The Life and Letters of Lafcadio Hearn Volume II Part 34

TO MITCh.e.l.l McDONALD

TOKYO, April, 1898.

DEAR FRIEND,--The holidays are over; and the winter is still dying hard.

We are all feeling pretty well now notwithstanding,--and my imp was down yesterday to Ueno, in the sea of people, trying to get a glimpse of things. Because he had a naval uniform on, he became quite angry at the _kurumaya_ for proposing to lift him up to look over the heads of the people. The K. wisely answered: "I know you are a man--but then you must think that I am a horse only, and ride on my back. Even military men ride horses, you know!" Subsequently, the imp had to submit to circ.u.mstances,--swallowed his pride,--and got on the man's back. I liked the pride, though: it was the first flash of the man-spirit in him.

I wonder if you are ever tired simply of living! That is what the weather made me for a time. Glimpses of sun now seem quite delicious.

Well, it is the same way with my Yokohama friend. If I saw him too often, I should not feel quite so warm in the sunshine that he can make--should begin to think the light a normal and usual, instead of a most extraordinary condition. There is one thing, however, that I hope to live to see: M. McD. in a private residence of his own, and a beautiful young Mrs. McD. therein.

If the quarrel with Spain does nothing else, perhaps it will stir up the American people to make a good-sized navy in short order. With so many thousand miles of coast to defend they are at a big disadvantage compared with most European powers. I see that Captain Mahan has been getting out a new book on the subject, just at the right time. What a lucky author he has been on the whole; and all circ.u.mstances seem to have actually bent themselves in his favour.

Affectionately, with regards to the doctor and all friends,

LAFCADIO.

TO MITCh.e.l.l McDONALD

TOKYO, April, 1898.

DEAR McDONALD,--Just after having posted my letter (dated 11th, but mailed 14th) yours came, together with the most precious photographs. My warmest thanks, not only for them, but also for the friend's inscription upon them, which adds to their preciousness. But--see how mean I am!--I hope for _at least_ one more,--the one with the full-dress hat _on_. You don't like it; but I just love it, and I hope you will save one for me.

The two you sent are admirable: I am going to put the large one in a frame.

Shall I climb Fuji? Perhaps; but I know that at this blessed moment I could not do it. I am too soft now. Must harden up first in the sea; and then, please the G.o.ds, I'll climb with you. The climb is simply horrid; but the view is a compensation.

I don't know what to do with you--after that remark about Loti. Unless I can manage in the next three years to write something very extraordinary indeed, I fear you will be horribly disappointed some day. You should try to consider me as a _tenth-rate_ author, until the literary world shall have fixed my place. And don't for a moment imagine me modest in literary matters. I am Satanically proud--not modest at all. If I tell you that much of my work is very bad, I tell you so, not because I am modest, but because, as a professional writer, I can see bad execution where you would not see it unless I pointed it out to you. It is like an honest carpenter, who knows his trade, and will tell his customer: "That isn't going to cost you much, because the work is bad. See! this is backed with cheap wood underneath! It looks all right only because you don't know how we patch up these things."

Ever most affectionately, LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MITCh.e.l.l McDONALD

TOKYO, April, 1898.

DEAR McDONALD,--Your letter came this morning (Sunday), and it rejoiced me to find that you are not yet in likelihood of being allowed to attend the Asiatic side of the smash; while, as you suggest, before you could join ... on the other side, the serious part of the campaign would be over. That torpedo squadron at Porto Rico is apparently stronger than any force of the same kind possessed by the U.S.; and although Northern seamanship must tell in a fight, machinery in itself is a formidable thing, even without anything more than mere pluck behind it. But just think how a literary narrative of a battle would sell in America!

Wouldn't L. B. & Co. make money!

How kind of you to send photo of Amenomori! (Yes; you returned the little one.) This will not fade, and is a decided improvement. I need scarcely tell you that out of a million j.a.panese heads, you could not find another like this. It represents the cream of the race at its intellectual best.

In writing hurriedly the other day, I forgot to answer your question about the _Athenaeum_ paper. Yes: the notice was hostile,--but not directly so; for a literary work the book was highly praised. The critic simply took the ground of denying that what I wrote about existed. I was braced with a missionary, and while the missionary's book was accepted as unquestionable fact, mine was p.r.o.nounced a volume from Laputa. The _Sat.u.r.day Review_ knew better than that.

