Chapter XI: Part 11

DEAR McDONALD,--Your telegram made me feel comfortable. I had been a little uneasy,--especially because you never told me what really was the matter;--and when a man like you cannot bend his back, the matter could not have been a joke. Also the telegram convinced me that you were really thinking about coming up, and possibly might come up during the spring or the summer or the coming autumn season, and that I could squat on the floor and talk to you--which made me comparatively happy.

I have been otherwise disgracefully blue. When I want to feel properly humble, I read "Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan"--about half a page;--then I howl, and wonder how I could ever have written so badly,--and find that I am really only a very twenty-fifth-rate workman and that I ought to be kicked. Then the weather has been trying;--the mails are behind;--the afflictions of Tōkyō manifold. Also I have been provoked to think that there is no other person like you known to me in the entire world,--and that you are by no means immortal,--and that, even as it is, you think ever so much more of me than I deserve. Also I have been meditating on the unpermanency of the universe, and considering the possible folly of making books at all.--This must be the darkness before the dawn: at least I ought to think so.

I have partly in mind the plan for making the best part of number eight out of stories adapted from the Japanese. Not sure that I can carry the plan out satisfactorily;--but I am resolved that number eight must be worthy of your hopes for me,--and that it shall prove an atonement for the faults of the first book dedicated to you.

Take all care of yourself, and believe me most grateful for that telegram.

Affectionately,
LAFCADIO.

TO MITCHELL McDONALD

TŌKYŌ, February, 1898.

DEAR FRIEND,--Two or three mornings ago I woke up with a vague feeling of pleasure--a dim notion that something very pleasant had occurred the day before. Then I remembered that the pleasure had come from your unanswered letter. I kept putting off writing, nevertheless, day after day, in consequence partly of the conviction that such a letter should not be answered in a dull mood, and partly because some of my college work this past week has been more than usually complicated--involving a study of subjects that I thoroughly hate, but must try to make interesting--the literature and spirit of the eighteenth century.

Well, even now, I do not quite know what to say about your letter. To tell me that I have something of your father's spirit more than pleased me--not because I could quite believe it, but because you did. Your father must have been a very fine man, without any pettiness,--and I have more smallness in me than you can suspect. How could it be otherwise! If a man lives like a rat for twenty or twenty-five years, he must have acquired something of the disposition peculiar to house-rodents,--mustn't he? Anyhow, I could never agree to let you take all the trouble you propose to take for me merely as a matter of "thank you." I must contrive ways and means to better your proposal--not to cancel the obligation, for that could not be done, but at least to make you quite sure that I appreciate the extreme rarity of such friendship.

I am writing with hesitation to-day (chiefly, indeed, through a sense of duty to you),--for I fear that you are in trouble, and that my letter is going to reach you at the worst possible time. However, I hope you have not lost any very dear friends by that terrible accident at Havana. I think you told me that you were once on that ship, nevertheless; and I fear that you must receive some bad news. My sympathies are with you in any event.

My Boston friend is lost to me, certainly. I got a letter yesterday from him--showing the serious effect upon friendship of taking to one's self a wife,--a fashionable wife. It was meant to be exactly like the old letters;--but it wasn't. Paymaster M. M. must also some day take a wife, and ... Oh! I know what you are going to say;--they all say that! They all assure you that they _both_ love you, and that their house will be always open to you, etc., etc., and then--they forget all about you--purposely or otherwise. Still, one ought to be grateful,--the dropping is so gently and softly done.

Affectionately ever,
LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MR. AND MRS. JOHN ALBEE

TŌKYŌ, February, 1898.

MY DEAR FRIENDS,--I am going to address you together, as that will save me from the attempt to write in two keys corresponding to the differing charm of your two letters. Certainly it gave me, as you surmised, sincere pleasure to hear from you. Mrs. Albee surprised me at the same time by a most agreeable, though I fear somewhat _generous_, reference to a forgotten letter. I think I must have penned many extravagances in those days. I _know_ it--in certain cases: anyhow I should be afraid to read my own letters to Mr. Albee over again. As for my old ambition then expressed, I don't quite know what to say. The attempt referred to led me far at one time in the wrong direction--though whatever I have learned of style has certainly been due rather to French and Spanish studies than to English ones. I have now dropped theories, nevertheless; and I simply try to do the best I can, without reference to schools.

Do you know that I had a dim notion always that Mr. Albee was a millionaire,--or at least a very wealthy dilettante?--which would be the best of reasons for never sending him a book, notwithstanding my grateful remembrance of his first generous encouragement. (_Here_ I use "generous" in the strongest meaning possible.) I am, _selfishly_, rather pleased to hear that the price of a book is sometimes for him, as for me, a question worth thinking over--because the fact permits me to offer him a volume occasionally. Otherwise indeed I wish he were rich as my fancy painted him.

