Part 13
The tendency now (referring to what you said about trusts) seems to point indeed to what Spencer calls "The Coming Slavery." Monopolies and trusts must continue to grow and multiply,--must eventually tend to coalesce,--must ultimately hold all. Bellamy's ideas will be partly carried out, but in no paradisaical manner. The State itself will become the one monstrous trust. Socialism will be promised all, and be compelled to work against its own ends unconsciously. The edifice is even now being reared in which every man will be a veritable slave to the State,--the State itself a universal monopoly, or trust. Then every life will be regulated to infinitesimal details, and the working population of the whole West find themselves situated just as men in factories or on railroads are situated. The trust will be nominally for the universal benefit, and must for a time so seem to be. But just so surely as human nature is not perfect, just so surely will the directing class eventually exploit the wonderful situation,--just as some Roman rulers exploited the world. Assuredly anarchy will eventuate; but first,--in spite of all that human wisdom can do,--nations will pass under the most fearful tyranny ever known. And perhaps centuries of persistent effort will scarcely suffice to burst the fetters which Socialism now seeks to impose on human society;--the machinery will be too frightfully perfect, too harmonious in operation, too absolutely exact and of one piece,--to be easily attacked. As well try with naked hands to pierce the side of an iron-clad. The law, the police, the military power, religious influence, commercial and industrial interests,--all will be as One, working to preserve the form of the new socialism. To seek redress, to demand change, were then sheer madness. And even the power to flee away out of the land, to dwell among beasts and birds, might be denied. Liberty of opinion, which we all boast of now, would be then less possible than in the time of the sway of Torquemada....
You have heard of the Japanese facile victories by land and sea. I should not be surprised to hear of their winning every engagement, and capturing Pekin. But what the end will be for the country, who can say? The whole thing is the last huge effort of the race for national independence. Under the steady torturing pressure of our industrial civilization,--being robbed every year by unjust treaties,--Japan has determined to show her military power to the world by attacking her old teacher, China. At the same time she has asked and obtained from England such revision of the treaty as would not only protect her against the danger of large fresh investments of foreign capital, but would probably result in driving existing capital away. I cannot think that the United States will be short-sighted enough to grant the same terms. For instance, though the country is to be opened to foreign settlement, no Englishman can hold land except on lease; and the lease, by Japanese law, expires with the death of the lessor. So that if I build a stone house, and my landlord die in twenty years after, I must be at the mercy of his heir, or carry away my house on my back.
It is an ugly business, this war. It may leave Japan absolutely independent, as in the days of Ieyasu. But will that be best for her? I am no longer sure. The people are still good. The upper classes are becoming corrupt. The old courtesy, the old faith, the old kindness are vanishing like snow in sun.
Ever affectionately, LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO OCHIAI
KUMAMOTO, September, 1894.
DEAR MR. OCHIAI,-- ... I was much interested in what your letter related about the doves leaving Kizuki, and about the _O mamori_. It is a curious fact that nearly the same story is told in Kumamoto, in regard to Katō Kiyomasa. At the Nichiren temple of Hommyōji the helmet, armour, and sword of the great Captain were always preserved. Lately they disappeared, and some say they were sent to Korea,--to stimulate the zeal of the army. But some of the people say that in the night horse-hoofs were heard in the temple court; and that a great shadowy horseman, in full armour, was seen to pass. So it is whispered that Kiyomasa rose up from his grave, and buckled on his armour, and departed to lead the Imperial Armies to glory and conquest.
Thanks also for the very interesting note about the Emperor Go-Daigo. You know I visited the place where he lived at Oki, and the little village--Chiburi-mura--from which he made his escape in the fishermen's boat.
What you said about the _mamori_ of the soldier reminds me that at the _ujigami_ here little charms are being given to thousands of soldiers. They are very narrow, and contrived so as to be slipped into the lining (_ura_) of a uniform.
Thanks for your two kindest letters. I shall write you again another day,--this is only my answer to one of your two letters; the other I still owe you for.
