thought widens enough,—you must look upon men as pawns. To be a brother to all you cannot. To be a friend to many you cannot. You become the agent—not of the Commercial Union Assurance Co. only,—but the special agent of infinite laws; and if you act efficiently in that capacity, you cannot do very wrong. The Cosmos will be responsible for you.
The business man to-day is the king of the earth; merchants and bankers are the rulers, and will for all time be, while industrialism continues necessary. They seek and win power, and all the good things of life; they also prevent others from getting either. They may not be poets, philosophers, didactic teachers, artists; but their mental organization is undoubtedly the highest,—because its achievements represent the mastery of the highest difficulties, the deepest problems, the most intricate riddles. Certainly this higher organization is obtained at a heavy cost in the majority of cases. The emotions dry up in the evolution of it, and the moral sense weakens. But because this must happen in the majority of cases when any new faculty is being developed, it is far from happening in all. The man whose vision is vast enough can scarcely do more evil than a god. He cannot injure his world voluntarily without suffering from his own action. He must study his world as a naturalist his ant-hill. And even as a God he must feel the ultimate evil and good is not of him; but is being forever viewlessly woven in Shadow by the Fates of the Infinite,—whose distaff twists the thread of his own life, and whose will guides his own courses.
The great desire would be for the combination of emotion with knowledge, of philosophy with mathematics, of Plato with a Napoleon, or Spinoza with a Gould. This will come. Now it is very rare....
You might reply, “In the present order of things the combination would ruin the working-power of the man. The Gould could not act the Gould if combined with the Spinoza,—nor could the Napoleon se foule de la vie d‘un million d’hommes if crossed with a Plato.”
I would answer, “Not in the elder generation, but why not to-day? If the moral laws that in a Spinoza would have checked a Gould, or in a Plato checked a Napoleon, were essentially limited in other years, are they so to-day? If the two philosophers had had larger horizons of thinking, would they have recognized a tether,—or would they not rather have viewed themselves as mere force-atoms in an infinite electric stream? Are there not now recognitions of laws transcending all human ethics?—laws of which Goethe threw out such weird suggestions?—and must not business, from its very nature, drift into the knowledge of these laws?”
To-day, it is true, the highest possible type of business man would have to follow the small policy of the majority. But certainly he can be like one of those compound double-engines,—whereof the best half is kept idle in reserve,—always oiled and speckless and ready for rare emergencies or opportunities. If something within you regrets something else that is passing away, that need not be any alarming sign. The mere fact that the regret exists, indicates higher possibilities. Don’t you remember Emerson’s extraordinary lines,—
The dear little psyche is going? Well, let her go! Regret her a little—that is sweet and good. Feel lonesome for her awhile. Wait. Then make yourself a new soul, large enough to wrap round the whole world, like the Æther.
Faithfully ever,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear Page,—Though I never hear from you directly, the T.-D. brings me occasionally very emphatic proof that I am not forgotten, and am perhaps forgiven. So I venture a line or two, hoping you will not show the letter to anybody.
I told you some years ago I was married; but I did not tell you I had a son,—who is, of course, dearer than my own life to me. Curiously, he is neither like his mother nor like me: he takes after some English ancestor,—for he is grey-eyed, fair-haired (curly chestnut), and wonderfully strong: he is going, if he lives, to be a remarkably powerful man; and, I hope, a more sensible man than his foolish dad.
Well, now two perils menace me. First, the immense reaction of Japan,—reasserting her individuality against all foreign influence, which has resulted in the discharge of most of the high-paid foreign employees; secondly, the war with China. The Japanese—essentially a fighting race, as Bantams are—will probably win the battles every time; but if China be in dead, bitter earnest, she will win the war. (Probably her chances will be snatched from her by foreign intervention.) But whatever be the end of this enormous complication, Japan is going to empty her treasury. The chances for Government employees are dwindling: my contract runs only till March, and the chances are 0.
Of course, I can peg along somehow,—getting odd jobs from newspapers, etc., doing a little teaching of English, French, or Spanish. I can’t help thinking I would do better to go abroad—especially at a time when every American 100 cents is worth nearly 200 Japanese cents.
Here goes. Could you get me anything to do if I started in the spring for America? I mean something good enough to save money at. I am past all nonsense now, and for myself only would need very little. But it would not be for myself that I should go. I should want to be sure of being able to send money to Japan, by confining my own wants to good living and an occasional book or two. If you could get me something anywhere south of Mason and Dixon’s line, I should try to be practically grateful in some way. I am not in the least desirous of seeing Boston or New York or Philadelphia—or being obliged to exist by machinery. I would rather infinitely be in Memphis or Charleston or Mobile or—glorious Florida.
