The Life and Letters of Lafcadio Hearn Volume I Part 33

NEW ORLEANS, 1887.

In reply to nearly all the questions about my near-sightedness, I might answer, "Yes." Had the best advice in London. Observe all the rules you suggest. Gla.s.ses strain the eye too much--part of retina is gone. Other eye destroyed by a blow at college; or rather by inflammation consequent upon blow. Can tell you more about myself when I see you, but the result will be more curious than pleasing. Myopia is not aggravating.

I knew you were going to have thorough success;--you will do far better than you think. Wish I had the opportunity to study medicine, or rather, the ability to be a good physician. Ah! to have a profession is to be rich, to have international current-money, a gold that is cosmopolitan, pa.s.ses everywhere. Then I think I would never settle down in any place; would visit all, wander about as long as I could. There is such a delightful pleasantness about the _first_ relations with people in strange places--before you have made any rival, excited any ill will, incurred anybody's displeasure. Stay long enough in any one place and the illusion is over: you have to sift this society through the meshes of your nerves, and find perhaps one good friendship too large to pa.s.s through. To be a physician, an architect, an engineer,--anything that makes one capable of supplying to a universal or cosmopolitan want, is a great capital. Next to this, a good tradesman is worthy of envy: he may feel as much at home in Valparaiso as in New York; in Bangkok as in Paris.

Apropos of a medical novel, again,--have you had occasion to remark the fact that among the French, every startling discovery in medicine or those sciences akin to medicine, is almost immediately popularized by a capital story? The best of those I have seen appeared in the _Revue Politique et Litteraire_ and in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. The evolution of electricity by the human body suggested a powerful but very Frenchy sketch in the former some years ago, which appeared concomitantly with those theatrical exhibitions of a famous "electrical woman." Then there was one dealing with the super-refinement of the five senses, particularly vision and smell,--ent.i.tled "Un Fou." The researches of Charcot and others into hypnotism and its phenomena, doubtless suggested "Une Tresse Blonde" in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_.

It is always a safe and encouraging thing to trace one's ancestral history, supposing one be very philosophical. In your case it is. A fine physical and mental man can feel sure from the mere fact of his comparative superiority that he has something to thank his ancestors for. But suppose the man be small, puny, sickly, scrofulous,--the question of ancestry becomes unpleasant. We are far ahead of Tristram Shandy, nowadays; the inferiority of the homunculus is no mere matter of accident or interruption. How depressing some knowledge is, and how little philosophy betters the situation some discoveries bring about.

Take such an example as this: a nice, sweet girl, full of physical attractiveness, grace, freshness, with a delicious disposition, fascinates you, you think of marriage. Somebody tells you the mother and grandmother both went mad. How much of a change in your admiration is produced by this simple fact. I saw this feeling put into practice. A Southern planter--splendid man!--was asked for his daughter's hand by a gentleman of the neighbourhood, whose grandfather had committed a terrible crime. The young man was wealthy, accomplished, steady, brave, had the best of reputations and was liked by the girl. The father refused him frankly for the simple reason that he had in his veins some of the blood of a great criminal.

It must have struck you, if you have studied Buddhism--(not "esoteric Buddhism," which is d.a.m.nable charlatanism!)--how the tenets of that great faith are convertible into scientific truths in the transforming crucible of the new philosophy. The consequence of the crime or the sacrifice in the forming of the future personality; the heights attainable by discipline, of indifference to external things; the duty and holiness of the extinction of the _Self_; the monstrous allegory of the physical metempsychosis, which is the shadow of a tremendous truth; the supreme Buddha-hood which is the melting into the infinite life, light, knowledge, and the peace of the immensities: science gives an harmonious commentary upon all these, which it refuses to the more barbarous faith of the Occident. All that is n.o.ble in the Christianity, too much boasted of, belongs also to the older and vaster dream of the East--is perchance a dim reflection of it; the possibility of the invasion of the Oriental philosophy into the Occident seems to me worthy of consideration. In the meanwhile, it is unfortunate that such apes as the ---- should parade their detestable _macaqueries_ as Buddhism and obtain such hosts of hearers.