Best wishes and regards to you always.
LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK
KŌBE, December, 1894.
DEAR HENDRICK,--So it was _you_ that sent me "Trilby"--the magical thing! I never knew till the Spencer came, and Kipling's "Jungle Book." And the joke is that I thanked another man for the gift of "Trilby," and the beast never let on. And I wrote a two and one-half column review of "Trilby" to please _him_. Oh! you rascal! why didn't you tell me? Love to you for "Trilby." ...
Glad you liked my first book on Japan. The _Tribune_ essay vexed me.... The curious fact of the article was the statement about the influence of the _decadents_ and of Verlaine being "apparent." Never read a line of Verlaine in my life,--and only know enough of the decadent school to convince me that the principle is scientifically wrong, and that to study the stuff is mere waste of time.
I am writing one article a day for 100 yen a month. Exchange is so low now that the 100 represents something less than 50 in American money. And my eyes, or eye, giving out. Curious!--cold seriously affects my remnant of sight. If I had a few thousand I should go to a hot climate during the winter months. Heat gives me good vision. Even a Japanese hot bath temporarily restores clearness of sight....
Of course, we shall never see each other again in this world. And what is the use of being unkind--after all? Life to us literary folk--small and great--is so short, and we are never in competition, like business men who _must_ compete--_what_ is the use of meanness? I suppose there must be some use. The effect is certainly to convince a man of "fourty-four" that the less he has to do with his fellow men the better,--or, at least, that the less he has to do with the so-called "cultured" the better....
The other day you told me of some queer changes in your inner life wrought by the influences of the outer. In my case the changes are very unpleasant. I can't feel towards men generally any longer as I used to--I feel, in short, a little misanthropic. The general facts seem to be that all realities of relations between men are of self-interest in the main; that the pleasures of those relations are illusions--dependent upon youth, power, position, etc., for degree of intensity. No man, as a general rule, shows his soul to another man; he shows it only to a woman,--and then only with the assurance that she won't give him away. As a matter of fact, she can't:--the Holy Ghost takes care of that! No woman unveils herself to another woman--only to a man; and what she unveils he cannot betray. He can only talk of her body, if he is brute enough to wish to: the inner being, of which he has had some glimpses, can be pictured only in a language which he cannot use. But what a fighting masked-ball the whole thing is!
Have you read Huxley's views on Ethics and Evolution? They have been a great revelation to me. They make it perfectly plain why men cannot be good to one another on general principles without causing trouble in the order of the universe. They also explain the immorality of Nature. Cosmic principles afford explanations of--but not consolations for--individual experiences.
L. H.
TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK
KUMAMOTO, December, 1894.
DEAR HENDRICK,--Of course I shall teach the "Jungle Book" to the little fellow, when he gets big enough. How pretty of you to send it. I sent some little prints--don't know if you like them; in an album they would perhaps interest your friends who have not been in Japan. I shall look out for seeds for you regularly hereafter.
About Emerson. Last spring I got a pretty edition of him from H. M. & Co. and I digested him. He is only suggestive, but wondrously so at times, as in his poems. As a suggester he will always be great. The talk about his truisms must depend upon the knowledge of the speaker. Emerson will be large or small,--commonplace or profound,--according to the reader's knowledge of the thought of the age.
My reading out here has been pretty heavy. I have had to digest a good deal of Buddhist and Chinese stuff, of course. My philosophical favourites are still Spencer and Huxley, Lewes and Fiske and Clifford. I made Kipling's acquaintance out here (I mean his books), and told you what I think of him. Next to Kipling I like Stevenson. But I have really read very little of anything new. Browning is a pet study still. Somehow I have tired of Tennyson--don't exactly know why.
