Chapter XIV: Part 14

I have said that I think these Japanese societies mean a mischievous waste of time. Think of the young scholars who go from Japan to Europe for higher study. They are trained by the most learned professors in the world,--they are prepared in every way to become creators, original thinkers, literary producers. And when they return to Japan, instead of being encouraged to work, they are asked to waste their time in societies, to attend banquets, to edit magazines, to deliver addresses, to give lectures free of charge, to correct manuscripts, to do everything which can possibly be imagined to prevent them from working. They cannot do anything; they are not allowed to do anything; their learning and their lives are made barren. They are treated, not like human beings with rights, but like machines to be used, and brutally used, and worn out as soon as possible.

While this rage for wasting time in societies goes on there will be no new Japanese literature, no new drama, no new poetry--nothing good of any kind. Production will be made impossible and only the commonplace translation of foreign ideas. The meaning of time, the meaning of work, the sacredness of literature are unknown to this generation.

And what is the use of founding a new journal? There are too many journals now. You can publish whatever you want without founding a journal. If you found a journal, you will be obliged to write for it quickly and badly; and you know that good literary work cannot be done quickly,--cannot be made to order within a fixed time. A new journal--unless you choose to be a journalist, and nothing but a journalist--would mean not only waste of time, but waste of money.

I am speaking in this way, because I think that literature is a very serious and sacred thing--not an amusement, not a thing to trifle and play with.

Handicapped as you now are,--with an enormous number of class-hours,--you cannot attempt any literature work at all, without risking your health and injuring your brains. It is much more important that you should try to get a position allowing you more leisure.

And finally, I have small sympathy with the mere study of English literature by Japanese students and scholars. I should infinitely prefer to hear of new studies in Japanese literature. Except with the sole purpose of making a new _Japanese_ literature, I do not sympathize with English or French or German studies.

There is my opinion for you. I hope you will think about it,--even if you do not like it. Work with a crowd, and you will _never_ do anything great.

Many years ago, I advised you to take up a scientific study. It would have given you more leisure for literary work. You would not. You will have future reason to regret this. But if you want advice again, here it is: _Don't_ belong to societies, _don't_ write anything that comes into your head, _don't_ waste the poor little time you have. Take literature seriously,--or leave it alone.

Yours very truly,
Y. KOIZUMI.

TO YASUKOCHI

TŌKYŌ, November, 1901.

DEAR MR. YASUKOCHI,--Not the least of my pleasure in looking at the fine photograph, so kindly sent to my little son, was in observing how very well and strong you appear to be. Let me also have the privilege of thanking you--though my boy, of course, sends his small recognition of the favour.

Your letter of September 3d interested me very much; for I had not heard anything about you at all since the last visit you made to my little house in Tomihisa-chō. For example, I had not heard of your going to Kumamoto Ken; and although I often wondered about you, I knew nobody who could inform me. (I had, indeed, one Kumamoto pupil, Mr. Gōshō; but I quite forgot about his having been in my class at Kumamoto, until he came to see me after graduating--to say good-bye.) The experience of army-life which you have had must have been somewhat hard as discipline; but I imagine that, after all those years of severe study and mental responsibility, the change to another and physical discipline must have been good from the point of health. I think that it probably made you stronger; and I am glad you were in the artillery-corps,--where one has an opportunity to learn so many things of lasting value. But I trust that many years will elapse before Japan again needs your services in a military capacity.

It was kind of you to remember Numi. A curious thing happened after the last time we saw him. One in my household dreamed that he came back, in his uniform, looking very pale, and speaking of a matter concerning his family. The next day, the papers began to print the first accounts of the ship being missing. The coincidence was curious. The matter of which he seemed to have spoken was looked after, as he would have wished.

I have no doubt at all of good things to come for you, if you keep as strong as your picture now proves you to be. The rest will be, I think, only a question of time and patience. I look forward with pleasure to the probability of seeing you again. (Except that I have got greyer, I fear you will find me the same as of old,--somewhat queer, etc.) I have been working very steadily, rather than hard; but by systematically doing just exactly so much every day, neither more nor less, I find that I am able to do a good deal in the course of a year. I mean "good deal" in the sense of "quantity"--the quality, of course, depends upon circumstances rather than effort.

Thanks, again, for your kindness in sending the photograph, and for the pleasant letter about yourself. May all good fortune be yours is the earnest wish of

Y. KOIZUMI.

TO YRJÖ HIRN

TŌKYŌ, January, 1902.

DEAR PROFESSOR,--About a week ago I received from Messrs. Wahlstrom and Weilstrand--how strangely impressive these Northern names!--the dainty "Exotica," with its sunrise and flying-swallows-design, and--my name and private address in Japanese thereon!... I have sent a book for Mrs. Hirn. If there are any of my books that you do not know, and would like to have,--such as "Gleanings in Buddha-Fields" or "Youma"--I shall be glad to have them sent you from America.

Thanks indeed for the photograph. I had imagined a face with the same strong, precise lines, but in a blond setting. Yet some shades of fair hair come out dark in photographs--so that I am not yet quite sure how far my intuition miscarried. You are what I imagined--but a shade or two stronger in line.

