The Life and Letters of Lafcadio Hearn Volume II Part 30

DEAR HENDRICK,-- ... The idea of a set of philosophical fairy-tales often haunts me. One doesn't need to go to the Orient for the material.

It is everywhere. The Elle-woman is real. So are the Sirens, Circe, and the Sphinx and Herakles and Admetos and Alkestis. So are the Harpies, and Medusa, and the Fates who measure and cut and spin. But when I try, I find myself unable to create for want of a knowledge of every-day life,--that life which is the only life the general reader understands or cares about.

Then the philosophical fairy-tales might deal with personal experiences common to all men,--impulse and sorrow and loss and hope and discovery of the hollowness of things. But the inclination only is with me,--the pus.h.i.+ng sensation,--the vague cloud-feeling of the thing. Can you help--suggest--define--develop by a flash or two? If you can, be sweet, and tell me; and the fairy-tales shall be dedicated unto you. Indeed they shall in any case, if I can ever write them. In haste, with love,

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MITCh.e.l.l McDONALD

TOKYO, November, 1897.

DEAR McDONALD,--I can only very poorly express my real feeling at the true goodness shown me, not only in coming out to my miserable little shanty, over that muddy chaos of street,--but in making me feel so free-and-easy with you, in the charming way you accepted the horrid attempt at entertainment, and in the hundred ways by which you showed your interest and sympathy. It was more than nice--that is all I can say.

But you set some mental machinery at work too. I believe almost your first remark was your desire that I should write fiction,--and I believe I understand why you wish this. It is because you wish me to make some profit out of my pen; and, being well informed on all business matters, you know, just as well as we literary men do, that fiction is about the only material that really pays. And now I am going, after a little thinking about the matter, to answer you in kind.

Why do not men like myself write more fiction? For two reasons.

The first is because they have little knowledge of life, little _savoir-vivre_, to help them in the study of the artificial and complex growth of modern society. The second is that, unless very exceptionally situated, they are debarred, by this very want of knowledge and skill, from mixing with that life which alone can furnish the material. Society everywhere suspects them; common life repels them. They can _divine_, but they must have rare chances to do that. Men like the genius Kipling belong to the great life-struggle, understand it, reflect it, and the world wors.h.i.+ps them. But dreamers who talk about preexistence, and who think differently from common-sense folk, are quite outside of social existence. But--I can do this: You know all about the foreign life of these parts,--the shadows and the lights. You can give me, perhaps, in the course of three years, _suggestions_ for six little stories--based upon the relations between foreigners and j.a.panese in this era of Meiji: studies of the life of the "open ports." I should need only real facts--not names or dates--real facts of beauty or pathos or tragedy. There are hosts of these. All the life of the open ports is not commonplace: there are heroisms and romances in it; and there is nothing in this world nearly as wonderful as life itself. All real life is a marvel--but in j.a.pan a marvel that is hidden as much as possible--especially hidden from dangerous chatterers like Lafcadio Hearn.

Of course I could not make a book in a few months,--not in less than two or three years; but I _could_ make one, with the mere help of hints from a man who knows. And if that book of short stories (six would be enough to make a book) should ever be so written, I should certainly make a dedication of it to M. McD. as prettily as I could.

There is an answer to your wish so far as I can make one for the present. I shall be down to see you the next month, probably, and we can chat over matters if you have time. And I shall take care not to come when you are _too_ busy.

Faithfully, with affectionate regards and thanks,

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MASAn.o.bU OTANI

TOKYO, December, 1897.

DEAR OTANI,--I have your very nice letter, which gave me much pleasure.

This is just a line before I go away, in regard to the subject for January, and relevant matters.

First let me tell you that you are very, very much mistaken--extraordinarily mistaken--in thinking that I do not care for what you call "vulgar" songs. They are just what I care _most_ about. In all the poems that you translated for me this month, I could find but _one_ that I liked very much; and that was a _dodoitsu_.

Now I am going to shock you by saying something that may surprise you; but if I do not say it, you will _never_ understand what I want. In all the great ma.s.s of student poetry that you collected for me, I found only seventeen pieces that I could call poetry,--and on submitting those seventeen pieces to higher tests, I found that nearly all were reflections of thoughts and feelings from older poets. As for the book that you translated, I could find no true poetry in it at all, and scarcely anything original.

And now let me tell you my honest opinion about this whole matter. The _refined_ poetry of this era, and most of the poetry that you collected for me of other eras, is of little or no value. On the other hand, the "vulgar" songs sung by coolies and fishermen and sailors and farmers and artisans, are very true and beautiful poetry; and would be admired by great poets in England, in France, in Italy, in Germany, or in Russia.

You will think, of course, that this only shows my ignorance and my stupidity. But please reflect a little about the matter. A great poem by Heine, by Shakespeare, by Calderon, by Petrarch, by Hafiz, by Saadi, remains a great poem _even when it is translated into the prose of another language_. It touches the emotion or the imagination in every language. But poetry which cannot be translated is of no value whatever in world-literature; and it is not even true poetry. It is a mere playing with values of words. True poetry has nothing to do with mere word-values. It is fancy, it is emotion, it is pa.s.sion, or it is thought. Therefore it has power and truth. Poetry that depends for existence on the peculiarities of _one language_ is waste of time, and can never live in people's hearts. For this reason there is more value in the English ballad of "Childe Waters" or of "Tamlane," than in the whole of the verse of Pope.