The labour of a mother is something which, I imagine, no man without a child can understand. We big folks forget what our own mothers did for us,--and we have no real chance to see all that other mothers do. My whole family are always caring for the boy: his interest and necessities rule the whole house,--but the mother!! for a single hour she has no rest with him (Japanese give the breast for two years)--no sleep except when he allows it,--and yet it all is joy for her. How they have already taught him Japanese politeness, how to prostrate himself before his father the first thing in the morning and last at night,--to ask for things, putting his hands in the proper way,--to smile,--to know the names of things before he can pronounce them,--I can't understand. Angel-patience and love alone could have done it. I want her to wean him--but she won't hear of it; and the old grandmother gets angry at the mere idea. It is only in home-relation that people are true enough to each other,--show what human nature is--the beauty of it, the divinity of it. We are otherwise all on our guard against each other. I cannot say how happy I think you are--you can see Souls without armour or mail,--loving you. That is the joy of life, after all--isn't it?
LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO SENTARŌ NISHIDA
KŌBE, January, 1895.
DEAR NISHIDA,--I have just written to Mr. Senke, to apologize for delay in sending my annual contribution--which I had hoped to be able to do as a Japanese citizen. But this may give me a chance to write again, when I get naturalized.
The Governor of Hyōgo did a very strange thing--informed the British Consul that I was to make a declaration in writing, presumably before the Consul, that I intended to be faithful to the Emperor of Japan, and to obey the laws. I did make the declaration; and the Consul is kind enough to forward it. But I believe he is doing this out of personal kindness; for I do not think it is according to English ideas, much less English laws, for a Consul to accept such a declaration at all. Indeed, what was asked was equivalent to requesting the English Consul to accept an English subject's renunciation of allegiance to Queen Victoria,--and I am astonished that the Consul, who is a rigid disciplinarian, in this case allowed me to submit to him any declaration on the subject. One thing is sure, that others who want to become Japanese subjects are going to have plenty of trouble. These measures are entirely new, and quite different to anything ever before exacted--for example, in the case of Warburton and other Kōbe residents who became Japanese subjects, perhaps for business reasons.
I am thinking of building Setsu a house, either in Kōbe or Kyōto. When I say Kōbe, I mean Hyōgo, really; for I cannot well afford to buy land at $40 to $70 per _tsubo_ in the back streets of Kōbe. In Hyōgo, I can do better. Setsu and I both agree that Kōbe is warmer than Kyōto; but, except for the winter months, I should rather live in Kyōto than in any part of Japan. Tōkyō is the most horrible place in Japan, and I want to live in it just as short a time as possible. The weather is atrocious;--the earthquakes are fearsome;--the foreign element and the Japanese officialism of Tōkyō must be dreadful. I want to feel and see _Japan_: there is no Japan in Tōkyō. But in spite of all I say, Setsu thinks of Tōkyō just as a French lady thinks of Paris. After she has passed a winter there, perhaps she will not like Tōkyō so much. I imagine that she thinks the Tōkyō,--the really beautiful Tōkyō--of the old picture-books, and the bank-bills, still exists. Then she knows all the famous names--the names of the bridges and streets and temples,--and these are associated in her mind with the dramas and the famous stories and legends of Japan. Perhaps I should love Tōkyō just as much as she does, if I knew the history and the traditions of the country as well.
[Illustration: LAFCADIO HEARN'S FAVOURITE DWELLING-HOUSE]
You will be pleased to hear that my books are attracting considerable attention now in England. It is very hard to win attention there, but much more important than to win it in America. "Out of the East" has made more impression in England than my first book did. I don't know what will be said of "Kokoro:" it is a terribly "radical" book--at variance with all English conventions and beliefs. However, if you and my few Japanese friends like it, I shall be happy.
I wish you were here to eat some plum-pudding with me.
Oh! I forgot to tell you that Finck, who wrote that book about Japan, is rather celebrated (perhaps celebrated is too strong a word--_well known_ is better) as the author of a book called "Romantic Love and Personal Beauty."
Ever faithfully, LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK
KŌBE, January, 1895.