As for myself, I have no decent photograph at present.... I am horribly disfigured by the loss of the left eye--so get photographed usually in profile, or looking downward. I am a very small person; and when young, was very dark, with the large alarming eyes of a myope.

I imagine that you have been tactfully kind in your prefatory notice of me. I could only guess; but your letter confirms a number of my guesses. The article by Zilliacus, to which you refer, I do not know: I cannot read German in any event. The paper by Dr. Varigny in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ was a mere fantasy,--unjust in the fact that it accredited me with faculties and knowledge which I do not possess. The mere truth of the matter is that I have had a rather painful experience of life, for lack of the very qualities ascribed to me. (In American existence one must either grind or be ground--I passed most of my time between the grindstones.)

As for the choice of the subjects translated, it gave me most pleasure to find some of my "Retrospectives" in that stern and sturdy tongue: it was a bracing experience. The selections from "Glimpses" I should not have advised; for the book is disfigured by faults of "journalistic" style, and was written before I really began to understand, not Japan, but how difficult it is to understand Japan. Nevertheless your judgement in this particular was coincident with the general decision: the story of the Shirabyoshi has, for example, appeared in four languages. It is a story of the painter Bunchō,--and the merit is in no wise mine, as I merely paraphrased a Japanese narrative. Don't think me ungrateful, please, because I express my preferences thus. Really the experience of trying to follow in Swedish the meaning of my "Serenade," etc., was more than a delight,--and I imagined that the translator had successfully aimed at reproducing in Swedish the rhythm of the English sentences.

I am happy in reading your words about the Japanese dances: as you have seen a living example of one kind, you will not judge them all severely hereafter. Of course there are dances and dances. I wish that you could see the dancing of a pair of _miko_,--little Shintō maid-priestesses: it is a simple performance, but as pleasing as a hovering of butterflies.

Your "Origins of Art" is a book that seems to have proved above the range of some small critics; but you have been felt and appreciated in higher spheres, I think. I was amused by the dullardism of some English critics, evidently incapable of perceiving that the sterling value of such a book is suggestive,--that it was intended to make men think, not to furnish some intellectual lazy-bones with ready-made ideas....

Finland I know only through Léouzon Le Duc's delicious prose-translation. I think of forests of birch, and lakes interminably opening into lakes, and rivers that roar in lonely places, and "liver-coloured earth." Wonder if the earth is really that colour?--the ground of my garden, after a shower, is exactly "liver-colour"--a rich reddish brown.

Please convey my humble thanks to Mrs. Hirn, and believe me

Yours most sincerely,
LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO YRJÖ HIRN

TŌKYŌ, April, 1902.

DEAR PROFESSOR,--Many thanks for the archæological treatise, and for your kindness in sending me the "critical" news. (I think that I can appreciate the good will that can impel so busy a professor to give me so much of his time.) And please to convey my thanks to Mrs. Hirn for her charming letter.

Concerning your project for another volume of "Exotica," kindly assure Mrs. Hirn that she is as fully authorized as I can authorize her to translate whatever she pleases to select from my books.

By the way, you appear to have been deceived by some bookseller; for none of my books are out of print, except "Some Chinese Ghosts," and that by my own will and desire....

Far from being uninterested in the social and political changes of Finland, I feel, as every generous thinker ought to feel, sincere regret at the probable disappearance of a national civilization, and the inevitable loss of intellectual freedom. I think of the "absorption" as a great political crime.... Here in Japan, I watch, day by day, the destruction of a wonderful and very beautiful civilization, by industrial pressure. It strikes me that a time is approaching in which intellectual liberty will almost cease to exist, together with every other kind of liberty,--the time when no man will be able to live as he wishes, much less to write what he pleases. The future industrial communism, in its blind dull way, will be much less liberal than Russian rule, and incomparably more cruel. By that time, Russia herself will be getting less conservative; and I imagine that the Englishman and the American of the future may flee to the new Russia in search of intellectual freedom!

At present, however, the United States offers great opportunity to merit, and every latitude to mental liberty. If you should ever have to leave your own beloved country, I think you would be most happy in America.

The Far East is not impossible--if you wish very much to visit it. Government service anywhere is not a bed of roses; and Tōkyō is said to be the most "unsympathetic" place in the world. But salaries are fair; and a three years' sojourn would furnish rich experience. If you ever want _very_ much to see Japan, perhaps you may be able to obtain a Government post--especially if you have friends in legations, and "high places." Then I can write more to you about the matter. But at present you are fortunate enough to be envied in a brotherly way. I wish you every happiness on your European journey.

How much I should like to see Europe again!--I have three boys to look after, however, and all things are uncertain. I am glad that you have a bright little son;--you know what hopes and fears the possession involves. His travels with you will be of priceless advantage to him. The best of all education is through Ear and Eye--while the senses are most fresh and plastic.

Sincerely yours,
LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO DR. AND MRS. YRJÖ HIRN

TŌKYŌ, May, 1902.

