The Life and Letters of Lafcadio Hearn Volume II Part 46

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 G.o.ds 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 st.u.r.dy lads all--though the eldest is rather too gentle up to date. I live altogether in Old j.a.pan, 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 mult.i.tude unspeakable of unpleasant things. But, as they say here, _s.h.i.+kata ga nai_! There's no help for that!

j.a.pan 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 j.a.panese 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

TOKYO, 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 j.a.panese 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 j.a.panese language: I cannot read a j.a.panese 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 j.a.pan only enough to convince me that I know nothing about j.a.pan._

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 j.a.pan, 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 j.a.panese topics,--dealing incidentally with psychological, religious, social, and artistic impressions,--so as to produce in the minds of my hearers an idea of j.a.pan 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 j.a.pan, 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 j.a.panese history, or any special j.a.panese 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 _quant.i.ty_ as well as quality. To do my best, I should hope that quant.i.ty 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 Tokyo 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 st.u.r.dy 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--st.u.r.diest of all--will have other friends to help him, I fancy....

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MRS. WETMORE

TOKYO, 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 j.a.panese 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 j.a.panese 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 pa.s.s 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 Lemaitre 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 j.a.pan--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 fis.h.i.+ng-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 j.a.pan, 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

TOKYO, 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 antic.i.p.ated, I was forced out of the university--on the pretext that as a j.a.panese citizen I was not ent.i.tled to a "foreign salary." The students having made a strong protest in my favour, I was offered a reengagement at terms so devised that it was impossible for me to reengage. 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 j.a.pan, and sacrificed everything for j.a.pan, 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, a.s.suring 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 j.a.pan. For my boy's sake these events may prove fortunate,--if I find an opportunity to take him abroad for two years.