As to the royalties given to Kipling, they are fancy rates, of course, and probably never twice the same. Publishers bid against each other for the right of issuing even a limited edition. Macmillan & Co. hold the ultimate right in all cases; but they do not often print the first edition. Jas. Lane Allen probably gets only ten per cent. He may get more; but not much more--there is no American to compare with Kipling in the market, except Henry James and Marion Crawford. Kipling probably outsells both together. James is too fine and delicate a writer--a psychological a.n.a.logist of the most complex society--ever to become popular. In short, any writer's chances of good terms, in England or America, must depend upon his popularity,--his general market value.

Once that he makes a big success--that is, a sale of 20,000 copies of a book within a year and a half, suppose--he can get fancy terms for his next book.

... As to when I shall have another MS. I don't know. To-day, I am hesitating whether I ought or ought not to burn some MS. My work has lately been a little horrible, a little morbid perhaps. Everything depends upon exterior influence,--inspiration; and Toky=[o] is the very worst place in all j.a.pan for that. Perhaps within a year from now, I shall have a new book ready; perhaps in six months--according to what comes up,--suggestions from Nature, books, or mankind. At the very latest, I ought to have a new book ready by next spring.

But there is just one possibility. In case that during this year, or any year, there should come to me a good idea for such a story as I have been long hoping to write,--a single short powerful philosophical story, of the most emotional and romantic sort,--then I shall abandon everything else for the time being, and write it. If I can ever write _that_, there will be money in it, long after I have been planted in one of these old Buddhist cemeteries. I do not mean that it will pay _because_ I write it, but because it will touch something in the new thought of the age, in the tendencies of the time. All thought is changing; and I feel within myself the sense of such a story--vaguely, like the sense of a perfume, or the smell of a spring wind, which you cannot describe or define. What divine luck such an inspiration would be! But the chances are that a more powerful mind than mine will catch the inspiration first,--as the highest peak most quickly takes the sun.

Whatever comes, I'll just hand or send the MS. to you, and say, "Now just do whatever you please--only see that I get the proofs. The book is yours."

Ever so many thanks for kind advice, and for everything else.

I read that war has begun. Hope it will soon end. Anyhow Uncle Sam does not lose time: he knows too well that time is money. And after it is over, he will probably start to build him the biggest fleet in creation; for he needs it. Ever affectionately,

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MITCh.e.l.l McDONALD

TOKYO, April, 1898.

DEAR FRIEND,--Your kindest letter is with me. I cannot quite understand your faith in my work: it is a veritable Roman Catholic faith,--for it refuses to hear adverse arguments. I only say that I can see no reason to suppose or even hope that I can ever be worth to publishers nearly as much as the author of a blood-and-thunder detective story contributed to a popular weekly.

About getting killed:--I should like nothing so much if I had no one but myself in the world to take care of--which is just why I would not get killed. You never get what you want in this world. I used to feel that way in tight places, and say to myself: "Well, I don't care: _therefore_ it can't happen." It is only what a man cares about that happens. "That which ye fear exceedingly shall come upon you." I fear exceedingly being burned alive slowly, in an earthquake fire,--being eaten by sharks,--being blinded or maimed so as to prove of no further use;--but dying is probably a very good thing indeed, and as much to be desired for one's self as dreaded for one's friends.

But my work is not done yet: I can't afford luxuries till it is done, I suppose--at least so the G.o.ds think.

No: I shall not burn the MS. yet; but if I decided, after deliberation, to burn it, I think I should be right. How much I now wish I had burned things which I printed ten or twelve years ago!

I think with you that the U.S.N. will sweep the Spaniards off the sea; but still I feel slightly uneasy.

I have met a most extraordinary man to whom I gave your address,--in case he should need advice, or wish to see Amenomori. He is going to the hotel, but is now at Nikko. His name is E. T. St.u.r.dy. He has lived in India,--up in the Himalayas for years,--studying Eastern philosophy; and the hotel delicacies will do him no good, because he is a vegetarian.