DEAR FRIENDS,--I am a little disappointed in being able to send you to-day only "Kokoro" and "Gleanings in Buddha-Fields"--these being the only books of mine, not in your possession, that I could lay hands on. However, they are the best of the earlier lot; and I imagine that you will be interested especially in the latter. Japan is changing so quickly that already some of the essays in "Kokoro"--such as the "Genius of Japanese Civilization"--have become out-of-date. By the way, have you seen Bellesort's "La Société Japonaise?"--a wonderful book, considering that its author passed only about six months in Japan!

A few days ago I had the delightful surprise of your album-gift: I have lived in Finland! It is very strange that some of the pictures are exactly what I dreamed of--after reading the "Kalewala." In fact, the book illustrates the "Kalewala" for me: even the weird expression in the eyes of the old Kantele-singers seems to me familiar. Of course, the views of city streets and splendid buildings were all surprises and revelations; but the hills and woods and lakes looked like the Finland of my reveries. Of all the views, that of Tmatia seemed to me most like the scenery of the Runoia: there was something in it of _déjà vu_, most ghostly, that gave me particular delight. My affectionate thanks to you both. I shall ever treasure the book and remember the kind givers.

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MRS. HIRN

TŌKYŌ, June, 1902.

DEAR MRS. HIRN,--I have received the copy of _Euterpe_, so kindly sent me, containing your translation,--which gave me much pleasure.

What a nice little paper _Euterpe_ is! Long ago we used to have good papers like that--real literary papers, in nearly the same format--in America. Now, alas! they have become impossible. The taste for good literature in America is practically dead: vulgar fiction has killed the higher fiction; "sensationalism" and blatant cheap journalism have murdered the magazines; and poetry is silent. I wish there could be another paper in America like _Euterpe_....

I have been wondering, in reading your translation, whether there is no better word for the English "ghostly" than _mystika_--surely, they are not alike in meaning. The old English name for a priest, you know, is "a _ghostly_ father." And I am wondering whether "_ewigt_" really has the sense of "infinitely." The Buddhist thought is that the innermost eternal life in each of us becomes "infinite" by union with the One, when the shell of Karma is broken. Individuality and personality exist only as passing phenomena: the Reality is One _and_ infinite.

Please pardon these little observations, which are not intended as criticisms, but only as suggestions.

Believe me ever most sincerely yours,

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MRS. WETMORE

TŌKYŌ, July, 1902.

MY DEAR MRS. WETMORE,--Perhaps you can remember having said, twelve years ago, "I want you to go to Japan, because I want to read the books that you will write about it." As my tenth volume on the subject is now in press,--you ought to be getting satisfied.

I am writing--not without some difficulty--to ask whether you would or could play the part of a fairy god-sister, in helping me to find, for the time of a year or two years, some easy situation in America.

As my eyes are nearly burnt out, I should have to depend upon quality rather than quantity of work. Some post upon a literary weekly--where I could employ a typewriter--would be good. I doubt whether the universities would give me a chance at English literature.

So much for the want. I must bring my boy with me: it is chiefly for his sake. Once that he learns to speak English well, the rest of his education will not disturb me. I am his only teacher and want to continue to teach him for a few years more.--South or West I should prefer to East--"where only a swordfish can swim."

As you are a queen of fairies, you might touch with your wand the _only_ thing that would exactly help me. England is hopeless, of course: I have no chance of earning anything in that "awful orderliness." My family will be well provided for during my absence; but the provision will leave me under the necessity of earning something abroad....

What is worse still, I have been so utterly isolated here that I have no conception of the actual tone and state of things abroad. I do not know "how I stand."

You should try to think of your old acquaintance as a small grey unpleasant "old man." ...

Yours very sincerely,
LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MRS. WETMORE

YAIDZU, August, 1902.

DEAR MRS. WETMORE,--Your kindest letter of July 23d reached me on the 15th of August,--at this little fishing-village of Yaidzu, where I am staying with my boy.

What you say about my finding you a "grey-haired woman of forty" is, of course, impossible. Even if my eyes said so, I should say that they were telling untruth. It is quite certain that you are a fairy,--capable of assuming myriad shapes,--but I know the shapes to be each and all--_Maya_! I never really saw any of the magical forms but two--no, three--in photograph; and they were all different persons, belonging to different centuries, and containing different souls. About you I should not even trust the eyes of the X-rays. My memory is of a Voice and a Thought,--multiple, both, exceedingly,--but justifying the imagination of _une jeune fille un peu farouche_ (there is no English word that gives the same sense of shyness _and_ force) who came into New Orleans from the country, and wrote nice things for a paper there, and was so kind to a particular variety of savage that he could not understand--and was afraid.

I am half-sorry already for not having written you more fully. I fear you think that I am in a very _immediate_ hurry. No: if a fair chance can come to me in the course of a year, or even fifteen months, I can easily wait. My people have their own homes now, and I have some little means; and nothing presses. Even if the ----s should find ways and means to poke me out of the Government service (they have tried it--in oh! so many ways--for four years past), I should feel quite easy about matters for a twelvemonth. Please do not think that I would dream of giving you any hurry-scurry trouble. But, perhaps in a year's time, something might offer itself.

I am _afraid_ of New York City for my boy's sake. I should not like to let him risk one New York winter. Besides, what exercise can a boy have in New York--no trees, fields, streams. Awful place--New York. If anything were to happen to _him_, the sun would go out. I can't take risks--must be sure what I am doing.... Oh, if I were by myself--yes: twenty dollars a month in America would suit me anywhere. I have no longer any wants personal.