Or can you get me anything educational in Spanish-America? I could scarcely take my people to the U.S.,—but to South America I might try later on. I am now 44, and all grey as a badger. Unless I can make enough to educate my boy well, I don’t know what I am worth,—but I feel that I shall have precious little time to do it in. Add 20 to 44,—and how much is left of a man?
Perhaps you will think—if I am worth thinking about at all: “Well, why were you such a d——d fool as to go and have a son?” Ask the gods! Really I don’t know.
Ever faithfully—or, as the Japanese would say, unfaithfully,—yours,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear Hendrick,— ... We were chatting last time about the morality of business. Now let me tell you how the question strikes an intelligent Japanese student.
“Sir, what was your opinion when you first came to our country about the old-fashioned Japanese? Please be frank with me.”
“You mean the old men, who still preserve the old customs and courtesy,—men like Mr. Akizuki, the Chinese teacher?”
“Yes.”
“I think they were much better men than the Japanese of to-day. They seemed to me like the ideals of their own gods realized. They seemed to me all that was good and noble.”
“And do you still think as well of them?”
“I think better of them, if anything. The more I see the Japanese of the new generation, the more I admire the men of the old.”
“But you must have, as a foreigner, also observed their defects.”
“What defects?”
“Such weaknesses or faults as foreigners would observe.”
“No. According as a man is more or less perfectly adapted to the society to which he belongs, so is he to be judged as a citizen and as a man. To judge a man by the standards of a society totally different to his own would not be just.”
“That is true.”
“Well, judged by that standard, the old-fashioned Japanese were perfect men. They represented fully all the virtues of their society. And that society was morally better than ours.”
“In what respect?”
“In kindness, in benevolence, in generosity, in courtesy, in heroism, in self-sacrifice, in simple faith, in loyalty, in self-control,—in the capacity to be contented with a little,—in filial piety.”
“But would those qualities you admire in the old Japanese suffice for success in Western life—practical success?”
“Why, no.”
“The qualities required for practical success in a Western country are just those qualities which the old Japanese did not possess, are they not?”
“I am sorry to say they are.”
“And the old Japanese society cultivated those qualities of unselfishness and courtesy and benevolence which you admire at the sacrifice of the individual. But Western society cultivates the individual by a competition in mere powers—intellectual power, power of calculating and of acting?”
“Yes.”
“But in order that Japan may be able to keep her place among nations, she must adopt the industrial and financial methods of the West. Her future depends upon industry and commerce; and these cannot be developed if we continue to follow our ancient morals and manners.”
“Why?”
“Not to be able to compete with the West means ruin; yet in order to compete with the West, we must follow the methods of the West,—and these are contrary to the old morality.”
“Perhaps—”
“I do not think there is any ‘perhaps.’ To do any business on a large scale, we must not be checked by the idea that we should never take any advantage if another be injured by it. Those who are checked by emotional feeling, where no check is placed upon competition, must fail. The law of what you call the struggle for existence is that the strong and clever succeed, and the weak and foolish fail. But the old morality condemned such competition.”
“Then, sir, no matter how good the old morality may seem to be, we can neither make any great progress in industry or commerce or finance, nor even preserve our national independence, by following it. We must forsake our past, and substitute law for morality.”
“But it is not a good substitute.”
“It seems to me that it has proved a good substitute in Western countries—England especially—if we are to judge by material progress. We will have to learn to be moral by reason, not by emotion. Knowledge of law, and the reasons for obeying law, must teach a rational morality of some sort at last.”
Pretty good reasoning for a Japanese boy, wasn’t it? He goes to the university next month,—a splendid fellow. Later the Government is to send him abroad.
Ever faithfully,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear Nishida,—Many, many best thanks for the excellent photograph of yourself, and your kindest letter. The photograph brought so vividly before me again the kind eyes that saw so much for me, and the kind lips that told me so many wise, good things, and advised me and helped me so much,—- that I could not but feel more sorry than ever at having missed you.
Mr. Senke has sent me the most beautiful letter, which I hope to answer by this same mail. What a divine thing the old Japanese courtesy was! and how like Kami sama the dear old men who remember it, and preserve it. Of course Mr. Senke is a young man, but his courtesy is the old courtesy. The high schools seem to me to be ruining Japanese manners, and therefore morals—because morals are manners to a certain extent. Those who lose the old ways never replace them; they cannot learn foreign courtesy, which is largely a matter of tone,—tone of voice, address, touch of minds, and benevolence in small things, which is our politeness. So they remain without any manners at all, and their hearts get hardened in some queer way. They cease to be lovable, and often become unbearable. I hope the great reaction will bring back, among other things, some of the knightly old ways.
