Part 10
But will the existing state of things continue indefinitely? Surely, it can't! It is too monstrous, and the suffering too infernal! There must be social smashings, earthquakes, chaos-breakings-up, recrystallizations to lighten the burthen. And what will these be?
I cannot send you, because there is no copy here, but I recommend you a book,--Pearson's "National Character," a study. He takes the ground that the future is not to the white races,--not to the Anglo-Saxon. I think this almost certain. I think of the awful cost of life to the white races,--the more awful cost of character. I think of the vast races of creatures--behemoths and megatheriums and ichthyosaurians--which have disappeared from the earth simply because of the cost of their physical structure. But what is the physical cost of even the structure of an ichthyosaurus to the cost of the structure of a master of applied mathematics! It costs one educated European,--receiving, say, a salary of $100 a month,--exactly as much as it costs twenty educated Orientals to live--each with a family of at least three persons,--or in other words 1 European = 120 Orientals. There is an instinctive knowledge, perhaps, of the future, in the instinctive hatred of the Chinese in America. There is an instinctive sense of the same kind in the feeling which prompts the Oriental to exclude Europeans. The latter _over_live the former; the former underlive the latter. But in all this there are complicated physiological questions extraordinary.
Ever affectionately, LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK
KUMAMOTO, 1893.
DEAR HENDRICK,-- ... "Thou shalt not love" is of Buddha. "He who hath wife and child hath taken upon him fear. Such a fear is greater than that which the man should feel who, unarmed and alone, entering a cavern, meets a tiger face to face." It is true, the greatest of all fear is the fear for another,--the pity for another,--the frightful imaginings of sorrow or want or despair for another. But there might be perfect conditions. That is true;--but then,--beware the jealousy of the gods. A Rossetti finds his Ideal Maiden, weds, loses, maddens, and passes the rest of his nights in tears of regret, and his days in writing epitaphs. Children may console and they may shame,--and they may die just when they have become charming,--and they may ruin us; and at best, in the world of the West, they separate from us, and we can keep only memories of them. Some woman or some man gets hold of their heart and bites it, and the poison spreads a veil between parents and offspring for all time. Finally, in any conditions, the burthen of life is enormously increased. How much more must a man bear, and how much less can he assert himself, when he has ever to remember that he has ceased to belong to himself. Such is a Buddhist view of the thing. It is not all wrong....
L. H.
TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK
AUGUST, 1893.
DEAR HENDRICK,--What you wrote about the charming person "_flirting_ with her maternal instincts" is delicious. I recognized the portrait in a most fantastic past experience,--but of that anon. The thought sent me off into a reverie about--adulteration.
There is a philosophy about adulteration I don't know much about. I have not sufficiently learned the main facts about the practical and utilitarian side of adulteration,--though I read the "petit dictionnaire des falsifications," and other things. However, let's try. Most of what we sell now is adulteration. We used to feel angry, when I was a boy, at the mere thought that leather-composition should be sold for genuine leather,--shoddy for wool,--cotton mixed with silk for pure silk, etc. We wanted our spoons to be genuine silver, and our claret quite trustworthy. Since then we have had to resign ourselves to margarine, glucose, and other products which have become vast staples of commerce. In some cases the genuine has been altogether supplanted by the false; and the false has been universally accepted with full knowledge of its origin. There have been advantages enormous to industry and manufacture, of course; and the public health has not been ruined, according to prediction. On the contrary it has been improving, and the nervous system developing.
Now may not the same thing be going on in our morals? Or rather, must it not go on? We are substituting the sham for the real. It is very sorrowful and excites awful surmises; but nevertheless the sham seems to do very well. The trouble with the original article was its cost and its enormous solidity. It was not malleable. It resisted pressure. It was not adapted at all to the new life of cities and science. For example, absolute veracity interfered with business,--absolute love became a nuisance, took up too much space, and proved too incompressible. Just as we have become too sensitive to bear the rawness of pure colour, so have we become too sensitive to bear the rawness of pure affection. We consider persons vulgar who wear blood-red, grass-green, burning yellows and blues--persons of undeveloped feeling and taste. So also we begin to think people vulgar who are prone to live by any simple emotions. We hold them undeveloped. We don't want the real thing. No: we want shades, tones,--imperceptible tones, ethereal shades. Even in books the raw emotion has become distasteful, savage. Pure passion is penny-theatrical. Isn't all this a suggestion of fact? And isn't the fact founded upon necessary physiological changes? Existing life is too complex for pure emotions. We want mixed tonics,--delicately flavoured and tinted.