Every year there are born some millions of boys cleverer, stronger, handsomer than mine. I may be quite a fool in my estimate of him. I do not find him very clever, quick, or anything of that sort. Perhaps there will prove to be "nothing in him." I cannot tell. All that I am quite sure of is that he naturally likes what is delicate, clean, refined, and kindly,--and that he naturally shrinks from whatever is coarse or selfish. So that he _might_ learn easily "the things that are most excellent"--and most useless--in the schooling of civilization. Anyhow, I must do all I can to feed the tiny light, and give it a chance to prove what it is worth. It is ME, in another birth--with renewed forces given by a strange and charming blood from the Period of the Gods. I must not risk the blowing out of the little lamp.

I heard that in the Stanford University in California, there are somewhat romantic conditions,--"no ceremonies," no humbug,--estimates only of "efficiency." Long ago I wrote the letter of application, and--like many a letter to you--posted the same in the ravening stove. "Too idyllic,"--I thought to myself,--"in the present state of evolution, no human institution could be suffered to realize the ideals of that university!" If I were wrong or right--I should like to know.

But sufficient for this writing is the perfect selfishness thereof. My dear fairy god-sister, please do not take any painful trouble for me, _but_--if you can hit something with your moonshiny wand, during the next year or so, I shall be so glad! Even though I be not glad, I shall always be grateful for the last kind letter.

My best wishes to you in everything that you can imagine, you will be always sure of. "If wishes"--but, after all, there _is_ some human sweetness in these conventional phrases. They help one to utter a mood, or a sense of gratefulness for pleasure given.

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO YRJÖ HIRN

YAIDZU, August, 1902.

DEAR PROFESSOR,--Your kind letter of July 20th is with me....

I am so glad to hear that you are not likely to be obliged to leave Europe. It is perhaps the greatest possible misfortune for a man of culture to find himself obliged to withdraw from intellectual centres to a new raw country, where the higher mental life is still imperfectly understood. There are certain compensations, indeed,--such as larger freedom, and release from useless conventions, but these do not fully make up for the sterility of that American atmosphere in which the more delicate flowers of thought refuse to grow. I am delighted to think of your prospective pleasure in the Italian paradise.

I am writing to you from the little fishing-village of Yaidzu--where there are no tables or chairs.

Bellesort's book is a surprisingly good book in its way. It describes _only_ the disintegration of Japanese society--under the contact of Western ideas--the social putrefaction, the _dégringolade_ of things. As a book dealing with this single unpleasant phase of Japanese existence, it is a very powerful book; and there are some touching pages in it. It was I who gave Bellesort the story of the little boy who committed suicide when falsely accused of stealing a cake,--and he made good use of it.... I don't think that he is able to see the beautiful out of conventional limits; and he mostly confines himself to the directions in which he is strong. I am inclined to believe that his sympathies are clerical--that he presents Brunetière and the Jesuit side of things. However, his book is the best thing of its kind yet produced--the critical kind. It requires a special nervous structure, like that of Pierre Loti, to see the strange beauty of Japan. Let me, however, advise you to read many times the charming book of the American, Percival Lowell,--"The Soul of the Far East." It is strange that Lowell should have written the very best book in the English language on the old Japanese life and character, and the most startling _astronomical_ book of the period,--"Mars,"--more interesting than any romance....

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK

TŌKYŌ, September, 1902.

MY DEAR HENDRICK,--I had to wait several days before answering your letter,--as I felt too much pleased to venture writing for that length of time. And now, in answering, I shall have to talk a great deal about myself, and my own affairs,--which seems to me rather graceless.

All that you proposed, except two things, appear to me very good. But to put the question in the best _general_ way, I am convinced by long experience that I can do nothing profitable with publishers, except at such serious cost to health and to literary reputation as would be utterly prohibitive. What I have been able to do so far has been done mostly in dead opposition to publishers, and their advisers; and in the few cases where I tried to do what publishers wished I have made very serious mistakes.

Editorial work on a monthly or weekly paper, with a sympathetic head, who would let me have my own way, and use a typewriter--let me agree to furnish at fixed intervals certain material, while free to use the over-time as I pleased--would be good....

Of course, the main trouble about any kind of newspaper work is that it kills all opportunity for original literary work--but I could afford the sacrifice.

Certain branches of teaching admit of opportunity for literary work,--particularly those in which teaching rises to the dignity of the lecture....

The main result of holding a chair of English literature for six years has been to convince me that I know very little about English literature, and never could learn very much. I have learned enough, indeed, to lecture upon the general history of English literature, without the use of notes or books; and I have been able to lecture upon the leading poets and prose-writers of the later periods. But I have not the scholarship needed for the development and exercise of the critical faculty, in the proper sense of the term. I know nothing of Anglo-Saxon: and my knowledge of the relation of English literature to other European literature is limited to the later French and English romantic and realistic periods.