You say that you have not read "all my books on Japan." Any that you particularly care to read, I can send you--though I should not recommend the "Glimpses," except for reference. "Kokoro" would probably best please Mrs. Albee, and after it, "Out of the East." Hereafter I shall send a copy of every "new book" to you. Of course I shall be glad to have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Albee's "Prose Idyls"--many sincere thanks for the kind remembrance!

With kindest and best regards, faithfully ever,

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO JOHN ALBEE

TŌKYŌ, May, 1898.

DEAR MR. ALBEE,--My best thanks for the "Prose Idyls." The book leaves on the mind an impression of quiet brightness like that of a New England summer sky thinly veiled. Three idyls especially linger in my imagination,--each for a reason all its own. Hawthorne might have written "The Devil's Bargain:" it is a powerful moral fancy, and the touch of grotesque humour in it is just enough to keep it from being out of tone in the gallery of optimist studies. "The Family Mirror" is haunting: the whole effect, to my notion, being brought out by that charming reference to the damaged spot at the back. Then "A Mountain Maid" much appealed to me by its suggestion of that beautiful and mysterious _sauvagerie_, as the French call it,--that wholly instinctive shrinking from caress, which develops with the earliest budding of womanhood, but which the girl could not herself possibly explain. Indeed I fancy that only evolutional philosophy can explain it at all. Analogous conditions in the boy of fourteen or fifteen are well worthy of study--already I had attempted a little sketch on this subject, which _may_ be printed some day or other: "A Pair of Eyes."

My next volume will have a series of what I might call _metaphysical idyls_, perhaps, at its latter end. I fear you will think them too sombre,--now that I have felt something of the sunshine of your soul. However, each of us can only give his own tone to the thread which he contributes to the infinite warp and woof of human thought and emotion. Is it not so? With kindest regards to Mrs. Albee, very gratefully yours,

LAFCADIO HEARN (Y. KOIZUMI).

TO MITCHELL McDONALD

TŌKYŌ, February, 1898.

DEAR McDONALD,--I must try to forget some of your beautiful letter for fear that it should give me much too good an opinion of myself. A reverse state of mind is, on the whole, much better for the writer,--I mean for any professional writer.

I believe all that you wish me to believe about your generous call--but, if friend McDonald does not think my house a poor rat-trap, that is because friend McDonald has not yet discovered what a beautiful Japanese house is like. Let me assure him, therefore, that it is something so dainty, so wonderful, that only by custom can one cease to be afraid to walk about in it.

Yes, as you surmised, one of your suggestions is wrong. The professional writer, however small his own powers may be, generally knows the range of literary possibilities; and I _know_ that what you wish cannot be done by any Western writer with the least hope of success. It has been extensively tried--always with the result of failure. The best attempt, perhaps, was the effort of Judith Gautier,--a very delicate French writer; but it did not succeed. As for "A Muramasa Blade," "Mito Yashiki," etc., the less said the better. In any case, it is not so much that the subject itself is immensely difficult for a foreigner, as that even supposing this difficulty mastered, the Western public would not care twopence about the result. Material is everywhere at hand. Yearly, from the Japanese press are issued the most wonderful and thrilling stories of Japanese feudal life; but a master-translation of these, accompanied with illustrations of the finest kind, would fall dead in a Western book-market, and find its way quickly into the ten-cent boxes of second-hand dealers. And why? Simply because the Occidental reader could not feel interested in the poetry or romance of a life so remote.

No: the public want in fiction things taken raw and palpitating out of life itself,--the life they know,--the life everybody knows,--not that which is known only to a few. Stories from Japan (or India or China, for that matter) must be stories about Western people among alien surroundings. And the people must not be difficult to understand; they must be people like the owner of the "Mary Gloster" in Kipling's "Seven Seas." (You ought to buy that book--and love it.) Of course, I don't mean to say that I could ever do anything of Kipling's kind--I should have to do much humbler work,--but I am indicating what I mean by "raw out of life."

As for the other suggestion,--who ever was such a pretty maker of compliments!--I can only say that I am happy to have a friend who thus thinks of me.

Gratefully, with much thanks for your charming letter,

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MITCHELL McDONALD

TŌKYŌ, March, 1898.

DEAR McDONALD,--I did not think much of the title of Morrow's book; but your judgement of the stories interested me, and the selfsame evening I began the volume--in bed. I read three quarters at a run, and the rest early in the morning. They are queer and sometimes powerful little stories--not less interesting because they are, most of them, improbable. They have the charm of the now old-fashioned stories of 1850-70,--perhaps not finished to the same extent as the _Atlantic_ stories used to be; but they make me think of them a little. (The literary centres clamour for realism to-day; but I fancy that the taste for the romantic will live a good while longer.) Then again there is a little of the old-time gold light of California days here--that will always have a charm for readers. I wonder if Morrow is a young man: if he is, I should believe him likely to do still better in the future. If he writes for money, he need not do much finer work; but if just for love of the thing, I should say that he could finish his work better than he does,--as in the study of the emotions of the man who finds his wife untrue to him, and solves a moral problem after quite an ideal fashion. The subject was splendid: it might have been made more of.--But not to criticize things--especially things which I could not do myself--I must say that I enjoyed the tales, and that they ought to have a very good sale.