All of which means that the primal sources of life are becoming forgotten. Love, honour, idealism, etc., these can no longer be supreme or absorbing motives. They interfere with more serious necessities, and with pleasure. We have first to learn how to live inside the eight-day clock of modern life without getting caught in the cogs. This learned,--and it is no easy lesson,--we may venture to indulge in some falsifications of emotion, some shot-silk colours of love. Such seems to me the drift. The most serious necessity of life is not to take the moral side of it seriously. We must play with it, as with an _hetaira_.
The genuine is only good for the agricultural districts.
And is this progress in a durable sense, or morbidness in evolution? Really I am not sure.
Ever affectionately, LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO SENTARŌ NISHIDA
KUMAMOTO, August, 1893.
DEAR NISHIDA,--I have missed you very much this long vacation; but, as I anticipated, it could not be helped. Another bundle of proofs has been keeping me at work; and I find the book promises to be bigger than I told you in my last letter. They are using type that will spread it out to probably 750 pp. I send you one specimen proof--just to show you the size of the type.
The man who has been sent for to fill the place in Kyōto, will not, I imagine, be able to keep it. He is a rabid proselytizer; in Kumamoto, years ago, he formed a society of Christians, called the Christian Band (I forget the Japanese name): that is why the Kyūshū folk nearly killed him. Privately--between you and me--I think there will be great changes in the Kyōto middle school next year; _and I think that I shall get there_. But there is nothing sure. I will not go to Tōkyō as long as I can help it.
Many thanks for your splendid letter about the legends of the ballads. I have put it away carefully to use in a future essay.--You say, if you were to tell me about the noble things the common people do, you would never get done. Indeed, _one_ strong fact would give me work for two or three months. The publishers wrote me to say they want stories of the life of the common people _to-day_,--showing the influence of moral teaching on _conduct_: that is, Buddhist, Shintō, and ancestor-teaching. I have been trying to get the facts about the poor girl who killed herself in Kyōto because the Emperor "augustly mourned" after the crazy action of Tsuda Sanzo; but I have not yet succeeded. By the way, I think Tsuda Sanzo will be more kindly judged by a future generation. His crime was only "loyalty-run-mad." He was insane for the moment with an insanity which would have been of the highest value in a good cause and time. He saw before him the living representative of the awful Power which makes even England tremble;--the power against which Western Europe has mustered an army of more than 15,000,000 of men. He saw, or thought he saw (perhaps he really _did_ see: time only can show) the Enemy of Japan. Then he struck--out of his heart, without consulting his head. He did very wrong;--he made a sad mistake; but I think that man's heart was noble and true, in spite of all his foolishness. He would have been a hero under happier circumstances....
[Illustration: [Japanese]]
I have just heard that the name of one kind of those horrid beetles in Kumamoto is _gane-bun-bun_, and the _hyakushō_ call them _gane-bu_; and people throw them out of the window, saying, "Come back the day-before-yesterday." Then they never come back at all.
[Illustration: [Japanese]]
[Illustration: [Japanese]]
I have made a mistake again. The _gane-bun-bun_ is not the greatest plague I was complaining of,--but the _fu-mushi_. There is yet another small one, I have not found out the name of. They make a whole room smell horribly. Some, however, call both the big _fu-mushi_ and the small creature by the same name--distinguishing them only as the green and the black. By the way, I will put a _fu-mushi_ in this letter, because they keep coming on the table so that I think it may be well to send one to Izumo, in the hopes of inducing the rest to emigrate.
All send kindest regards to you, and pray you to take good care of your health.
With every best wish, believe me ever,
Most faithfully, LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO SENTARŌ NISHIDA
KUMAMOTO, 1893.
[Illustration]
DEAR NISHIDA,--It gave me much pleasure to get your last kind letter. There was much depth in your statement of the present instability being consequent upon the stagnation of three hundred years. As to the consequence, however, only two theories are possible. The instability means--however it end--disintegration. Is the disintegration to be permanent?--or is there to be a re-integration? That is what nobody can say. There is this, however. Usually a movement of disintegration represents something like this line,--the undulations signifying waves of reaction. This movement is downward, and ends in ruin. However, so far, the undulations in Japan have been, I think, of a very different character,--something like this:--which would mean restoration of national solidity upon a much higher plane than before. The doubt is whether a much larger movement of disintegration is not going on,--whose undulations are too large to be seen in a space of thirty years.
[Illustration]
You have noticed that under all the surface waves of a sea, far vaster waves move--too large to be seen. They are only _felt_--upon _long_ voyages.