Under these circumstances you might well ask how I could fill my chair. The fact is that I never made any false pretences, and never applied for the post. I realized my deficiencies; but I soon felt where I might become strong, and I taught literature as the expression of emotion and sentiment,--as the representation of life. In considering a poet I tried to explain the quality and the powers of the emotion that he produces. In short, I based my teaching altogether upon appeals to the imagination and the emotions of my pupils,--and they have been satisfied (though the fact may signify little, because their imagination is so unlike our own).

Should I attempt to lecture on literature in America, I should only follow the same lines--which are commonly held to be illegitimate, but in which I very firmly believe there are great possibilities. Subjects upon which I think that I have been partly successful are such as these:--

The signification of Style and Personality.

Respective values of various styles. Error of the belief that one method is essentially superior to another.

Physiological signification of the true Realism--as illustrated by the Norse writers and, in modern times, by Flaubert and Maupassant. Psychological signification of Romantic methods.

Metaphysical poetry of George Meredith: illustrating the application of the Evolutional Philosophy to Ethics.

D. G. Rossetti and Christina Rossetti.

The Poetical Prose and the Poetry of Charles Kingsley.

Four great masters of modern prose: Carlyle, Ruskin, De Quincey, Froude.

The mystical element in modern lyric verse. (I use the term "mystical" in the meaning of a blending of the religious with the passional emotion.)

Of the truth and the ideal beauty in Tolstoi's Theory of Art.

"Beyond man:"--a chapter upon the morality of insect-communities,--suggesting the probable lines of ethical evolution.

Very heterogeneous, this list; but I have purposely made it so. I have had to lecture upon hundreds of subjects, without ever having had the time to write a lecture. (I have to lecture here twelve hours a week, on four different subjects--and to do one's best is out of the question. The authorities never pay the slightest attention to what the professor does; _but they hold him strictly responsible for the success of his lectures!_) ...

I think that I have hinted ways in which I might be able to make myself useful--i. e., in the teaching of certain literary values.--There is also the subject of Composition (method, independently of grammatical and rhetorical rules). The hard experience of writing certain kinds of books ought to be of some practical worth. The art of what _not_ to say,--the art of focussing effects,--the means of avoiding imitation (even of the unconscious order), and of developing a literary personality;--these can be talked of, I think, without a knowledge of Greek or Sanscrit. I really think that I could do some good by lecturing on these things--though conscious of having often failed in the very directions that I should recommend.

One thing more, I must not forget to say. I cannot be separated from my boy--not even for twenty-four hours. I have taught him about three hours a day every day for several years. When he becomes a little older, I may be able to let him attend a _day_-school; but at present, I imagine that this would be difficult. I feel handicapped; but it can't be helped, and the race is for him.

Summary: As a cog in a wheel I should probably break off. As a personal equation I might have some worth. And I can wait a full year for a chance.

Your letter was a wonderful event for me--a great and happy surprise. The Fairy Queen also wrote me a beautiful letter (I suppose that all she does is beautiful): I had to read it many times to learn the full charm of it. I have lost all power to write a nice letter of thanks--feel stupid.

We have a nice home a little out of Tōkyō--to which I should not be ashamed to invite you, or even the Fairy Queen: only, you would have to take off your shoes, for it is a Japanese house.

I shall try to atone later on for the great length of this weary scrawl: how tired you must be after reading it! All happiness to you. Be sure that, whether I win or fail, I shall never be able to even tell you how sincerely and deeply I remain grateful for that letter.

Y. KOIZUMI, LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK

TŌKYŌ, 1902.

DEAR HENDRICK,--I am glad to hear that you are a strong and successful swimmer in that awful sea of struggle, and that your home is happy. Having two little ones, you can understand now what the Japanese call _Mono no aware_,--weirdly translated by Aston as "the Ah-ness of things."[3]

[3] More literally, "the pity of things."

Thanks for the Martinique clippings. The Swede's account seems to me possibly apocryphal,--for his localizations are all wrong. The other man did, apparently, visit Saint-Pierre, and explore the vicinity.--I opened and re-read that black day a letter from Saint-Pierre, enclosing a spray of arborescent fern, labelled "From the sunny garden."

The time is approaching in which I must go abroad, for my boy's sake. To Queen Elizabeth I wrote, asking for a possible smoothing of the way; and if you can put a spoke in my wheel any time about next spring, or during the summer, I should be as grateful as I can--which is nothing to brag of, I need scarcely say. I should like some easy post, for about two years. "Easy posts" must be in sharp demand; and I am not sure that I am asking for the possible. New York is, of course, the place where I do not want to go--for my lad's sake; but I shall probably make a flying trip there,--if the gods allow.

For the time being, I am with Macmillan. But I fancy really that all publishers regard authors merely as units in a calculation,--excepting the great guns who, like Kipling, can force strong respect. I need scarcely tell you that my books do not make me rich. In fact, I have given up thinking about the business side of literature, and am quite content to obtain the privilege of having my book produced according to my notion of things. Still, by reason of various translations into Swedish, Danish, German and French, I have some literary encouragements.

I believe you know that I have three boys: they are sturdy lads all--though the eldest is rather too gentle up to date. I live altogether in Old Japan, outside of lecture-hours; and might think myself lucky, but for that "Ah-ness of things." Of course, I have become somewhat old--it is more than twelve years since I saw you! And then I have had to learn a multitude unspeakable of unpleasant things. But, as they say here, _Shikata ga nai_! There's no help for that!