I send a reprint of my last Japanese story. Hope my book will reach you soon, and will not displease you. Of course, you will find in it many mistakes—as any book written by a foreigner must be rich in errors. But the general effect of the book will not be bad, I think. I am now trying to write a sketch about Yuko Hatakeyama, the girl who killed herself at Kyōto in May, 1891, for loyalty’s sake. The fact is full of wonderful meaning—as indicating a national sentiment.
Kazuo is crawling about, opening drawers, and causing much trouble. His eyes have again changed colour,—from blue to brown, like my own; but his hair remains chestnut. His upper teeth are well out, and everybody wonders how strong he is. He has one Japanese virtue: he does not cry, and keeps his self-control even when hurt. I hope he will keep all these traits. My whole anxiety is now about him: I must send him, or, if possible, take him abroad—for a scientific education, if he prove to have a good head. That will be expensive. But I hope to do it. I do not think a father should leave his son alone in a foreign school, if it can be helped: he ought to be always near him, until manhood. And Setsu would feel at home soon in France or in Italy,—at least at home enough to bear the life until Kazuo could get through a course or two.
The foreign community sorrows about the war,—naturally. Business is paralyzed. Every one feels the Japanese will win the fights. But who will win the war? That might be a question of money. Japan is daring to do what the richest country in Europe fears to do—because it costs so much to fight China. And some of the Izumo boys are out there in the rice-fields of Chosön. I trust they will pass safely through all perils. Please send me any news of them you can.
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear Hendrick,—If ever I must go to America, I hope I can keep out of New York. The great nightmare of it always dwells with me,—moos at me in the night, especially in the time of earthquakes. Of London I should be much less afraid. But in such great cities I do not think a literary man can write any literature. Certainly not if he has to stay in the heart of the clockwork. Society withers him up—unless he have been born into the manner of it; and the complexities of the vast life about him he never could learn. Fancy a good romance about Wall Street,—so written that the public could understand it! There is, of course, a tremendous romance there; but only a financier can really know the machinery, and his knowledge is technical. But what can the mere littérateur do, walled up to heaven in a world of mathematical mystery and machinery! Your own city of Albany is a paradise compared to the metropolis: you are really very fortunate—very, very happy to be able to live at home.
Of course, there is a philosophy of good manners—too much of it, eh? There is Emerson, all suggestive,—but touching eternal truths in his essays on conduct, behaviour, etc.; and there is Spencer, who traces back the history of nearly all good manners to the earliest period of savagery and perpetual war. (You know about the origin of the bow, of our forms of address, and of the forms of prayer.) Politeness survives longest and develops most elaborately under militant conditions, and diminishes in exact proportion as militancy decreases. That there should be less politeness in America than in other countries, and less in the Northern States than in the Southern, might be expected. This was true as to both conditions: it is now true probably only as to the first. With the growth of industrialism,—the sense of equal chances, at least of equal rights before the law,—the abolition of class distinctions,—fine manners vanish more or less. Nevertheless I fancy that under all the American roughness and lack of delicacy, or of that politeness which means “benevolence in small things,” there is growing up a vast, deep feeling of human brotherhood,—of genuine kindliness, which may show itself later under stabler conditions. All now is unsettled. It is said that nearly all our formal politeness must eventually disappear under conditions of industrialism, and be replaced by something more real and more agreeable,—kindly consideration, and natural desire to please. But that will be in ages and ages only after we are dead. There must be an end of all fighting first,—of cruelty in competition, and this cannot happen until with intellectual expansion, population ceases to so increase as to enforce competition without mercy.