Speaking of the s.e.xual sense being "such an infernal liar," there are reasons that lead me to doubt whether it is _all_ a liar. I think it never tells a _physical_ lie. It only tells an ethical one. The physical memory of the most worthless woman that ever ensnared a man vibrates always afterward with a thrill of pleasure. But that is not really what I intended to say: I want to know if there be any scientific explanation of this fact. A woman wicked enough to tempt a man to cut his mother's throat _may_ have a peculiar physical magnetism. The touch of her hand in pa.s.sing, the character of a look from her,--although she be ugly,--may be irresistible, d.a.m.ning. A good woman, beautiful, graceful, infinitely her physical superior, may have no such charm for the same man. Here is a mystery I cannot explain. This phenomenon is especially noticeable in the tropics, where differences of race and race mixture produce astounding s.e.xual variations. Never was there a huger stupidity than the observation that "all women are in one respect alike." On the contrary, in that one respect they differ infinitely, inexplicably, diabolically, fantastically.

L. H.

TO GEORGE M. GOULD

NEW ORLEANS, 1887.

DEAR MR. GOULD,--I posted a letter, thanking you for two treatises so kindly sent, just before receiving your note. Be sure that I will find it no small pleasure to have a chat with a brother-thinker, if I find myself in Philadelphia this summer.

To the best of my recollection the book you speak of is a small, thin volume which only pretends to be a synopsis of the most gigantic of existing epics--the Mahabharata excepted. There are three complete translations of the colossal Ramayana:--The Italian version of Gorresio, I think in ten vols.; the French prose one by Hippolyte Fauche in nine, which I have read; and the exceedingly tiresome English translation (now O. P.) by Griffith, in Popish verse. It was, I think, on this last that "The Iliad of the East" was based--a very poor effort, artistically.

These epics are simply inexhaustible mines of folk-lore and legend,--like the Katha-sarit-Sagara. But one gets cloyed soon. It requires the patience of a Talmudist to work in these huge ma.s.ses to get out a diamond or two. But diamonds there are. You know that mighty pantheistic hymn, the "Bhagavad-Gita," is but a little fragment of the Mahabharata;--also the story of Nala, so beautifully translated by Monier Williams, Arnold, and the wonderful dead Hindoo girl, Toru Dutt, who wrote English and French as well as Hindustani and Sanscrit, made also some exquisite renderings. All you could wish for in this direction has not indeed been done; but it will take a hundred years to do it.

I am only a dilettante, not a linguist; and I only try to familiarize myself with the aspect of a national Idea as manifested in these epics.

Some day I shall try to offer the public a little volume dealing with the Old Arabic spirit--pre-Islamic and post-Islamic. The poetry of the desert is Homeric. And I don't know but that for pure _natural_ poetry, the great Finnish Kalewala is not more wonderful than the Indian epics.

When I made my brief renderings from the French edition of 1845, I was not familiar with the completion of the work by the labours of Loennrot.

Pardon long letter. You and I may have a good chance to talk these things over later on.

Very cordially yours, LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO ELIZABETH BISLAND

NEW ORLEANS, 1887.

DEAR MISS BISLAND,--At the time your letter reached me, the few proofs sent had been given away;--I have not many friends, of course, but I did not have many proofs either. The best I can therefore do is to send original photo. This is taking a liberty, I suppose, to send what wasn't asked for; but it is the best I can do, and you can pitch it away if you don't want it.

My novelette is done, and I am waiting to hear of its fate before starting. I am sure you will like it, and recognize a good deal of the scenery. I do not know how long I shall stay in New York;--might only stay a very short time, but quite long enough to see you once,--for a little while. Then again I might take a notion to stay in the North--don't really know what I shall do.

What would be nice, if one could manage it, would be to live in the country, or in some vast wilderness, and ship one's work away. But I fear that will only be possible when I have become Ancient as the Moon,--if I should ever become ancient.

Very truly, LAFCADIO HEARN.

P. S. I met no more Hindoos here, but I met some other singular beings.

My last pet was a Chinese doctor, whose name I cannot p.r.o.nounce. He tried to teach me Chinese; but I discovered nasal tones almost impossible to imitate,--snarling sounds like the malevolent outcries of contending cats.... "Gha!--ho-lha! Koum Yada! Gha! ghw.a.n.g hwa!--yow sum!" Under the placid _navete_ of a baby, my Chinese tutor concealed a marvellous comprehension of human motives and of human meannesses. He observed like a judge, and smiled always--always, with the eternal, half-compa.s.sionate, half-divine smile of the images of Fo.

TO H. E. KREHBIEL

NEW ORLEANS, 1887.