Japan is changing rapidly, as you can imagine; and the changes are not beautiful. I try to keep within fragments of the old atmosphere--that linger here and there, like those bands of morning-coloured mist which you have seen spanning Japanese pictures. Within these wreaths of the lifting mirage, all is Fairy-land still; and my home will always have its atmosphere of thousands of years ago. But in the raw light outside, the changings are ugly and sad.

Ever faithfully,
Y. KOIZUMI.

TO MRS. WETMORE

TŌKYŌ, November, 1902.

DEAR MRS. WETMORE,-- ... I have had your beautiful letter in my drawer for about a week, before daring to re-read it. And I have been thinking in circles,--about how to answer it.

For--O fairy! what have you dared to say? I am quite sure that I do _not_ know anything about Japanese art, or literature, or ethnology, or politics, or history. (You did not say "politics" or "history," however, and that seems to be what is wanted.) But perhaps you know _what_ I know better than I myself know,--or perhaps you can give me to eat a Fairy Apple of Knowledge. At present I have no acquaintance even with the Japanese language: I cannot read a Japanese newspaper; and I have learned only enough, even of the _kana_, to write a letter home. I cannot lie--to my Fairy: therefore it is essential that I make the following declaration:--

_I have learned about Japan only enough to convince me that I know nothing about Japan._

Perhaps your kind professor suspects as much;--for has he not plainly said that no (American) university would hire me to teach English or French literature? That means accurate perception of my range, in one direction. Possibly, therefore, he would not expect from me any attempts at a pretence of exact knowledge.

I have held a chair of English literature here for nearly seven years, by setting all canons at defiance, and attempting to teach only the emotional side of literature, in its relations to modern thought;--playing with philosophy, as a child can play with the great sea. I have been allowed to do just as I pleased,--on the condition of being interesting (which condition the students take care shall be fulfilled). Should I attempt to lecture about Japan, I imagine that it would be necessary to allow me nearly the same liberty in America. I might hope to be suggestive,--to set minds dreaming or darkling in new directions. But I could not pretend to impart exact knowledge. I could not afford to fail: that would be ... a great shame to my good name at home. So I cannot answer "Yes" without being certain of my ability to perform all that could be reasonably expected of me,--as a small "man-of-letters" (not as anything else).

What I could do would be about thus:--

I could attempt a series of lectures upon Japanese topics,--dealing incidentally with psychological, religious, social, and artistic impressions,--so as to produce in the minds of my hearers an idea of Japan different from that which is given in books. Something, perhaps, in the manner of Mr. Lowell's "Soul of the Far East" (incomparably the greatest of all books on Japan, and the deepest),--but from a different point of view.

What I could _not_ do would be to put myself forward as an authority upon Japanese history, or any special Japanese subject. The value of my lectures would depend altogether upon suggestiveness,--not upon any crystallizations of fact.

Again, there is a doubt to be solved--concerning _quantity_ as well as quality. To do my best, I should hope that quantity were not too strongly insisted upon. How many lectures would be wanted during one term--distinct lectures? and how many hours would be demanded for a lecture?... You see, the conditions in Tōkyō are monstrous: I have to lecture twelve hours a week on _four_ different subjects;--that means for lecturing what reporter's work means in relation to literature!... I imagine that I could endeavour to do something about equal to the work of Professor Rhys-Davids in his American lectures,--as to bulk. The six lectures represent a volume of about 225 pages. Lectures to represent, in printed form, a carefully made book of about 250 or 300 pages would represent my best effort.

For I have reached that time of life at which "the state of the weather" becomes a topic of enormous importance.

And the rest of what has to be said I shall put into a letter, which I pray you to read, and to poke into the fire if it is not satisfactory.

To fail, after being recommended by you, would be an unpardonable sin against all the higher virtues. Can't risk it.

Well, if President Schurman can make good use of me, and arrange things within my capacity, I will go straight to your Palace of Faery before going elsewhere. Only to see you again--even for a moment,--and to hear you speak (in some one of the Myriad Voices), would be such a memory for me. And you would let me "walk about gently, touching things"?...

It is an almost divine pleasure and wonder to watch the unfolding of a soul-blossom, as you say,--providing that one is strong enough not to be afraid. I am, or have been, always afraid: the Future-Possible of Nightmare immediately glooms up,--and I flee, and bury myself in work. Absurd?

And your book--of course that will be some opportunity for a delightful chat. You will find me as good as I can be in expressing an opinion,--if the subject be within my range. I know that the work of such a person as--Mrs. Deland, for example--is beyond my limit; and I imagine that you would write of highly complex existences....

Excuse my anxiety about my chicken. I want to feel sure that I can make him comfortable and warm if I do go to Cornell. I want to make all the money, too, that I honestly can earn, for his sake and the mother's. She will have some trying moments in the hour of parting with him. But there is no other future chance for him, and no educational place here to which I could trust him--least of all, the Jesuits. Very different it is with my second sturdy boy, who has no trace of European blood. His way is straight and smooth. I send his picture, that you may see the difference. And my third boy--sturdiest of all--will have other friends to help him, I fancy....

