The Life and Letters of Lafcadio Hearn Volume I Part 30

TO W. D. O'CONNOR

NEW ORLEANS, April, 1886.

MY DEAR O'CONNOR,--Your dainty little gift was deeply appreciated. By this mail I send you a few papers containing an editorial on the subject--rather hastily written, I much regret to say, owing to pressure of other work,--but calculated, I trust, to excite interest in the n.o.bly-written defence of Mrs. Pott's marvellous commentary.

I have not written you because I felt unable to interest you in the condition I have been long in--struggling between the necessities of my _trade_ and the aspirations of what I hope to prove my _art_. I have a little Chinese book on Ticknor & Co.'s stocks: if it appear you will receive it, and perhaps enjoy some pages. The volume is an attempt in the direction I hope to make triumph some day: _poetical prose_. I send also some cuttings,--leaves for a future volume to appear, G.o.d knows when, under the t.i.tle "Notebook of an Impressionist." Before completing it I expect to publish a novelette, which will be dedicated to you,--if I think it worthy of you. I will work at it all this summer.

I may also tell you that since I last wrote a very positive change has been effected in my opinions by the study of Herbert Spencer. He has completely converted me away from all 'isms, or sympathies with 'isms: at the same time he has filled me with the vague but omnipotent consolation of the Great Doubt. I can no longer give adhesion to the belief in human automatism,--and that positive skepticism that imposes itself upon an undisciplined mind has been eternally dissipated in my case. I do not know if this philosophy interests you; but I am sure it would, if you are not already, as I suspect, an adept in it. I have only read, so far, the First Principles; but all the rest are corollaries only.

Now I have been selfish enough with my _Ego_;--let me trust you are well, not over-busy, and as happy as it is possible to be under ordinary conditions. I may run away to the sea for a while; I may run up North, and take the liberty of spending a few hours in Washington on my way back from New York. But whether I see you or not, believe always in my sincere affection.

Your friend, LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO W. D. O'CONNOR

NEW ORLEANS, April, 1886.

DEAR O'CONNOR,--I had not received your letter when I wrote mine. It pained me to hear of your having been ill, and especially ill in a way which I am peculiarly well qualified to understand--having been almost given up for dead some eight years ago. The same causes, the same symptoms--in every particular. Luckily for me I found a warmer climate, a city where literary compet.i.tion was almost nothing, and men of influence who took an interest in my work, and let me have things my own way. Rest and cultivation of the _animal_ part of me, and good care by a dear good woman, got me nearly well again. I am stronger than I ever was in some ways; but I have not the same recuperative vitality,--I cannot trust myself to any severe mental strain. "Sickness is health,"

they say, for those who have received one of Nature's severe corrections.

I mention my own case only to show that I understand yours, and to give you, if possible, the benefit of my experience. Long sleep is necessary, for two or three years. Do not be afraid to take ten, eleven, or twelve hours when you so feel inclined. I observe that the mind accomplishes more, and in a shorter time, after these protracted rests. Never work when you feel that little pain in the back of the head. Rare beefsteaks,--eggs just warmed,--and claret and water to stimulate appet.i.te as often as possible, are important. Doctors can do little; you yourself can do a great deal. I think a few months, or even weeks, at the sea, would astonish you by the result. It did me. The abyss, out of which all mundane life is said to have been evolved,--the vast salt gulf of Creation,--seems still to retain its mysterious power: the Spirit still hovers over the Face of the Deep,--and the very breath of the ocean gives new soul to the blood.

You will already know what I think of your beautiful book, with all of which I heartily concur. But do not attempt to overwork any more. You ought not to trust yourself to do more than three or four hours' work a day,--and even this application ought to be interrupted at intervals. I take a smoke every hour or so. The main thing--_please do not doubt it_--is plenty of nourishment, cultivation of appet.i.te, and much sleep.

Then Nature will right herself--slowly, though surely.