Somehow your own story--the "Highbinder story"--kept riding on the back of that gold dragon all the while I was reading. The real dominated the romantic, and yet betimes made the romantic seem possible. I could feel everything to be just as it was--my experience as a police-reporter gave verisimilitude to the least detail. You are after all a knight-errant in soul,--a real knight, tilting, not against shadows and windmills, but against the dragons of corrupted law and the giants of fraud who haunt the nineteenth century. You are a survival, I fear--there are few like you: you ride alone: all the more reason that you should take every care of yourself--care of your health; I fear you are not exercising enough, keeping too confined. If you are really, as I believe, fond of your little friend, don't forget his prayer that you make health your No. 1 consideration.

Hope to be down Friday about 2 P. M. or 2.30 at latest.

Affectionately,
LAFCADIO.

TO MITCHELL McDONALD

MARCH, 1898.

DEAR McDONALD,--I do not feel pleased at your returning to me the money and giving me your own copy of the book. I feel mean over it. But what can one do with a man who deliberately takes off his own coat to cover his friend during a nine minutes' drive? I shall remember the _feeling_ of that coat--warmth of friendship must also have been electrical in it--until I die.

Affectionately and somewhat reproachfully,--in haste,

LAFCADIO HEARN.

I write _in haste_, so as not to keep your man waiting.

TO MITCHELL McDONALD

TŌKYŌ, March, 1898.

DEAR McDONALD,--Just got your letter,--your more than kind letter. Happily there is no occasion to send the telegram. I am getting well fast, and think I shall be lecturing on Monday. No: I did not minimize things. I have been laid up, but it was more painful than serious. Can't tell what it was--a painful swelling of one side of the face, and nose. My picturesque nose suffered most. That a square mile of solid pain could be concentrated into one square inch of nose was a revelation! Anyhow, it felt just like a severe case of frost-bite; but I suppose it was only some sort of a cold. Going to Yokohama had nothing to do with it; but the weather must have had. It was rather trying, you know, last Tuesday.

You are the one who tries to minimize things, my dear friend, by assuring me that there are thousands of ... people like yourself. I am glad to think that you _can_ believe thus well of the world; but I can't, and I should not be glad to think you were right. I prefer the exceptional. Then you will remember my philosophical theory that no two living beings have even the same voice, and that it is the uniqueness of each that has value. I should have to abandon my theories to accept your opinion of things in general, and I am prejudiced in favour of my theories.

Perhaps next week I can run down, and if that be not a good time for you, the week following. Anyhow the term will be over in about two weeks more, and--I hope--the cold. Tuesday deceived even the creatures of the spring. Hundreds of little frogs began to chant their song of birth, and flowers were opening everywhere. Now there is no sound of a frog. They woke up too soon, the creatures,--and the flowers look as if they were dying of consumption. In your hotel you don't know all this--because you keep up the atmosphere of the Bermudas under that roof. In Ushigome we are practically in the country, and observe the seasons.

Affectionately,
LAFCADIO.

TO MITCHELL McDONALD

TŌKYŌ, March, 1898.

DEAR McDONALD,--Wasn't I lucky in deciding to get back early last night? It would have been no easy matter getting back this morning--everything is drowned in snow! That was the reason of yesterday's atrocious cold. Verily I was inspired by the gods--both as to going and returning.

This morning I woke up with an extreme feeling of comfort and lightness--which reminded me that something very pleasant must have happened the day before,--and I heard the U.S.C. cynically observing with a Mephistophelian smile, "Well, I guess our friend here will pull your chestnuts out of the fire for you!" And then I thanked all the host of heaven for that which had been, and also for that which would never again be. After all, I _am_ rather a lucky fellow,--a most peculiarly lucky fellow. Principally owing to the note written some eight years ago by a certain sweet young lady whose portrait now looks down on me from the ceiling of No. 21 Tomihisa-chō, Ichigaya, Ushigome-ku, in the city of Tōkyō, Japan.

I send with this "Some Chinese Ghosts" in awfully bad condition. Early work of a man who tried to understand the Far East from books,--and couldn't; but then, the real purpose of the stories was only artistic. Should I ever reprint the thing, I would change nothing,--but only preface the new edition with a proper apology.