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MRS. WETMORE

TŌKYŌ, January, 1903.

DEAR MRS. WETMORE,--It was a shock to receive your beautiful letter, because I had waited so long and anxiously,--fearing that the last gleam of hope in my Eastern horizon had been extinguished. It would be of no use whatever to tell you half my doubts and fears--they made the coming of your letter an almost terrible event.

Well, what _you_ say about my work (always seizing upon the best in it, and showing such penetrant sympathy with its effort or aim) counts for more than a myriad printed criticisms.

My boy is accustomed to kissing--_from_ his father only, who always so dismisses him at bed-time; and he understands very well the charm of Lady Elizabeth's sweet message, after hearing from me what the privilege signifies. But I have fairly given up the idea of taking him with me to America for the present. The risk is too great. I must try to make a nest for him first, and be sure of keeping alive myself.

In the mean time, I have been treated very cruelly by the Japanese Government, and forced out of the service by intrigues,--in spite of protests from the press, and from my students, who stood by me as long as they dared. To make matters worse, I fell sick;--I have been sick for months. About three weeks ago, I burst a blood-vessel, and I am not allowed to talk. So I fear that the lecture-business is out of the question; and I am not altogether sorry, because I do not know enough about the subject. I would wish never again to write a line about any Japanese subjects: all my work has only resulted in making for me implacable enemies.

The problem with me now is simply how I shall be able to live, and support my family. I must try to do something in America,--where the winter will not kill me off in a hurry. Literary work is over. When one has to meet the riddle of how to live there must be an end of revery and dreaming and all literary "labour-of-love." It pays not at all. A book brings me in about $300,--after two years' waiting. My last payment on four books (for six months) was $44. Also, in my case, good work is a matter of nervous condition. I can't find the conditions while having to think about home--with that fear for others which is "the most soul-satisfying" of fears, according to Rudyard Kipling. However, we are all right for the time being; and I can provide for the home before I go.

Thank you for telling me the name of your book. I had hard work to get your little volume of travel when it came out: ages pass here before an "ordered" book comes. But in America I can keep track of you. I want very much to see your book. It will either tell me very, very much about you--or it will tell me nothing of you, and therefore have the charm of the Unknowable. Oh! do read the divine Loti's "L'Inde sans les Anglais!" No mortal critic--not even Jules Lemaître or Anatole France--can explain that ineffable and superhuman charm. I hope you will have everything of Loti's. Sometime ago, when I was afraid that I might die, one of my prospective regrets was that I might not be able to read "L'Inde sans les Anglais."

Much I should wish to see you in Japan--but human wishes!... Yet I think I could make you feel pleased for a little while--though our cooking be of the simplest. My little wife knows your face so well--your picture hangs now in her room. We have a garden, and a bamboo grove.

Now you must be tired reading me. As soon as I can feel well, I shall go to some fishing-village with my boy; and, if lucky, perhaps I shall leave for America in the fall. But nothing is yet certain.

With all grateful thought from

LAFCADIO HEARN.

You cannot imagine how hungry and thirsty I have become to see you again,--or how much afraid I feel at times that I may not see you: though a season is short.

By waiting a few months more in Japan, I can, of course, make the lectures much better. But the time will seem long. Here the winter is very mild--but damp, as in New Orleans.

TO MRS. WETMORE

TŌKYŌ, 1903.

DEAR MRS. WETMORE,--You will probably have heard by this time that President Schurman cancelled the offer made me--by reason of the trouble at Cornell University. As I had taken several steps in connection with that prospect,--the blow was rather heavy; and this you will better understand in view of the following facts:--

On the 31st March, as I anticipated, I was forced out of the university--on the pretext that as a Japanese citizen I was not entitled to a "foreign salary." The students having made a strong protest in my favour, I was offered a reëngagement at terms so devised that it was impossible for me to reëngage. I was also refused the money allowed to professors for a nine-months' vacation after a service of six years. Yet I had served seven years.

So the long and the short of the matter is that after having worked during thirteen years for Japan, and sacrificed everything for Japan, I have been only driven out of the service, and practically banished from the country. For while the politico-religious combination that has engineered this matter remains in unbroken power, I could not hold any position in any educational establishment here for even six months.

At my time of life, except in the case of strong men, there is a great loss of energy--the breaking-up begins. I do not think that I should be able to do much that would require a sustained physical strain. But if I could get some journalistic connection, assuring a regular salary,--for example, an engagement to furnish signed or unsigned articles, once or twice a week, or even three times,--I believe that I could weather the storm until such time as a political reaction might help me to return to Japan. For my boy's sake these events may prove fortunate,--if I find an opportunity to take him abroad for two years.

At all events, O Fairy Queen, your gifts have "faded away"--even as in the Song,--and I am also fading away. I do not know whom else I should pray to, for the moment.

I have material evidence also that certain religious combinations want to prevent my chances in America; if you can help me to something journalistic, I imagine that it were better to let the matter remain unknown for the time being.

Perhaps I shall be able to leave Japan with McDonald (that would be nice!)--but only the gods know when _he_ will return. Meantime, however, he gives me much comfort and promises me the fortunes of Aladdin. He seems to think I am quite safe and certain. But I am exercised about home--that is the chief trouble.