The tendency now (referring to what you said about trusts) seems to point indeed to what Spencer calls “The Coming Slavery.” Monopolies and trusts must continue to grow and multiply,—must eventually tend to coalesce,—must ultimately hold all. Bellamy’s ideas will be partly carried out, but in no paradisaical manner. The State itself will become the one monstrous trust. Socialism will be promised all, and be compelled to work against its own ends unconsciously. The edifice is even now being reared in which every man will be a veritable slave to the State,—the State itself a universal monopoly, or trust. Then every life will be regulated to infinitesimal details, and the working population of the whole West find themselves situated just as men in factories or on railroads are situated. The trust will be nominally for the universal benefit, and must for a time so seem to be. But just so surely as human nature is not perfect, just so surely will the directing class eventually exploit the wonderful situation,—just as some Roman rulers exploited the world. Assuredly anarchy will eventuate; but first,—in spite of all that human wisdom can do,—nations will pass under the most fearful tyranny ever known. And perhaps centuries of persistent effort will scarcely suffice to burst the fetters which Socialism now seeks to impose on human society;—the machinery will be too frightfully perfect, too harmonious in operation, too absolutely exact and of one piece,—to be easily attacked. As well try with naked hands to pierce the side of an iron-clad. The law, the police, the military power, religious influence, commercial and industrial interests,—all will be as One, working to preserve the form of the new socialism. To seek redress, to demand change, were then sheer madness. And even the power to flee away out of the land, to dwell among beasts and birds, might be denied. Liberty of opinion, which we all boast of now, would be then less possible than in the time of the sway of Torquemada....
You have heard of the Japanese facile victories by land and sea. I should not be surprised to hear of their winning every engagement, and capturing Pekin. But what the end will be for the country, who can say? The whole thing is the last huge effort of the race for national independence. Under the steady torturing pressure of our industrial civilization,—being robbed every year by unjust treaties,—Japan has determined to show her military power to the world by attacking her old teacher, China. At the same time she has asked and obtained from England such revision of the treaty as would not only protect her against the danger of large fresh investments of foreign capital, but would probably result in driving existing capital away. I cannot think that the United States will be short-sighted enough to grant the same terms. For instance, though the country is to be opened to foreign settlement, no Englishman can hold land except on lease; and the lease, by Japanese law, expires with the death of the lessor. So that if I build a stone house, and my landlord die in twenty years after, I must be at the mercy of his heir, or carry away my house on my back.
It is an ugly business, this war. It may leave Japan absolutely independent, as in the days of Ieyasu. But will that be best for her? I am no longer sure. The people are still good. The upper classes are becoming corrupt. The old courtesy, the old faith, the old kindness are vanishing like snow in sun.
Ever affectionately,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear Mr. Ochiai,— ... I was much interested in what your letter related about the doves leaving Kizuki, and about the O mamori. It is a curious fact that nearly the same story is told in Kumamoto, in regard to Katō Kiyomasa. At the Nichiren temple of Hommyōji the helmet, armour, and sword of the great Captain were always preserved. Lately they disappeared, and some say they were sent to Korea,—to stimulate the zeal of the army. But some of the people say that in the night horse-hoofs were heard in the temple court; and that a great shadowy horseman, in full armour, was seen to pass. So it is whispered that Kiyomasa rose up from his grave, and buckled on his armour, and departed to lead the Imperial Armies to glory and conquest.
Thanks also for the very interesting note about the Emperor Go-Daigo. You know I visited the place where he lived at Oki, and the little village—Chiburi-mura—from which he made his escape in the fishermen’s boat.
What you said about the mamori of the soldier reminds me that at the ujigami here little charms are being given to thousands of soldiers. They are very narrow, and contrived so as to be slipped into the lining (ura) of a uniform.
Thanks for your two kindest letters. I shall write you again another day,—this is only my answer to one of your two letters; the other I still owe you for.
Best wishes and regards to you always.
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear Hendrick,—So it was you that sent me “Trilby”—the magical thing! I never knew till the Spencer came, and Kipling’s “Jungle Book.” And the joke is that I thanked another man for the gift of “Trilby,” and the beast never let on. And I wrote a two and one-half column review of “Trilby” to please him. Oh! you rascal! why didn’t you tell me? Love to you for “Trilby.” ...
Glad you liked my first book on Japan. The Tribune essay vexed me.... The curious fact of the article was the statement about the influence of the decadents and of Verlaine being “apparent.” Never read a line of Verlaine in my life,—and only know enough of the decadent school to convince me that the principle is scientifically wrong, and that to study the stuff is mere waste of time.
I am writing one article a day for 100 yen a month. Exchange is so low now that the 100 represents something less than 50 in American money. And my eyes, or eye, giving out. Curious!—cold seriously affects my remnant of sight. If I had a few thousand I should go to a hot climate during the winter months. Heat gives me good vision. Even a Japanese hot bath temporarily restores clearness of sight....
Of course, we shall never see each other again in this world. And what is the use of being unkind—after all? Life to us literary folk—small and great—is so short, and we are never in competition, like business men who must compete—what is the use of meanness? I suppose there must be some use. The effect is certainly to convince a man of “fourty-four” that the less he has to do with his fellow men the better,—or, at least, that the less he has to do with the so-called “cultured” the better....