Do not write to me if it tires you. I know just how it is; I know also that you feel well toward me even if you have to keep silence. I will write whenever I think I can interest you,--and never fail to drop me a line if I can do anything to please you--just a line. I would not have been silent so long, had I even suspected you were ill. My own illness of eight years back was caused by years of night-work--16 hours a day.

Several of my old comrades died at it. I quit--took courage to attempt a different cla.s.s of work, and, as the French say, I have been able to re-make my const.i.tution. I trust it won't bore you, my writing all this: I understand so exactly how you have been that I am anxious to give all the suggestions I can.

I remain, dear O'Connor, Very affectionately, LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO H. E. KREHBIEL

NEW ORLEANS, May, 1886.

DEAR KREHBIEL,--I think I shall soon be able to send you a Hindoo. Yes, a Hindoo,--with Orientally white teeth, the result of vegetal diet and Brahmanic abstemiousness--rather prognathous, I am sorry to say, and not therefore of purest Aryan breed. He may be a Thug, a Sepoy deserter, a Sikh drummed out of the army, a Brahmin who has lost caste, a Pariah thief, a member of the Left-hand or of the Right-hand caste (or other sections too horrible to name), a Jain, a half-breed Mongol Islamite from Delhi, a Ghoorkha, a professional fraud, a Jesuitic convert on trial ... I know not;--I send him to you with my best regard. You are large and strong; you can take care of yourself! I send him to the _Tribune_,--fearing the awful results of his visit to 305 West Fifty-fifth Street.

How did I find him? Well, he came one day to our office to protest about some of my editorials on Indian questions. I found he talked English well, wrote with sufficient accuracy to contribute to the _T.-D._, and had been in the Indian civil service. I questioned him on Hindoo literature: found him somewhat familiar with the Mahabharata and Ramayana, the Bhagavad-Gita and the Vedantas,--heard him reiterate the names of the great Sanscrit poets and playwrights--Kalidasa, Vyasa, Jayadeva, Bhartrihari. He first taught me accurately to p.r.o.nounce the awful t.i.tle _Mricchakatika_, which means "The Chariot of Baked Clay;"

and he translated for me, although with great effort and very badly, one of the delicious love-lyrics of the divine Amaron. Therefore I perceived that he knew something vaguely about the vast Mother of Languages.

And he sang for me the chants of the temples, in a shrill Indian tenor, with marvellously fine splintering of notes--melancholy, dreamy, drowsy, like the effect of monotonous echoes in a day of intense heat and atmospheric oppression.

Why, then, did not my heart warm toward him? Was it because, in the columns of the _Times-Democrat_, he had boldly advocated the burning of widows and abused the Government of which I remain a loving subject? Was it because he made his appearance simultaneously with that of that colossal fraud, the "North, South and Central American Exposition"? Nay: it was because of his prognathism, his exceedingly sinister eye, like the eye of a creature of prey; his shaky suppleness of movement; and his mysterious past. How might I trust myself alone with a man who looked like one of the characters of the "Moonstone"? And yet I regret ... what a ridiculous romance I might have made!

Never mind, I send him to you! He says he is a Brahman. He says he can sing you the chants and dirges of his sun-devoured land. Let him sing!--let him chant! If he merit interest in the shape of fifty cents, give it to him, and watch him slip it into his swarthy bosom with the stealthy gesture of one about to pull forth a moon-shaped knife. Or tell him where to get, or to look for work. He worked here in a moss-factory and in a sash-factory and other factories; living upon rice and beans more cheaply than a Chinaman. Yet beware you do not smite him on the nostrils without large and solid reason. I give him a letter to you.

Amen! (P.S. His alleged name is Sattee or Suttee--perhaps most probably the _latter_, as he advocates it.)

I received your book--a charming volume in all that makes a volume charming: including clear tinted paper, not too glossy; fascinating type; broad margins; tasteful binding. Thanks for dear little phrase written in it. I will send first criticism of contents in shape of a review. Have something else to talk of later.

I hope you received photograph sent by Baker through me,--and paper. The translation does not convey original force of style; but it may serve to reveal something of the author's _intensity_. His power of impressing and communicating queer sensations makes him remarkable.