You remember my anecdote yesterday of the Memphis man--"What! a d--d nigger? I'd as soon shoot a nigger as I'd shoot a rat!" He was a very pretty boy, too. I forgot to tell you something also about him that occurs to me this morning. He was walking lame in a pair of top-boots one morning, and I asked him what was the matter. "Only these d--d boots," he said; "they've taken all the skin off my feet." "Haven't you another pair?" I asked. "Lots of 'em," he answered; "but I'm not going to _give in_ to these: I won't let 'em get the better of _me_!--I won't let them get the better of _me_!" I rather admired this vengeful and foolish pluck; and I am thinking now that I'd better follow the example. Spite of all conditions I'm getting No. 6 book under way; and I won't _give in_ either to publishers or to public.

Loving thanks for yesterday's extraordinary enjoyableness and for all things. In haste.

Affectionately ever,
LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MITCHELL McDONALD

TŌKYŌ, March, 1898.

DEAR McDONALD,--I am looking and looking for your last kind letter; but for the moment I cannot find it. So I must give it up for to-night, if I am to write you.

I'm through with the university; and I must get down to Yokohama, either to-morrow or Monday, and try to bore you, and to coax that story from Mrs. Burns (is that the name?),--but I shall make another visit later, if the weather allows. This will be only an expedition--partly in search of literary material. I feel I must get a few stories, to keep on the surface. Otherwise I'll get heavy and sink. I have been rather heavy lately. My dog-sketch has developed into such a nightmare that I myself am afraid of it, and don't want to think about it for a few days. Then I have just finished a short sketch, "In a Pair of Eyes"--considerably metaphysical. Such things may interest; but they will not touch hearts; and an author must try to get loved by his readers. So I shall forage.

Consul General Gowey gave me an agreeable start the other day by sending me a number of "The Philistine"--you know the little thing, very clever--with a pretended quotation from one of my books. The quotation, however, hit what I _think_,--though I never put the matter in just that shape. It was nice of the consul to send it--made me feel jolly. I must some day send him something to amuse him. Not to like him is impossible.

I think you must have hosts of friends now calling on you,--since the battle-powers of the great Republic are gathering out this way. I hope you won't have to get yourself killed for Uncle Sam; but if you have, I want to be in the conning-tower about the same time. I fancy, however, that Manila would not be a mouthful if the navy is ordered to gobble it; and that the chief result of the expedition to U. S. officers would be an uncommonly large and fine supply of cigars.

I have last week declined three dinners. It strikes me that the average university professor is circumstanced about thus:--

1. Twelve to fourteen lectures a week.

2. Average of a hundred official banquets per year.

3. Average of sixty private society-dinners.

4. Average of thirty to fifty invitations to charitable, musical, uncharitable, and non-musical colonial gatherings.

5. Average of a hundred and fifty social afternoon calls.

6. Average of thirty requests for contributions to Japanese publications.

7. Average of a hundred requests for pecuniary contributions from all sources.

8. Average of four requests per month for speeches or outside lectures.

9. Average of a hundred calls from students "wanting" things--chiefly to waste _the professor's_ time.

This is only about half the list. I say "No" to _everything_--softly, of course. Otherwise how should I exist, breathe, even have time to think?--much less write books? Oh dear, oh dear!--What a farce it is! When they first started, they wanted the professors to wear a uniform of scarlet and gold. (I am sure about the gold--not quite sure about the scarlet.) The professors kicked at the gold,--luckily for themselves!

Ever affectionately,
LAFCADIO.

TO MITCHELL McDONALD

TŌKYŌ, March, 1898.

DEAR McDONALD,--Sunshine, warmth, and beauty in the world to-day; and sunshine and warmth of another sort in my heart--beautiful ghostly summer made by words and thoughts in Yokohama. "When the earth is still by reason of the South wind"--that is my mental world.

I am sending the photo of our friend, which reminds me that I was reproached very justly on reaching home last night. "But you did not bring your American friend's picture?... Forgot to put it into the valise?... Oh! but you _are_ queer--always, always dreaming! And don't you feel just a little bit ashamed?" I do feel ashamed, but more than a little bit.

Also I send you a little volume containing "The House and the Brain"--published in other editions under the title "The Haunted and the Haunters." (Usually it is bound up with that tremendous story about the Elixir of Life,--the "Strange Story" of Bulwer Lytton.) Professor Saintsbury calls this the best ghost-story ever written. But you ought to read it at night only--after the hotel becomes silent.

By way of precaution I must make a confession. I shall not be able to eat again until about Tuesday noon, I think. The tiffins, dinners, "irresistibles," and above all that Blue Soul, were too much for me. I am getting old, sure enough,--and when I go down again to Yokohama I must live in the most ascetic manner. I feel constitutionally demoralized by all that luxurious living. Still, I must say that I suspect the sudden change of the weather is partly responsible for the feeling.

Now, really--don't you feel tired of all this talk? Of course I know--but the conditions are so much like those of old college friendships that they seem more of dreams than of reality.

Ever affectionately,
LAFCADIO.

TO MITCHELL McDONALD

TŌKYŌ, April, 1898.