The other day you told me of some queer changes in your inner life wrought by the influences of the outer. In my case the changes are very unpleasant. I can’t feel towards men generally any longer as I used to—I feel, in short, a little misanthropic. The general facts seem to be that all realities of relations between men are of self-interest in the main; that the pleasures of those relations are illusions—dependent upon youth, power, position, etc., for degree of intensity. No man, as a general rule, shows his soul to another man; he shows it only to a woman,—and then only with the assurance that she won’t give him away. As a matter of fact, she can’t:—the Holy Ghost takes care of that! No woman unveils herself to another woman—only to a man; and what she unveils he cannot betray. He can only talk of her body, if he is brute enough to wish to: the inner being, of which he has had some glimpses, can be pictured only in a language which he cannot use. But what a fighting masked-ball the whole thing is!
Have you read Huxley’s views on Ethics and Evolution? They have been a great revelation to me. They make it perfectly plain why men cannot be good to one another on general principles without causing trouble in the order of the universe. They also explain the immorality of Nature. Cosmic principles afford explanations of—but not consolations for—individual experiences.
L. H.
Dear Hendrick,—Of course I shall teach the “Jungle Book” to the little fellow, when he gets big enough. How pretty of you to send it. I sent some little prints—don’t know if you like them; in an album they would perhaps interest your friends who have not been in Japan. I shall look out for seeds for you regularly hereafter.
About Emerson. Last spring I got a pretty edition of him from H. M. & Co. and I digested him. He is only suggestive, but wondrously so at times, as in his poems. As a suggester he will always be great. The talk about his truisms must depend upon the knowledge of the speaker. Emerson will be large or small,—commonplace or profound,—according to the reader’s knowledge of the thought of the age.
My reading out here has been pretty heavy. I have had to digest a good deal of Buddhist and Chinese stuff, of course. My philosophical favourites are still Spencer and Huxley, Lewes and Fiske and Clifford. I made Kipling’s acquaintance out here (I mean his books), and told you what I think of him. Next to Kipling I like Stevenson. But I have really read very little of anything new. Browning is a pet study still. Somehow I have tired of Tennyson—don’t exactly know why.
The labour of a mother is something which, I imagine, no man without a child can understand. We big folks forget what our own mothers did for us,—and we have no real chance to see all that other mothers do. My whole family are always caring for the boy: his interest and necessities rule the whole house,—but the mother!! for a single hour she has no rest with him (Japanese give the breast for two years)—no sleep except when he allows it,—and yet it all is joy for her. How they have already taught him Japanese politeness, how to prostrate himself before his father the first thing in the morning and last at night,—to ask for things, putting his hands in the proper way,—to smile,—to know the names of things before he can pronounce them,—I can’t understand. Angel-patience and love alone could have done it. I want her to wean him—but she won’t hear of it; and the old grandmother gets angry at the mere idea. It is only in home-relation that people are true enough to each other,—show what human nature is—the beauty of it, the divinity of it. We are otherwise all on our guard against each other. I cannot say how happy I think you are—you can see Souls without armour or mail,—loving you. That is the joy of life, after all—isn’t it?
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear Nishida,—I have just written to Mr. Senke, to apologize for delay in sending my annual contribution—which I had hoped to be able to do as a Japanese citizen. But this may give me a chance to write again, when I get naturalized.
The Governor of Hyōgo did a very strange thing—informed the British Consul that I was to make a declaration in writing, presumably before the Consul, that I intended to be faithful to the Emperor of Japan, and to obey the laws. I did make the declaration; and the Consul is kind enough to forward it. But I believe he is doing this out of personal kindness; for I do not think it is according to English ideas, much less English laws, for a Consul to accept such a declaration at all. Indeed, what was asked was equivalent to requesting the English Consul to accept an English subject’s renunciation of allegiance to Queen Victoria,—and I am astonished that the Consul, who is a rigid disciplinarian, in this case allowed me to submit to him any declaration on the subject. One thing is sure, that others who want to become Japanese subjects are going to have plenty of trouble. These measures are entirely new, and quite different to anything ever before exacted—for example, in the case of Warburton and other Kōbe residents who became Japanese subjects, perhaps for business reasons.