He is a friend of Professor Rhys-Davids, who gave him a letter of introduction to me; and has paid for the publication of several Eastern texts--Pali, etc. Beyond any question, he is the most _remarkable_ person I have met in j.a.pan. Fancy a man independent, strong, cultivated, with property in New Zealand and elsewhere, voluntarily haunting the Himalayas in the company of Hindoo pilgrims and ascetics,--in search of the Nameless and the Eternal. Yet he is not a Theosophist exactly, nor a Spiritualist. I did not get very near him--he has that extreme English reserve which deludes under the appearance of almost boyish frankness; but I think we might become fast friends did we live in the same city.

He told me some things that I shall never forget,--very strange things.

I envy, not him, but his independence. Think of being able to live where one pleases, n.o.body's servant,--able to choose one's own studies and friends and books. On the other hand, most authors write because they are compelled to find occupation for their minds. Would I, being independent, become idle? I don't think so; but I know that some of my work has been done just to keep the mind from eating itself,--as does the stomach without food. _Ergo_, perhaps, I ought to be maintained in a condition of "eternal torment"?

Well, it is not impossible that you may eventually suggest to me something of the great story that is eventually to be written--let us hope. a.s.suredly if I once start in upon it, I shall be asking you questions, and you will be able to help me very much.

Ever affectionately, LAFCADIO.

TO ERNEST FENOLLOSA

TOKYO, May, 1898.

DEAR PROFESSOR,--It is too bad that I should twice have missed the pleasure of seeing you,--and still worse that Mrs. Fenollosa should have come into my wretched little street to find me absent. But it were better always when possible to let me know in advance of any chances for a visit--otherwise I can seldom be relied upon; especially in these months, for I am over head and ears in work,--with the dreadful prospect of examinations and the agonies of proof-reading to be rolled upon me at the same moment. You are so far happy to be able to command your time: I cannot often manage it.

Well, even if I had been free, I do not think I should have cared to go to the Ukioy-e exhibition again--except, of course, to hear you talk about it. I am inclined to agree with one who said that the catalogue was worth more than the view. It (not the catalogue) left me cold--partly, perhaps, because I had just been looking at a set of embroidered screens that almost made me scream with regret at my inability to purchase them. I remember only three or four at Ukioy-e,--the interesting Kappa; Shoki diverting himself; a Listening Girl--something of that sort: nothing excited in me any desire to possess it, even as a gift, except the Kappa and the Shoki. (I know I am hopeless--but it were hopeless to try to be otherwise.) Verily I prefer the modern colour-prints, which I can afford sometimes to buy. What is more, I do not wish to learn better. While I know nothing I can always follow the Shinto code and consult my heart about buying things. Were I to know more, I should be less happy in buying cheap things. It is like the Chinese characters on the shop-fronts.

Once you begin to know the meaning of a few, the magical charm--- the charm of mystery--evaporates. There's heresy for you! As for the catalogues --especially the glorious New York catalogue--I think them precious things. If they do me no other good, they serve the purpose of suggesting the range and unfathomability of my ignorance. I only regret that you do not use legends,--do not tell stories. If you did, Andersen would be quickly superseded. We buy him only for the folk-lore and the references.

Now I must thank Mrs. Fenollosa for the exceeding kindness of bringing those books so far for me. I fear I shall have little chance to read within the next couple of weeks; but if I get the least opportunity, I must try to read the "Cardinal" anyhow. I shall, whatever happens, return the volumes safely before very long. As for the Stevenson, it was not worth while thanking me for; besides, I do not candidly think it an example of the writer at his highest. But one reads these things because the times force you to.

As for the Mountain of Skulls--yes: I have written it,--about seven or eight times over; but it still refuses to give the impression I feel, and can't define,--the impression that floated into my brain with the soft-flowing voice of the teller. I shall try again later; but, although I feel tolerably sure about the result, nothing but very hard work will develop the thing. Had I only eleven more stories of such quality, what a book could be made out of them! Still, it is quite impossible that a dozen such tales could exist. I read all the Jatakas to no purpose: one makes such a find only by the rarest and most unexpected chance.

By the way, it puzzled me to imagine how the professor knew of my insignificance having visited the exhibition! But a charming professor who made three long visits there wants very much to make Professor Fenollosa's acquaintance,--E. Foxwell, a fellow of Cambridge, and an authority on economics. Quite a rare fine type of Englishman,--at once sympathetic and severely scientific,--a fine companion and a broad strong thinker.

Faithfully, with best regards and thanks,