DEAR McDONALD,--Your kindest letter came last night. I must confess to a feeling of remorse for transferring all my troubles to your broader shoulders,--a remorse tempered somewhat, of course, by the certainty that you find a pleasure in helping your friend, but nevertheless, a remorse. So pray do not do anything more than you find it pleasant and inexpensive to do.

We are under the weather for the moment. We shall not be able to profit by the holidays. I have escaped cold and all other troubles; but I could not escape the generally depressing influence of this chilly, sunless, muddy, slimy season. In other words, I feel too stupid to do anything. Probably the sight of the sun will make us all feel happy again.

Of course I shall be unhappy till I get your photos,--both military and civilian. I fear to ask too many; but all I can get, I want. Don't hurry; but--don't forget me, if you think I deserve to be remembered.

I am a little anxious lest war take you away from Japan, which would leave me less satisfied with this world than I now am. But I should like indeed to accompany you in a descent on Manila, and to chronicle events picturesquely.

I should never be able, however, to do anything so wonderful as did Loti in describing the French attack on the coast of Annam. It was the greatest literary feat ever done by a naval officer; but it nearly cost him his place in the navy, and did in fact suppress him for several years. In his reissue of the narrative I see that he was obliged to suppress the terrible notes on the killing.

Ever affectionately,
LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MITCHELL McDONALD

TŌKYŌ, April, 1898.

DEAR FRIEND,--The holidays are over; and the winter is still dying hard. We are all feeling pretty well now notwithstanding,--and my imp was down yesterday to Ueno, in the sea of people, trying to get a glimpse of things. Because he had a naval uniform on, he became quite angry at the _kurumaya_ for proposing to lift him up to look over the heads of the people. The K. wisely answered: "I know you are a man--but then you must think that I am a horse only, and ride on my back. Even military men ride horses, you know!" Subsequently, the imp had to submit to circumstances,--swallowed his pride,--and got on the man's back. I liked the pride, though: it was the first flash of the man-spirit in him.

I wonder if you are ever tired simply of living! That is what the weather made me for a time. Glimpses of sun now seem quite delicious. Well, it is the same way with my Yokohama friend. If I saw him too often, I should not feel quite so warm in the sunshine that he can make--should begin to think the light a normal and usual, instead of a most extraordinary condition. There is one thing, however, that I hope to live to see: M. McD. in a private residence of his own, and a beautiful young Mrs. McD. therein.

If the quarrel with Spain does nothing else, perhaps it will stir up the American people to make a good-sized navy in short order. With so many thousand miles of coast to defend they are at a big disadvantage compared with most European powers. I see that Captain Mahan has been getting out a new book on the subject, just at the right time. What a lucky author he has been on the whole; and all circumstances seem to have actually bent themselves in his favour.

Affectionately, with regards to the doctor and all friends,

LAFCADIO.

TO MITCHELL McDONALD

TŌKYŌ, April, 1898.

DEAR McDONALD,--Just after having posted my letter (dated 11th, but mailed 14th) yours came, together with the most precious photographs. My warmest thanks, not only for them, but also for the friend's inscription upon them, which adds to their preciousness. But--see how mean I am!--I hope for _at least_ one more,--the one with the full-dress hat _on_. You don't like it; but I just love it, and I hope you will save one for me. The two you sent are admirable: I am going to put the large one in a frame.

Shall I climb Fuji? Perhaps; but I know that at this blessed moment I could not do it. I am too soft now. Must harden up first in the sea; and then, please the gods, I'll climb with you. The climb is simply horrid; but the view is a compensation.

I don't know what to do with you--after that remark about Loti. Unless I can manage in the next three years to write something very extraordinary indeed, I fear you will be horribly disappointed some day. You should try to consider me as a _tenth-rate_ author, until the literary world shall have fixed my place. And don't for a moment imagine me modest in literary matters. I am Satanically proud--not modest at all. If I tell you that much of my work is very bad, I tell you so, not because I am modest, but because, as a professional writer, I can see bad execution where you would not see it unless I pointed it out to you. It is like an honest carpenter, who knows his trade, and will tell his customer: "That isn't going to cost you much, because the work is bad. See! this is backed with cheap wood underneath! It looks all right only because you don't know how we patch up these things."

Ever most affectionately,
LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MITCHELL McDONALD

TŌKYŌ, April, 1898.

DEAR McDONALD,--Your letter came this morning (Sunday), and it rejoiced me to find that you are not yet in likelihood of being allowed to attend the Asiatic side of the smash; while, as you suggest, before you could join ... on the other side, the serious part of the campaign would be over. That torpedo squadron at Porto Rico is apparently stronger than any force of the same kind possessed by the U.S.; and although Northern seamanship must tell in a fight, machinery in itself is a formidable thing, even without anything more than mere pluck behind it. But just think how a literary narrative of a battle would sell in America! Wouldn't L. B. & Co. make money!