I am thinking of building Setsu a house, either in Kōbe or Kyōto. When I say Kōbe, I mean Hyōgo, really; for I cannot well afford to buy land at $40 to $70 per tsubo in the back streets of Kōbe. In Hyōgo, I can do better. Setsu and I both agree that Kōbe is warmer than Kyōto; but, except for the winter months, I should rather live in Kyōto than in any part of Japan. Tōkyō is the most horrible place in Japan, and I want to live in it just as short a time as possible. The weather is atrocious;—the earthquakes are fearsome;—the foreign element and the Japanese officialism of Tōkyō must be dreadful. I want to feel and see Japan: there is no Japan in Tōkyō. But in spite of all I say, Setsu thinks of Tōkyō just as a French lady thinks of Paris. After she has passed a winter there, perhaps she will not like Tōkyō so much. I imagine that she thinks the Tōkyō,—the really beautiful Tōkyō—of the old picture-books, and the bank-bills, still exists. Then she knows all the famous names—the names of the bridges and streets and temples,—and these are associated in her mind with the dramas and the famous stories and legends of Japan. Perhaps I should love Tōkyō just as much as she does, if I knew the history and the traditions of the country as well.
You will be pleased to hear that my books are attracting considerable attention now in England. It is very hard to win attention there, but much more important than to win it in America. “Out of the East” has made more impression in England than my first book did. I don’t know what will be said of “Kokoro:” it is a terribly “radical” book—at variance with all English conventions and beliefs. However, if you and my few Japanese friends like it, I shall be happy.
I wish you were here to eat some plum-pudding with me.
Oh! I forgot to tell you that Finck, who wrote that book about Japan, is rather celebrated (perhaps celebrated is too strong a word—well known is better) as the author of a book called “Romantic Love and Personal Beauty.”
Ever faithfully,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear Hendrick:—Three books and a catalogue reached me—Mallock, Kipling, and a volume by Morris—for which more than thanks the value much exceeding, I fear, the slight difference between us.
It now seems to me that time is the most precious of all things conceivable. I can’t waste it by going out to hear people talk nonsense,—or by going to see pretty girls whom I can’t marry, being married already,—or by playing games of cards, etc., to kill time,—or by answering letters written me by people who have neither real fine feeling nor real things to say. Of course I might on occasion do some one of these things,—but, having done it, I feel that so much of my life has been wasted—sinfully wasted. There are rich natures who can afford the waste; but I can’t, because the best part of my life has been wasted in wrong directions and I shall have to work like thunder till I die to make up for it. I shall never do anything remarkable; but I think I have caught sight of a few truths on the way.
I might say that I have become indifferent to personal pleasures of any sort,—except sympathy and sympathetic converse; but this might represent a somewhat morbid state. What is more significant, I think, is the feeling that the greatest pleasure is to work for others,—for those who take it as a matter of course that I should do so, and would be as much amazed to find me selfish about it as if an earthquake had shaken the house down. Really I am not affecting to think this; I feel it so much that it has become a part of me.
Then of course, I like a little success and praise,—though a big success and big praise would scare me; but I find that even the little praise I have been getting has occasionally unhinged my judgement. And I have to be very careful.
Next, I have to acknowledge to feeling a sort of resentment against certain things in which I used to take pleasure. I can’t look at a number of the Petit Journal pour Rire or the Charivari without vexation, almost anger. I can’t find pleasure in a French novel written for the obvious purpose of appealing to instincts that interfere with perception of higher things than instincts. I would not go to see the Paris opera if it were next door and I had a free ticket—or, if I did go, it would be for the sake of observing the pleasure given to somebody else. I should not like to visit the most beautiful lady and be received in evening dress. You see how absurd I have become—and this without any idea of principle about the matter, except the knowledge that I ought to avoid everything which does not help the best of myself—small as it may be. Whenever by chance I happen to make a deviation from this general rule, work suffers in consequence.
I think that on the whole I am gaining a little in the path; but I have regular fits of despondency and disgust about my work, of course. One day I think I have done well; the next that I am a hideous ass and fool. Much is a question of nervous condition. But I feel sure that a long-continued period of self-contentment would be extremely injurious to me; and that checks and failures and mockeries are indispensable medicine.
I read the books you sent me—Mallock only because you wished me to read it. I suppose it is the very best thing he ever did. How immensely clever and keen and—immoral! It is a wonderful thing.
“The Wood beyond the World” astounded me. Its value is in the study of the quaint English; but you know that such a thing could not be written in modern English prose very well; and I must say that I feel like disputing the raison d’être thereof. It is simply a very naughty story.
Kipling is priceless,—the single story of Purim Bagat is worth a kingdom; and the suggestive moral of human life is such a miracle! I can’t tell you what pleasure it gave me. Indeed the three books—as representing three totally distinct fields of literary work—were a great treat.