Affectionately, L. HEARN.

TO H. E. KREHBIEL

NEW ORLEANS, 1886.

DEAR KREHBIEL,--I was waiting to write you in the hope of being able to send you some literary news. I have my little Chinese book in Ticknor's hands; but the long silence is still unbroken. The omen is not a bad one, yet I am disappointed in not being able now, when replying to your delightful letter, to tell you everything is O. K.,--because the book is dedicated to you. There are only six little stories; but each of them cost months of hard work and study, and represent a much higher attempt than anything in the "Stray Leaves." The dedication will, I think, amuse you if the book appears,--and will be more or less mysterious to the rest of the world. I fear now it cannot be published in time to reach you before you leave for Europe.

Well, dear old fellow, I think I must try to see you at New York anyhow.

At all events I must have a change. The prolonged humidity and chilliness of our winter is telling on me; I have been considerably pulled down in spite of an easy life, and must try the sea somewhere. I fear the Eastern beaches are too expensive; but I could run North, and spend the rest of the time allowed me after my visit at some obscure fishing village. Europe, I fear, must be given up this summer. I could visit Spain in company with a dear friend, Dr. Matas; but I feel it a duty to myself to stick at literary work this summer in order to effect a new departure.

Now, I must tell you about it. I am writing a novelette. It will require at least twelve months to finish--though it will be a tiny book. It will be all divided into microscopic chapters of a page or half-a-page each.

Every one of these is to be a little picture, with some novel features.

Some touches of evolutionary philosophy. I want to make something altogether odd, novel, ideal in the best sense. The theme, I fear, you will not like. The story of a somewhat improper love--a fascination developed into a sincere but vain affection--an effort to re-create what has been hopelessly lost,--a seeking after the impossible. I am not quite sure yet how I shall arrange the main part;--there will be much more of _suggestion_ than of real plot.... I do, indeed, remember your advice; but I am not sorry not to have followed it before. My style was not formed; I did not really know how to work; I am only now beginning to learn. Ticknor writes that if I should undertake a novelette, he is certain it would succeed. So I shall try. In trying I must study from real material; I must take models where I can find them. Still the work will be ideal to the verge of fantasy.

So much for that. If I have been selfish enough to talk first about myself, it is partly because I cannot answer your question without giving some of my own experience. You ask about style; you deem yours unsatisfactory, and say that I overestimated it. Perhaps I may have overestimated particular things that with a somewhat riper judgement I would consider less enthusiastically. But I always perceived an uncommon excellence in the tendency of your style--a purity and strength that is uncommon and which I could never successfully imitate. A man's style, when fully developed, is part of his personality. Mine is being shaped for a particular end; yours, I think, is better adapted to an ultimately higher purpose. The fact that you deem it unsatisfactory shows, I fancy, that you are in a way to develop it still further. I have only observed this, that it is capable of much more polish than you have cared to bestow upon it. Mind! I do not mean _ornament_;--I do not think you should attempt ornament, but rather force and sonority. Your tendency, I think, is naturally toward cla.s.sical purity and correctness--almost severity. With great strength,--ornament becomes unnecessary; and the general cultivation of strength involves the cultivation of grace. I still consider yours a higher style than mine, but I do not think you have cultivated it to one fourth of what it is capable. Now, let me say why.