Mr. Senke has sent me a letter which I think is the most wonderfully kind and gracious letter anybody ever received in this whole world, and how to answer it at all, I don't know. He has also promised to send some souvenir; I am not quite sure what it is: I must _try_ to write him a nice letter when it comes. But Mr. Senke writes as an Emperor would write--with a grace for which there is no equivalent in Western speech at all; and whatever I try to do, it must seem vulgar and common beside the splendid courtesy of Mr. Senke's style.
LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO OCHIAI
KUMAMOTO, November, 1893.
DEAR OCHIAI,--I was very glad indeed to get your letter. It came while the school was closed--all the students having gone upon an excursion to Ōita, so that I did not receive it until to-day (the 11th), when I went to the school to see if there were any letters for me.
Don't think any more about any mistakes you may have made;--everybody will forget them quickly: only think about what makes you happy. But as for Christianity, of course that is a matter for your own conscience; and I would not advise you at all unless you are in doubt. I can only tell you this,--that there are a great many different forms of what is called the Christian religion--a very great many. But what is called the "higher Christianity" is a pure code of ethics; and that code of ethics recognizes that in all civilized religions,--whether of Japan, India, China, Persia, or Arabia,--there is _some_ eternal truth; because all religions agree in the deepest teaching about duty and conduct to one's fellow men; and therefore all are entitled to the respect of good men. But in all religions also there are some things which even very good men cannot approve: that is not the fault of the true part of religion, but only the fault of social conditions--that is, the state of society. No state of society is yet perfect; and there can be no perfect religious system until all men become perfectly good. How to become good is, nevertheless, taught by all civilized religions. Nearly everything which is eternally true is taught by one as well as by the other; and therefore a society cannot throw away its religion on account of some errors in it. And each religion represents the experience of a nation with right and wrong--its knowledge of morality. But as society is constructed quite differently in different countries, the religion of one country may not be suited to another. That is why the introduction of a foreign religion may often be opposed by a whole people. For some things which are right in one country may not be right in another. It is not right in China or in Japan to leave one's parents, and to neglect them when they are old. But in England and America and other countries, sons and daughters go away from their parents, and do not think it a duty to support them;--and there is no family relation in those countries such as there is in the Orient. And therefore many things in Western religion are not suited to the kinder and more benevolent life of Japan. Also, some religions teach loyalty, and some do not. For Japan to become strong, and to remain independent, it is very necessary that her people should remain very loyal. Her ancient religion teaches loyalty;--therefore it is still very useful to her. And that is why there is anger shown against some Christians who show no respect to that religion. They are not blamed for not believing in dogmas, but only for what seems to be not loyal.
Perhaps it is better that you should not think a great deal about religious questions until you become old enough to study scientific philosophy--because these questions ought to be studied in relation to society, in relation to history, in relation to law, in relation to national character, and in relation to science. Therefore they are very difficult. But if you should like to read the highest thoughts of Western people about _modern_ religious ideas, I can send you some little books which will show you that the highest religion agrees with the highest science. What I mean by the highest religion is the belief in eternal laws of right conduct. However, as I said, to think about these questions at all requires great study and much knowledge. I think the best advice I can give you in a general way is this,--Do not believe a new thing told you because it is told you; but think for yourself, and follow your own heart when you are in doubt. But remember that the _old_ things taught you have been valuable to society--and have been useful for thousands of years--so that we cannot despise them.
I send you a book of old Greek stories to read. Perhaps it will interest you. You will see from the stories how different the old Greek life was from modern life in many things. You must tell me, too, what books you like to read--novels, history, etc.; perhaps I shall be able to send you some from time to time.
Study well, and never be discouraged;--think only how to make yourself a noble and perfect man. And remember the best men in public life have generally been those who made plenty of mistakes and got into plenty of trouble when they were boys.
And never, _never_ be afraid--except of your own heart.
LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK
KUMAMOTO, November, 1893.
DEAR HENDRICK,--I have been waiting several weeks to tell you of an event which occurred later than I expected. Last night my child was born,--a very strong boy, with large black eyes; he looks more like a Japanese, however, than like a foreign boy. He has my nose, but his mother's features in some other respects, curiously blended with mine. There is no fault with him; and the physicians say, from the form of his little bones, that he promises to become very tall. A cross between European and Japanese is nearly always an improvement when both parents are in good condition; and happily the old military caste to which my wife belongs is a strong one. She is quite well.--Still, I had my anxiety, and the new experience brought to me for a moment, with extraordinary force, the knowledge of how sacred and terrible a thing maternity is, and how even religion cannot hedge it about sufficiently with protection. Then I thought with astonishment of the possibility that men could be cruel to women who bore their children; and the world seemed very dark for a moment. When it was all over, I confess I felt very humble and grateful to the Unknowable Power which had treated us so kindly,--and I said a little prayer of thanks, feeling quite sure it was not foolish to do so.