How kind of you to send photo of Amenomori! (Yes; you returned the little one.) This will not fade, and is a decided improvement. I need scarcely tell you that out of a million Japanese heads, you could not find another like this. It represents the cream of the race at its intellectual best.

In writing hurriedly the other day, I forgot to answer your question about the _Athenæum_ paper. Yes: the notice was hostile,--but not directly so; for a literary work the book was highly praised. The critic simply took the ground of denying that what I wrote about existed. I was braced with a missionary, and while the missionary's book was accepted as unquestionable fact, mine was pronounced a volume from Laputa. The _Saturday Review_ knew better than that.

As to the royalties given to Kipling, they are fancy rates, of course, and probably never twice the same. Publishers bid against each other for the right of issuing even a limited edition. Macmillan & Co. hold the ultimate right in all cases; but they do not often print the first edition. Jas. Lane Allen probably gets only ten per cent. He may get more; but not much more--there is no American to compare with Kipling in the market, except Henry James and Marion Crawford. Kipling probably outsells both together. James is too fine and delicate a writer--a psychological analogist of the most complex society--ever to become popular. In short, any writer's chances of good terms, in England or America, must depend upon his popularity,--his general market value. Once that he makes a big success--that is, a sale of 20,000 copies of a book within a year and a half, suppose--he can get fancy terms for his next book.

... As to when I shall have another MS. I don't know. To-day, I am hesitating whether I ought or ought not to burn some MS. My work has lately been a little horrible, a little morbid perhaps. Everything depends upon exterior influence,--inspiration; and Tōky=[o] is the very worst place in all Japan for that. Perhaps within a year from now, I shall have a new book ready; perhaps in six months--according to what comes up,--suggestions from Nature, books, or mankind. At the very latest, I ought to have a new book ready by next spring.

But there is just one possibility. In case that during this year, or any year, there should come to me a good idea for such a story as I have been long hoping to write,--a single short powerful philosophical story, of the most emotional and romantic sort,--then I shall abandon everything else for the time being, and write it. If I can ever write _that_, there will be money in it, long after I have been planted in one of these old Buddhist cemeteries. I do not mean that it will pay _because_ I write it, but because it will touch something in the new thought of the age, in the tendencies of the time. All thought is changing; and I feel within myself the sense of such a story--vaguely, like the sense of a perfume, or the smell of a spring wind, which you cannot describe or define. What divine luck such an inspiration would be! But the chances are that a more powerful mind than mine will catch the inspiration first,--as the highest peak most quickly takes the sun. Whatever comes, I'll just hand or send the MS. to you, and say, "Now just do whatever you please--only see that I get the proofs. The book is yours."

Ever so many thanks for kind advice, and for everything else.

I read that war has begun. Hope it will soon end. Anyhow Uncle Sam does not lose time: he knows too well that time is money. And after it is over, he will probably start to build him the biggest fleet in creation; for he needs it. Ever affectionately,

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MITCHELL McDONALD

TŌKYŌ, April, 1898.

DEAR FRIEND,--Your kindest letter is with me. I cannot quite understand your faith in my work: it is a veritable Roman Catholic faith,--for it refuses to hear adverse arguments. I only say that I can see no reason to suppose or even hope that I can ever be worth to publishers nearly as much as the author of a blood-and-thunder detective story contributed to a popular weekly.

About getting killed:--I should like nothing so much if I had no one but myself in the world to take care of--which is just why I would not get killed. You never get what you want in this world. I used to feel that way in tight places, and say to myself: "Well, I don't care: _therefore_ it can't happen." It is only what a man cares about that happens. "That which ye fear exceedingly shall come upon you." I fear exceedingly being burned alive slowly, in an earthquake fire,--being eaten by sharks,--being blinded or maimed so as to prove of no further use;--but dying is probably a very good thing indeed, and as much to be desired for one's self as dreaded for one's friends.

But my work is not done yet: I can't afford luxuries till it is done, I suppose--at least so the gods think.

No: I shall not burn the MS. yet; but if I decided, after deliberation, to burn it, I think I should be right. How much I now wish I had burned things which I printed ten or twelve years ago!

I think with you that the U.S.N. will sweep the Spaniards off the sea; but still I feel slightly uneasy.