My boy is quite well again, though we were very frightened about him. He suffers from the cold every winter (you know the Japanese never have fire in winter), but he is getting hardier, I trust. He is very fond of pictures and says funny things about the pictures in the “Jungle Book.” I am off to the Southern Islands shortly,—so you may not hear from me for some weeks.
Ever affectionately,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Since I wrote you last, you dear old fellow, I’ve been through some trouble. Indeed, the very day after writing you, I broke down, and had to remain three weeks with compresses over my eyes in a dark room. I am now over it—able to write and read for a short time every day, but have been warned to leave routine newspaper work alone. Which I must do.
Your letter was—well, I don’t just know what to call its quality:—there was a bracing tenderness in it that reminded me of a college friendship. Really, in this world there is nothing quite so holy as a college friendship. Two lads,—absolutely innocent of everything wrong in the world or in life,—living in ideals of duty and dreams of future miracles, and telling each other all their troubles, and bracing each other up. I had such a friend once. We were both about fifteen when separated, but had been together from ten. Our friendship began with a fight, of which I got the worst;—then my friend became for me a sort of ideal, which still lives. I should be almost afraid to ask where he is now (men grow away from each other so): but your letter brought his voice and face back,—just as if his very ghost had come in to lay a hand on my shoulder....
Kōbe is a nice little place. The effect on me is not pleasant, however. I have become too accustomed to the interior. The sight of foreign women—the sound of their voices—jars upon me harshly after long living among purely natural women with soundless steps and softer speech. (I fear the foreign women here, too, are nearly all of the savagely bourgeoise style—affected English and affected American ways prevail.) Carpets,—dirty shoes,—absurd fashions,—wickedly expensive living,—airs,—vanities,—gossip: how much sweeter the Japanese life on the soft mats,—with its ever dearer courtesy and pretty, pure simplicity. Yet my boy can never be a Japanese. Perhaps, if he grows old, there will some day come back to him memories of his mother’s dainty little world,—the hibachi,—the toko,—the garden,—the lights of the household shrine,—the voices and hands that shaped his thought and guided every little tottering step. Then he will feel very, very lonesome,—and be sorry he did not follow after those who loved him into some shadowy resting-place where the Buddhas still smile under their moss....
Ever affectionately,
Lafcadio.
Dear Chamberlain,—I’m able now to write and read a little every day—not much, as to reading: writing tires the eyes less. Glad you like “Glimpses,” as I see by your last kind letter. Of course it is full of faults: any work written in absolute isolation must be. It’s taking, though: the publishers announce a third edition already, and the notices have been good—in America, enthusiastic. The Athenæum praised it fervidly; but a few English papers abuse it. The mixture of blame and praise means literary success generally.
The earthquakes are really horrible. I can sympathize with you.
The sensation of foreign life here is very unpleasant, after life in the interior. A foreign interior is a horror to me; and the voices of the foreign women—China-Coast tall women—jar upon the comfort of existence. Can’t agree with you about the “genuine men and women” in the open ports. There are some—very, very few. (Thank the Gods I shall never have to live among them!) The number of Germans here makes life more tolerable, I fancy. They are plain, but homely, which is a virtue, and liberal, which commercial English or Americans (the former especially) seldom are. They have their own club and a good library. But life in Yunotsu or Hino-misaki, or Oki, with only the bare means for Japanese comfort, were better and cleaner and higher in every way than the best open ports can offer.
The Japanese peasant is ten times more of a gentleman than a foreign merchant could ever learn to be. Unfortunately the Japanese official, with all his civility and morality rubbed off, is something a good deal lower than a savage and meaner than the straight-out Western rough (who always has a kernel of good in him) by an inexpressible per cent. Carpets—pianos—windows—curtains—brass bands—churches! how I hate them!! And white shirts!—and yōfuku! Would I had been born savage; the curse of civilized cities is on me—and I suppose I can’t get away permanently from them. You like all these things, I know. I’m not expecting any sympathy—but thought you might like to know about the effect on me of a half-return to Western life. How much I could hate all that we call civilization I never knew before. How ugly it is I never could have conceived without a long sojourn in old Japan—the only civilized country that existed since antiquity. Them’s my sentiments!
I have not yet been able to read Lowell’s new book through. But he must have worked tremendously to write it. It is a very clever book—though disfigured by absolutely shameless puns. It touches truths to the quick,—with a light sharp sting peculiar to Lowell’s art. It is painfully unsympathetic—Mephistophelian in a way that chills me. It is scientific—but the fault of it strikes me as being that the study is applicable equally to Europe or America as to Japan. The same psychical phenomena may be studied out anywhere, with the same result. The race difference in persons, like the difference between life and not-life in biology, is only one of degree, not of kind. Still, it is a wonderful book.