If ever you become a father, I think the strangest and strongest sensation of your life will be hearing for the first time the thin cry of your own child. For a moment you have the strange feeling of being double; but there is something more, quite impossible to analyze--perhaps the echo in a man's heart of all the sensations felt by all the fathers and mothers of his race at a similar instant in the past. It is a very tender, but also a very ghostly feeling.
Now the kind dull veil that Nature keeps during most of a life stretched between it and such extraordinary glimpses of the Unknown, is drawn again. The world is the same nearly as before; and I can plan. The little man will wear sandals and dress like a Japanese, and become a good little Buddhist if he lives long enough. He will not have to go to church, and listen to stupid sermons, and be perpetually tormented by absurd conventions. He will have what I never had as a child,--natural physical freedom.
Your two late letters were full of interest and beauty, and you are getting most surprising glimpses of life. I have long had in my mind the idea of a chapter on "Morbid Individuality"--taking issue with Lowell's position in "The Soul of the Far East." Instances like those you have cited are very telling as proofs. The story of the father also is wonderful--absolutely wonderful,--a beautiful surprise of human nature.
What also much impressed me in your letter was the feeling of sadness the spectacle of the great Exposition gave you. But I scarcely think it was due to any reminiscences of boyhood--not simply because of its being certainly a feeling infinitely too complex to have sprung out of a single relative experience in the past (your confession of inability to analyze it, and the statement of others who had the same feeling, would show that),--but also because, if you reflect on other experiences of a totally different kind, you will find they give the same sensation. The first sight of a colossal range of mountains; the awful beauty of a peak like Chimborazo or Fuji; the majesty of an enormous river; the vision of the sea in speaking motion; and, among human spectacles, a military sight, such as the passing-by of a corps of fifty thousand men, will give also a feeling of sadness. You will feel something like it standing in the choir of the Cathedral of Cologne; and you will feel something like it while watching in the night, from some mighty railroad centre, the rushing of glimmering trains,--bearing away human lives to unknown destinies beyond the darkness.
Probably, as Schopenhauer said, the vision of mountains has the effect of producing sadness, because the sense of their antiquity awakens sudden recognition of the shortness of human life. But I do not think it is a mere individual feeling. It is a feeling we share with countless dead who live in us, and who saw the same mountains,--perhaps felt the same way. Besides, there should be a religious ancestral feeling there--since mountains have ever been the abode of gods, and the earliest places of worship and of burial. And I think there is. You do not laugh when you look at mountains--nor when you look at the sea.
What effect does the sudden sight of an extraordinarily beautiful person have upon you? I mean the very _first_. Is it not an effect of sadness? Analyze it; and perhaps you will find yourself involuntarily thinking of _death_.
What has the effect of any great beauty--of art, or poetry or utterance--no matter what the subject? Is it cheerful? No, it is very sad. But why? Perhaps partly because of the consciousness of the _exceptional_ character of that beauty,--therefore the sudden contrast between the tender dream-world of art and goodness, and the hideous goblin realities of the world we know. At all events the sadness is certainly the ancient sadness,--the sadness of life, which must, for reasons we cannot learn, begin and end with an agony.
Now at the Exposition you had all the elements for what Clifford would call a "cosmic emotion" of sadness. Vastness, which forced the knowledge of individual weakness; beauty, compelling the memory of impermanency; force, suggesting weakness also; and prodigious effort,--calling for the largest possible exertion of human sympathy, and love, and pity, and sorrow. That you should feel like crying then, does you honour: that is the tribute of all that is noblest in you to the eternal Religion of Human Suffering.
Dear H., I have not slept last night: I am going to rest a little;--good-bye for a short time, with love to you.
LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO SENTARŌ NISHIDA
KUMAMOTO, November, 1893.
DEAR NISHIDA,--A few days ago there came from Kizuki a little box addressed to me,--from Mr. Senke; and opening it, I found therein the robe of a _Kokuzō_--all black silk with the sacred _mon_ of the temple worked into the silk. Accompanying the robe were two poems, very beautifully written upon vari-coloured paper. The robe was very curious in itself, and of course most precious as a souvenir. I hesitated to write at once; for I could not answer Mr. Senke's magnificent letter in a worthy way at all. It was a very long letter, written on fine paper and in large handsome characters. I have now tried to reply, but my answer reads very shabbily compared with Mr. Senke's gracious style.