Of course, I know there are some beautiful things in j.a.panese cla.s.sical poetry--I have translations from the _Manyoshu_ and _Kokinshu_ which are beautiful enough to live forever in any language. But these are beautiful because they do _not_ depend on word-values, but upon sentiment and feeling.

I fear you will think all this very foolish and barbarous; but perhaps it will help you to understand what I want. "Vulgar" poetry is supremely valuable, in my humble opinion.

Please this month collect for me, if you can, some poems on the _Sound of the Sea and the Sound of the Wind_. If there are not many poems on these subjects, then you might add poems on the Sea and the Wind in any other connection. What I want to get is the _feeling_ that the sound and the mystery of Wind and Sea have inspired in j.a.panese Song.

With best wishes ever, faithfully yours,

Y. KOIZUMI.

[Ill.u.s.tration: WRITING-ROOM IN MR. HEARN'S TOKYO HOUSE

_His three sons on the verandah_]

TO MASAn.o.bU OTANI

TOKYO, June, 1898.

MY DEAR OTANI,--I am pleased to hear that the incident was imaginary,--because this gives me a higher idea of your sense of art.

True literary art consists very largely in skilful combination of real or possible facts in an imaginary succession. Literature artistic never can be raw truth, any more than a photograph can be compared with a painting. Here is a little sentence from one of the greatest of modern French writers:--

"_L'art n'a pas la verite pour objet._ Il faut demander la verite aux Sciences, parce qu'elle est leur objet;--il ne faut pas la demander a la litterature, _qui n'a et ne peut avoir d'objet_ que le beau." (Anatole France.)

Of course this must not be taken _too_ literally; but it is substantially the most important of truths for a writer to keep in mind.

I would suggest this addition: "Remember that nothing can be beautiful which does not contain truth, and that making an imagination beautiful means also to make it partly true."

Your English is poor still; but your composition was _artistic_, and gave me both surprise and pleasure. You understand something about the grouping of facts in the dramatic sense, and how to appeal by natural and simple incidents to the reader's emotion. The basis of art is there; the rest can only come with years of practice,--I mean the secret of compressed power and high polish. I would suggest that when writing in your own language, you aim hereafter somewhat in the direction of compression. You are now somewhat inclined to diffuseness; and a great deal is gained in strength by understanding how much of detail can be sacrificed....

Yours faithfully, Y. KOIZUMI.

TO MITCh.e.l.l McDONALD

TOKYO, January, 1898.

DEAR McDONALD,--I believe those three days, of mine in Yokohama were the most pleasurable in a pilgrimage of forty-seven years. I can venture to say little more about them _per se_. Such experience will not do for me except at vast intervals. It sends me back to work with much too good an opinion of myself,--and that is bad for literary self-judgement.

The beneficial result is an offsetting of that morbid condition,--that utter want of self-confidence. On the whole, I feel "toned-up"--full of new energy; that will not be displeasing to you. I not only feel that I ought to do something good, but I am going to do it,--with the permission of the G.o.ds.

How nice of you to have invited Amenomori to our tiffin,--and the trip to Omori! I look forward in the future to a Kamakura day, under like circ.u.mstances, when time and tide permit. I believe A. can surprise us at Kamakura, which he knows better than any man living. He does not give his knowledge to many people.

I am sending you Knapp's book, as I promised, and that volume of mine which you have not read. Excuse the shabbiness of the volumes. I think Dr. Hall knows much about the curious dialect which I have used,--the Creole. Please say to him for me what you feel ought to be said.

I won't write any more now--and I settle down forthwith to work with fresh vim and hope.

With more than grateful remembrance,

Affectionately yours, LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MITCh.e.l.l McDONALD

TOKYO, January, 1898.

DEAR McDONALD,--I have both of your kindest letters. It gave me no small pleasure to find that you liked "Youma:" you will not like it less knowing that the story is substantially true. You can see the ruins of the old house in the Quartier du Fort if you ever visit Saint-Pierre, and perhaps meet my old friend Arnoux, a survivor of the time. The girl really died under the heroic conditions described--refusing the help of the blacks, and the ladder. Of course I may have idealized _her_, but not her act. The incident of the serpent occurred also; but the heroine was a different person,--a plantation girl, celebrated by the historian Rufz de Lavison. I wrote the story under wretched circ.u.mstances in Martinique, near the scenes described, and under the cross with the black Christ. As for the "Sylvestre Bonnard" I believe I told you that that was translated in about ten days and published in two weeks from the time of beginning--at the wish of the Harpers. Price $115, if I remember rightly,--and no commission on sales,--but the work suffers in consequence of the haste.

How to answer your kind suggestion about pulling me "out of my sh.e.l.l,"