Please pardon this fresh appeal,--with all thanks for past kindness, and for those delightful letters.

Ever sincerely yours,
LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MRS. WETMORE

TŌKYŌ, July, 1903.

DEAR MRS. WETMORE,--Your most kind letter is with me,--and I do not know what to say to thank you for the extraordinary interest and trouble that you have taken in my poor case. It is too bad that, having only one Fairy-Sister in the world, I should prove to her such a Torment. Perhaps I may be able to be at some future time a pleasure-giver--I shall pray to all the gods to help me thereunto.

Please do not worry about that Cornell matter: I suppose that President Schurman must have been in great anxiety and trouble when he wrote that letter.

You will be glad to hear that I am now much better than when I last wrote to you, and that I have finished most of the lectures--in rough draft. To polish them for publication will be at least a year's work, I fear; but I am now able, I think, to give a cultured audience a new idea of Japan, in large outline.

I have to be careful of my health for some time. Perhaps I shall get quite strong by the end of summer. But I am now only allowed to walk in the garden....

I cannot write you a pretty letter: I have tried for two days,--but I feel so stupid.

What I want much is to get a little human sympathy and something quiet to do. Of course, I should like a university of all things,--but ... is it possible? I have a new book in MS.; but as I was expecting to go to America, I did not send it to the publisher. It will chiefly consist of ghost-tales.

My dear Fairy-Sister, I now am writing only to reach you as soon as possible,--to thank you, and to reassure you about myself. So please excuse this poor effort, and believe me most gratefully worshipful.

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MRS. WETMORE

TŌKYŌ, 1903.

DEAR MRS. WETMORE,--Your letter from Virginia came, and made fires of hope burn up again, with changing vague colours,--like the tints of a fire of wreck-drift remembrance from the snowy winter of 1889. It has given me a great deal to think about--not merely as regards myself, but also as regards another and very dear person....

I am delighted to read President Jordan's kind words. I shall write him a letter to-day, or to-morrow, enclosing it to you. From Johns Hopkins I have a reply, enclosed,--which does not promise much. I shall see what can be done there. But the Lowell Institute affair promises better. As for President Jordan, I should be glad to speak at Leland Stanford independently of salary, on the way going or coming--could no other arrangement be made. It strikes me, however, that there is danger of any and every arrangement being broken up. The power of certain religious bodies is colossal.

Spring would be the best time for me to go to America, if I can get through the spider-web now spun all around me. It would be the best time, because those lectures are taking handsome shape, towards a volume of 500 to 600 pp.; and it were a pity to leave anything unfinished before I go. Spring again would be the best time, because I am not yet so strong that I can face a down-East winter without some preparation. Spring would be the best time, because my fourth child is coming into the world. Spring would be the best time, because I am getting out a new book of ghost-stories, and would like to read the proofs here, in Japan. I think it were imprudent to go before spring.

I have to think seriously about the money-question--at 53, with a large family. To go to America alone means $500 U.S., and as much to return--that signifies 2000 yen; with which I can live in Japan for two years. Then there are the necessary expenses of living. To take my boy were a great risk. Had the Japanese Government been willing to pay me the vacation money they morally owed me (about 5600 yen), I could have done it. (They told me that I ought to be satisfied to live on rice, like a Japanese.) Then I must be sure of being able to send money home. At present there is no money _certainly_ in sight. But here I can live by my pen. Since I was driven out of the university, I have not been obliged to drop even one sen of my little hoard. The danger is the risk to sight of incessant work; but that danger would exist anywhere, except perhaps in a very hot country. And sooner or later the Government must wake up to the fact that it was wicked to me.

To go to America with some sense of security would be mental medicine; and any success that I could achieve there would make a good impression here with friends. It would mean larger experience. It would mean also an opportunity to enter some society that would protect liberal opinions. I have not said much as to the pleasure I could look forward to--that goes without saying. But I cannot be rash on the money-question, or trust to my luck as in old days. To use a Japanese expression, "my body no longer belongs to me,"--and I have had one physical warning.

Anxiety is a poison; and I do not know how much more of it I could stand. It was a friend's treachery that broke me up recently: I worked hard against the pain--only to find my mouth full of blood. With a boy on my hands, in a far-away city, and no certainties, I don't know that being brave would serve me much--the bodily machine has been so much strained here.

With a clear certainty ahead of being able to make some money, I could go, do good things, and return to Japan to write more books,--perhaps to receive justice also. In a few years more my boy will be strong enough to study abroad.

Very true what you say--no one can save him but himself, and unfortunately, though the oldest, he is my Benjamin. My second boy is at school, captain of his class, trusted to protect smaller boys. My eldest, taught only at home, between his father's knees, is everything that a girl might be, that a man should not be,--except as to bodily strength,--sensitive, loving pretty things, hurt by a word, always meditating about something--yet not showing any great capacity. I taught him to swim, and make him practise gymnastics every day; but the spirit of him is altogether too gentle. A being entirely innocent of evil--what chance for him in such a world as Japan? Do you know that terribly pathetic poem of Robert Bridges'--"Pater Filio"?