DEAR KREHBIEL,--All that is now delaying me is news from the Harpers which I am waiting for. I have sent on my completed novelette,--an attempt at treatment of modern Southern life in the same spirit of philosophic romance as the "Ghosts" attempted to exemplify,--an effort to reach that something in the reader which they call Soul, G.o.d, or the Unknowable, according as the thought harmonizes with Christian, Pantheistic, or Spencerian ideas, without conflicting with any. Of course, I am a little anxious over this parturition;--have no idea how it is going to impress Alden. In a week from this date I expect to hear from him. Then I will be able to go.

Of course, New York is a horrible nightmare to me. I have been a demophobe for years,--dread crowds and hate unsympathetic characters most unspeakably. I have only been once to a theatre in New Orleans; to hear Patti sing, and I got out after she had sung one song. I can't be much of a pleasure to any one. Here I visit a few friends steadily for a couple of months;--then disappear for six. Can't help it;--just a nervous condition that renders effort unpleasant. So I shall want to be very well hidden away in New York,--to see no one except you and Joe.

There are one or two I shall have to visit; but I shall take care to make those visits just before leaving town.

Your suggestion about the catalogue was so kind, that I don't know how to thank you. What bothers me about it are the following points:--

1. If the collection is a large one, seems to me that each department should be entrusted to a specialist. j.a.panese armourers-work alone demands that. You know what Damascus-steel means in literary and scientific research; and the j.a.panese artisans surpa.s.sed the world in such work. Then porcelains, lacquers, inlaid work, pictured books, goldsmithery, etc. I know nothing about these things.

2. The j.a.panese expert may have simply confined himself to t.i.tles, dates, names;--or have made explanatory text as fitting and dry as possible. If he has, I don't see how a _unique_ catalogue could be made.

The only way it could be made, I imagine, would be to make explanatory text picturesque and rich in anecdote; which would require immense reading, and purchase of many expensive books on the subject of art and history--De Rosny, Gonse, Metchnikoff, etc. Oriental art is one of the things I can never afford to study. It costs too much--the luxury of a rich dilettante.

3. Seems to me such a work would require at least six months to do at all, a whole year to do well. Don't think I could afford to do it. I cannot write or read at night. If it were simply a question of translation and arrangement, it would be done soon; and I would need only a few technical and art treatises, some of which I already have....

I need rest and change a while,--not that I feel sick, but the continual fight with malaria leaves a fellow's nerves terribly slack, like the over-strained chords of a--well, better leave the rest of the simile to you.... I don't know whether the "Ghosts" walk; but I have been told it did me much good in Boston literary circles. The publishers voluntarily made a 5-years'--10 per cent--contract with me; but I have not heard from them. Notices were very contradictory outside of New York and Boston. Some said the stories were literal translations; others said they were fabrications, without any Chinese basis; others said the book was obscene; others called it "exquisitely spiritual,"--in short, the critics didn't seem to know what to make of it. Three lines in the _Atlantic_ consoled me amply for naughty Western criticism.

You may expect to hear _definitely_ from me very soon,--at latest, I suppose, ten days.

Affectionately, L. HEARN.

Have you any idea how big a catalogue it ought to be?--if 100, 200, 300 pp. 16mo? Would it be indexed generally, or by departments,--duplex or single? Five pp. a day on such a job would be work. Then rewriting at rate of 10 pp. per day. All supposing that no research or elaborated treatment of incident were required,--only description and explanation.

I've had to open envelope to ask another question: Does he want the catalogue written in _French_? Because if he does, I wouldn't attempt it. No one but a Frenchman, or some rare men like Rossetti and Swinburne can write artistic French. I can't write French with delicacy and correctness.

Or does he simply want bad French turned into good English?

My experience is this. Translation--except for an artistic motive, and with ample leisure--never pays, either in self-satisfaction or anything else. Cataloguing, pure and simple, is the most terrible and tiresome of earthly labours;--first notebook and eyes; then arrangement of amplified notes by "a's" and "b's;" then enveloping or boxing, and pasting, then rewriting; then, O G.o.d!--the proofs!

I know how to do it, but it is so much _life_ thrown away--so much thought-time made sterile. In this case the chief compensation would be opportunity to study the phases of j.a.panese art,--the _esprit_.

TO ELIZABETH BISLAND

NEW YORK, 1887.

DEAR MISS BISLAND,--A small creature rang the bell at 136 Madison Avenue. A large and determined concierge responded, and the following converse ensued:--

S. C.--"Miss Bisland--?"

C.--"No, sir!"