Chiefly, I fancy, for want of time. If you do not know it already, let me dwell upon an art principle. Both you and I have a _trade_: journalism. We have also an _art_: authorship. The same system of labour cannot be applied to the one as to the other without unfortunate results. Let the trade be performed as mechanically as is consistent with preservation of one's reputation as a good _workman_: any more labour devoted to it is an unpaid waste of time. But when it comes to writing a _durable_ thing,--a book or a brochure,--every line ought to be written at least twice, if possible _three_ times. Three times, at all events, to commence with. First--roughly, in pencil: after which correct and reshape as much as you deem necessary. Then rewrite _clean_ in pencil. Read again; and you will be surprised to find how much improvement is possible. Then copy in ink, and in the very act of copying, new ideas of grace, force, and harmony will make themselves manifest. Without this, I will venture to say, fine literary execution is _impossible_. Some writers need the discipline less than others. You, for example, less than I. My imagination and enthusiasm have to be kept in control; my judgements to be reversed or amended; my adjectives perpetually sifted and pruned. But my work is ornamental--my dream is poetical prose: a style unsuited to literature of the solid and instructive kind. Have you ever worked much with Roget's "Thesaurus"?--it is invaluable. Still more valuable are etymological dictionaries like those of Skeat (best in the world), of Brachet (French), of Dozy and Engelmann (Spanish-Arabic). Such books give one that subtle sense of words to which much that _startles_ in poetry and prose is due. Time develops the secret merit of work thus done....

These, dear K., are simply my own experiences, ideas, and impressions. I now think they are correct. In a few years I might modify them. They may contain useful suggestions. Our humblest friends may suggest valuable things sometimes.

Talking of change in opinions, I am really astonished at myself. You know what my fantastic metaphysics were. A friend disciplined me to read Herbert Spencer. I suddenly discovered what a waste of time all my Oriental metaphysics had been. I also discovered, for the first time, how to apply the little general knowledge I possessed. I also learned what an absurd thing positive skepticism is. I also found unspeakable comfort in the sudden and, for me, eternal reopening of the Great Doubt, which renders pessimism ridiculous, and teaches a new reverence for all forms of faith. In short, from the day when I finished the "First Principles,"--a totally new intellectual life opened for me; and I hope during the next two years to devour the rest of this oceanic philosophy.

But this is boring you too much for the nonce.

Believe me, dear friend, affectionately,

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO H. E. KREHBIEL

NEW ORLEANS, 1886.

DEAR KREHBIEL,--I must drop you another line or two; for you must let me hear from you again before you go to Europe.

I have completely recovered from the nervous shock which the sudden return of my tiny volume produced in spite of myself; and all my scattered plans are being re-crystallized. I know my work is good in some respects; and if it bears reading over well, next winter I may take a notion to publish a small edition at my own expense. In fact, I believe I will have to publish several things at my own expense. Even if my art-ideas are correct (and I sincerely believe they are)--in their most mature form they would represent a heterodox novelty in American style, and literary heterodoxies no publisher will touch. I am going to give up the novelette idea,--it is too large an undertaking at present,--and will try short stories. My notebooks will always be useful. Whenever I receive a new and strong impression, even in a dream, I write it down, and afterwards develop it at leisure. These efforts repay me well in the end.

There are impressions of blue light and gold and green, correlated to old Spanish legend, which can be found only south of this line. I obtained a few in Florida;--I must complete the effect by future visits: therefore I shall go to the most vast and luminous of all ports known to the seamen of the South--the Bay of the Holy Ghost (Espiritu Santo),--in plainer language, Tampa. So I shall vegetate a while longer in the South. I have some $600 saved up; but, I fear, under present circ.u.mstances, that I would be imprudent to expend it all in a foreign trip, and will wait until I can make some sort of impression with some new sort of work. The _T.-D._ will save expenses for me on Florida trip, and instead of roar and rumble of traffic and shrieking of steam and dust of microbes, I shall dream by the sh.o.r.es of phosph.o.r.escent seas, and inhale the Spirit that moveth over the face of the Deep.

I forgot in my last to thank you for little notice in the playbill of my Gautier stories; but you were mistaken as to their being paraphrases.

They were literal translations, so far as I was able to make them at the time. I am sorry that they now appear full of faults: especially as I cannot get any publisher to take them away from Worthington. If I succeed some day, I may be able to get out a more perfect edition in small neat shape. "Stray Leaves" also has several hideous errors in it.

I never dare now to look at them for fear of finding something else worse than before.

By the way, last year I had to muster up courage to condemn a lot of phantasmagoria to the flames.

Very affectionately, LAFCADIO.