I have met a most extraordinary man to whom I gave your address,--in case he should need advice, or wish to see Amenomori. He is going to the hotel, but is now at Nikko. His name is E. T. Sturdy. He has lived in India,--up in the Himalayas for years,--studying Eastern philosophy; and the hotel delicacies will do him no good, because he is a vegetarian. He is a friend of Professor Rhys-Davids, who gave him a letter of introduction to me; and has paid for the publication of several Eastern texts--Pali, etc. Beyond any question, he is the most _remarkable_ person I have met in Japan. Fancy a man independent, strong, cultivated, with property in New Zealand and elsewhere, voluntarily haunting the Himalayas in the company of Hindoo pilgrims and ascetics,--in search of the Nameless and the Eternal. Yet he is not a Theosophist exactly, nor a Spiritualist. I did not get very near him--he has that extreme English reserve which deludes under the appearance of almost boyish frankness; but I think we might become fast friends did we live in the same city. He told me some things that I shall never forget,--very strange things. I envy, not him, but his independence. Think of being able to live where one pleases, nobody's servant,--able to choose one's own studies and friends and books. On the other hand, most authors write because they are compelled to find occupation for their minds. Would I, being independent, become idle? I don't think so; but I know that some of my work has been done just to keep the mind from eating itself,--as does the stomach without food. _Ergo_, perhaps, I ought to be maintained in a condition of "eternal torment"?

Well, it is not impossible that you may eventually suggest to me something of the great story that is eventually to be written--let us hope. Assuredly if I once start in upon it, I shall be asking you questions, and you will be able to help me very much.

Ever affectionately,
LAFCADIO.

TO ERNEST FENOLLOSA

TŌKYŌ, May, 1898.

DEAR PROFESSOR,--It is too bad that I should twice have missed the pleasure of seeing you,--and still worse that Mrs. Fenollosa should have come into my wretched little street to find me absent. But it were better always when possible to let me know in advance of any chances for a visit--otherwise I can seldom be relied upon; especially in these months, for I am over head and ears in work,--with the dreadful prospect of examinations and the agonies of proof-reading to be rolled upon me at the same moment. You are so far happy to be able to command your time: I cannot often manage it.

Well, even if I had been free, I do not think I should have cared to go to the Ukioy-e exhibition again--except, of course, to hear you talk about it. I am inclined to agree with one who said that the catalogue was worth more than the view. It (not the catalogue) left me cold--partly, perhaps, because I had just been looking at a set of embroidered screens that almost made me scream with regret at my inability to purchase them. I remember only three or four at Ukioy-e,--the interesting Kappa; Shōki diverting himself; a Listening Girl--something of that sort: nothing excited in me any desire to possess it, even as a gift, except the Kappa and the Shōki. (I know I am hopeless--but it were hopeless to try to be otherwise.) Verily I prefer the modern colour-prints, which I can afford sometimes to buy. What is more, I do not wish to learn better. While I know nothing I can always follow the Shintō code and consult my heart about buying things. Were I to know more, I should be less happy in buying cheap things. It is like the Chinese characters on the shop-fronts. Once you begin to know the meaning of a few, the magical charm--- the charm of mystery--evaporates. There's heresy for you! As for the catalogues --especially the glorious New York catalogue--I think them precious things. If they do me no other good, they serve the purpose of suggesting the range and unfathomability of my ignorance. I only regret that you do not use legends,--do not tell stories. If you did, Andersen would be quickly superseded. We buy him only for the folk-lore and the references.

Now I must thank Mrs. Fenollosa for the exceeding kindness of bringing those books so far for me. I fear I shall have little chance to read within the next couple of weeks; but if I get the least opportunity, I must try to read the "Cardinal" anyhow. I shall, whatever happens, return the volumes safely before very long. As for the Stevenson, it was not worth while thanking me for; besides, I do not candidly think it an example of the writer at his highest. But one reads these things because the times force you to.

As for the Mountain of Skulls--yes: I have written it,--about seven or eight times over; but it still refuses to give the impression I feel, and can't define,--the impression that floated into my brain with the soft-flowing voice of the teller. I shall try again later; but, although I feel tolerably sure about the result, nothing but very hard work will develop the thing. Had I only eleven more stories of such quality, what a book could be made out of them! Still, it is quite impossible that a dozen such tales could exist. I read all the Jatakas to no purpose: one makes such a find only by the rarest and most unexpected chance.

By the way, it puzzled me to imagine how the professor knew of my insignificance having visited the exhibition! But a charming professor who made three long visits there wants very much to make Professor Fenollosa's acquaintance,--E. Foxwell, a fellow of Cambridge, and an authority on economics. Quite a rare fine type of Englishman,--at once sympathetic and severely scientific,--a fine companion and a broad strong thinker.

Faithfully, with best regards and thanks,

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MITCHELL McDONALD

TŌKYŌ, June, 1898.

DEAR McDONALD,--I wonder if you are perfectly disgusted with my silence and general invisibility. But perhaps you have been far too busy to think enough about me even to say, "D--n his lying little soul!" (which is what I would have said under like circumstances); for I have been reading about you,--and know that you have had some sad and very important duties to perform, of an unexpected character.

I got by the last steamer only two notices for you; they are amusing, because they represent two entirely different religious points of view in Methodist criticism. Perhaps you will think the favourable notice very kindly under the circumstances.