Ever truly,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear Chamberlain,—To-day is a spring day and I can add a little to my screed. The weather brightens up my eyes.
I was thinking just now about the difference between the Japanese hyakushō and the English merchant.
My servant girl from Imaichi—who cannot read or write—saw you at Kumamoto and said words to this effect: “He speaks Japanese like a great man. And he is so gentle and so kind.” Vaguely something of the intellectual and moral side of you had reached and touched her simple mind. The other day a merchant said of you: “Chamberlain—Oh, yes. Met him at Miyanoshita. Tell you, he’s a gentleman—plays a good game of whist!” There’s appreciation for you. Which is the best soul of the two—my servant girl’s or that merchant’s?
A merchant, however, has inspired me with the idea of a sketch, to be entitled “His Josses”!...
On the other hand it strikes me that in another twenty years, or perhaps thirty, after a brief artificial expansion, all the ports will shrink. The foreign commerce will be all reduced to agencies. A system of small persecutions will be inaugurated and maintained to drive away all the foreigners who can be driven away. After the war there will be a strong anti-foreign reaction—outrages—police-repressions—temporary stillness and peace: then a new crusade. Life will be made wretched for Occidentals—in business—just as it is being made in the schools—by all sorts of little tricky plans which cannot be brought under law-provisions, or even so defined as to appear to justify resentment—tricks at which the Japanese are as elaborately ingenious as they are in matters of etiquette and forms of other kinds. The nation will show its ugly side to us—after a manner unexpected, but irresistible.
The future looks worse than black. As for me, I am in a perpetual quandary. I suppose I’ll have to travel West,—and console myself with the hope of visiting Japan at long intervals.
Well, there’s no use in worrying—one must face the music,
I am sorry your eyes are weak, too. What the devil of a trouble physical trouble is!—a dead weight check on will! Still, you have good luck in other ways, and after all, eye-trouble is only a warning in both our cases.
Ever truly,
Lafcadio Hearn.
Dear Chamberlain,—I had mailed you the American letter before your own most kind enclosure came, with the note from Makino. Of course this is beyond thanks,—and I can’t say very much about it. Since then I received from you also Lowell’s six papers on Mars,—which I have read, and return by this mail,—and your friendly lines from Atami.
Just as you suggested in the Atami letter, I was feeling about matters. There would be special conditions in New Orleans, on the paper of which I was ten years a staff-writer. I should have to work only a couple of hours a day in my own room, and would have opportunities of money-making and travel. There are risks, too,—yellow fever, lawlessness, and personal enemies. But to leave Japan now would, of course, be like tearing one’s self in two,—and I am not sure but the ultimate nervous result would destroy my capacity for literary work. The best thing, I imagine, will be to ask my friend to keep the gate open for me, in case I have to go. The great thing for me is not to worry: worry and literary work will not harmonize. The work always betrays the strain afterward.
You say my friend writes nicely. He is about the most lovable man I ever met,—an old-time Southerner, very tall and slight, with a singular face. He is so exactly an ideal Mephistopheles that he would never get his photograph taken. The face does not altogether belie the character,—but the mockery is very tender play, and queerly original. It never offends. The real Mephistopheles appears only when there are ugly obstacles to overcome. Then the diabolical keenness with which motives are read and disclosed, and the lightning moves by which a plot is checkmated, or made a net for the plotter himself, usually startle people. He is a man of immense force—it takes such a one to rule in that community, but as a gentleman I never saw his superior in grace or consideration. I always loved him—but like all whom I like, never could get quite enough of his company for myself.
The papers on Mars are quite weirdly suggestive—are they not? Just how much of the theories and the discoveries were Lowell’s very own, I can’t make out—though the papers are things to be thankful for. You know the physiological side of his psychology in “Occult Japan” is no more original than the “Miscellany” of a medical weekly.
By the way, I must point out a serious mistake he makes on page 293,—when he says that the absence of the belief in possession by other living men is a proof of the absence of personality in Japan. As a matter of fact there is no such absence. I alone know of three different forms of such belief—and know that one is extremely common. So that all the metaphysical structure of argument built upon the supposed absence of that belief vanishes into nothingness!
As Huxley says, that man who goes about the world “unlabelled” is sure to be punished for it. So I can’t help thinking that I ought to have a label. Fancy the man who makes his bear drink champagne seeking my company on the ground that “Neither of us are Christians.” The Ama-terasu-Ōmi-kami business first aroused my suspicions, but the phrase itself was so raw!