What to say about the Manila matter I don't know. My notion is that you will not be likely to get the furlough so soon. Events are thickening, and looking very dark as well as strange. What most delights me is the prospect of an Anglo-American alliance. Then will come the world-struggle of races--British and Yankee against the Slav and his allies. Hope we shall not see that--it will be a very awful thing,--a vast earthquake in all the world's markets. And the Latins, curiously enough, are being drawn together by the same sense of their future peril. Their existence is in danger. Loti offers his services to Spain, after having been dropt from the French navy,--not because the moral justice of the question is understood by him, or even felt by him; but because his blood and ancestral feelings naturally attract him to Spain rather than to America. I should be sorry to see the best writer of prose of any country in this world blown to pieces for his chivalrous whim; but he is very likely to get killed if he goes into this mess. All men of letters will feel then very sorry; and a marvellous genius will have been thrown away for nothing--since there is no ghost of a hope for Spain.

I shall get down to Yokohama unexpectedly, I suppose, very soon--if I feel well enough: the weather has been so atrocious that I had fire in my room up to last week. I hope you have not felt any the worse for these abominable changes of temperature. Another such "spring" would drive me wild! In spite of it I have nearly completed a sixth chapter or essay for book Number Six. I am full of projects and suggestions; but cannot yet decide which among the multitude are strong enough to survive and bear development.

Ever affectionately, with faint hopes of forgiveness,

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK

TŌKYŌ, June, 1898.

DEAR WIZARD, MAGICIAN, THAUMATURGIST,--Your letter was wonderful. It made things quite vivid before me; and I can actually see G. and M. and the others you speak of (including myself, under the influence of demophobia). Also you cannot imagine how much good such a letter does a fellow in my condition. It is tonicky,--slips ozone of hope into a consumptive soul. I must now keep out of blues for at least another seven years.

Anyhow, things are about right. My little wife is getting strong again; my eyes are all right; the examinations are over; the vacation begins; Little, Brown & Company send me heaps of books; and we go to the seaside as soon as I can manage it,--with an old pupil of mine,--an officer now of engineers.

Speaking of pupils reminds me that just as you keep me from follies, or mischief, by a bit of sound advice at times,--not to say by other means,--so here I have learned to be guided by K.'s mamma. Indeed, no Occidental-born could manage a purely Japanese household, or direct Japanese according to his own light. Things are so opposite, so eccentric, so provoking at times,--so impossible to understand. A foreign merchant, for example, cannot possibly manage his own Japanese clerks--he must trust their direction to a Japanese head clerk. And this is the way all through the Orient,--even in Aryan India. Any attempt to control everything directly is hopelessly mischievous. By learning to abstain therefrom, I have been able to keep my servants from the beginning, and have learned to prize some of them at their weight in gold.

What I was going to say especially is in reference to pupils and students. In Tōkyō students do everything everywhere for or against everybody. They are legion,--they are ubiquitous. The news-vender, the hotel-clerk, the porter of a mansion, the man-servant of any large house is sure to be a student, struggling to live. (I have had one for a year--a good boy, and inconceivably useful, who soon enters the army.) A Tōkyō resident is _obliged_ to have students about him. They are better guards than police, and better servants than any servants. If you don't have a student or two, you may look out for robbers, confidence-men, rowdies, trouble of all kinds at your house. Students _police_ Tōkyō.

Well, I found I could not be familiar with my students. It spoiled matters. I had to be a little unpleasant. Then reserved. As a consequence all is admirable. Direct interference won't do. I have to leave that to the lady of the house; and she can manage things without ever getting angry. But another student, whom I am educating, _did_ give me much heart-burning, until I became simply cruel with him. I should have dropped him; but I was told: "You don't understand: have patience, and wait." "But," I said, "his work is trash--worthless." "Never mind," was the answer, "wait and see!" At the end of the year, I am surprised by the improvement and the earnestness. "You see," I am told, "that boy was a spoiled child while his family were rich; but his heart is good. He will do well yet." And I find this quite probable. How the Japanese can manage with perfect gentleness and laughter what we cannot manage by force or fraud or money, ought to be a lesson. And I sympathize with this character--only, my own character is much too impatient and cranky to allow of correct imitation.

I am, or have been, the teacher of men who, although insignificant in English, are literary celebrities in their own tongue. Their portraits are known over Japan; their poems and stories celebrated. Naturally they feel proportionately averse to being treated as mere boys. Still, an appeal to their honour, gently made, will sometimes work wonders. I tried it the other day, by advice of the director, when there had been a refusal to obey. He said: "Don't write to them; don't _order_ them: just go and talk to them. You know what to say." And they obeyed--_in spite of the fact that the whole room laughed at them for their change of resolve_. There is hope for this class of men: if the university system were better managed, they would be splendidly earnest....

Affectionately,
LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MITCHELL McDONALD

TŌKYŌ, July, 1898.

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.

TO MITCHELL McDONALD

TŌKYŌ, July, 1898.

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.