DEAR HENDRICK:--Three books and a catalogue reached me--Mallock, Kipling, and a volume by Morris--for which more than thanks the value much exceeding, I fear, the slight difference between us.
It now seems to me that time is the most precious of all things conceivable. I can't waste it by going out to hear people talk nonsense,--or by going to see pretty girls whom I can't marry, being married already,--or by playing games of cards, etc., to kill time,--or by answering letters written me by people who have neither real fine feeling nor real things to say. Of course I might on occasion do some one of these things,--but, having done it, I feel that so much of my life has been wasted--sinfully wasted. There are rich natures who can afford the waste; but I can't, because the best part of my life has been wasted in wrong directions and I shall have to work like thunder till I die to make up for it. I shall never do anything remarkable; but I think I have caught sight of a few truths on the way.
I might say that I have become indifferent to personal pleasures of any sort,--except sympathy and sympathetic converse; but this might represent a somewhat morbid state. What is more significant, I think, is the feeling that the greatest pleasure is to work for others,--for those who take it as a matter of course that I should do so, and would be as much amazed to find me selfish about it as if an earthquake had shaken the house down. Really I am not affecting to think this; I feel it so much that it has become a part of me.
Then of course, I like a little success and praise,--though a big success and big praise would scare me; but I find that even the little praise I have been getting has occasionally unhinged my judgement. And I have to be very careful.
Next, I have to acknowledge to feeling a sort of resentment against certain things in which I used to take pleasure. I can't look at a number of the _Petit Journal pour Rire_ or the _Charivari_ without vexation, almost anger. I can't find pleasure in a French novel written for the obvious purpose of appealing to instincts that interfere with perception of higher things than instincts. I would not go to see the Paris opera if it were next door and I had a free ticket--or, if I did go, it would be for the sake of observing the pleasure given to somebody else. I should not like to visit the most beautiful lady and be received in evening dress. You see how absurd I have become--and this without any idea of principle about the matter, except the knowledge that I ought to avoid everything which does not help the best of myself--small as it may be. Whenever by chance I happen to make a deviation from this general rule, work suffers in consequence.
I think that on the whole I am gaining a little in the path; but I have regular fits of despondency and disgust about my work, of course. One day I think I have done well; the next that I am a hideous ass and fool. Much is a question of nervous condition. But I feel sure that a long-continued period of self-contentment would be extremely injurious to me; and that checks and failures and mockeries are indispensable medicine.
I read the books you sent me--Mallock only because _you_ wished me to read it. I suppose it is the very best thing he ever did. How immensely clever and keen and--immoral! It is a wonderful thing.
"The Wood beyond the World" astounded me. Its value is in the study of the quaint English; but you know that such a thing could not be written in modern English prose very well; and I must say that I feel like disputing the _raison d'être_ thereof. It is simply a very naughty story.
Kipling is priceless,--the single story of Purim Bagat is worth a kingdom; and the suggestive moral of human life is such a miracle! I can't tell you what pleasure it gave me. Indeed the three books--as representing three totally distinct fields of literary work--were a great treat.
My boy is quite well again, though we were very frightened about him. He suffers from the cold every winter (you know the Japanese never have fire in winter), but he is getting hardier, I trust. He is very fond of pictures and says funny things about the pictures in the "Jungle Book." I am off to the Southern Islands shortly,--so you may not hear from me for some weeks.
Ever affectionately, LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK
KŌBE, January, 1895.
Since I wrote you last, you dear old fellow, I've been through some trouble. Indeed, the very _day_ after writing you, I broke down, and had to remain three weeks with compresses over my eyes in a dark room. I am now over it--able to write and read for a short time every day, but have been warned to leave routine newspaper work alone. Which I must do.
Your letter was--well, I don't just know what to call its quality:--there was a bracing tenderness in it that reminded me of a college friendship. Really, in this world there is nothing quite so holy as a college friendship. Two lads,--absolutely innocent of everything wrong in the world or in life,--living in ideals of duty and dreams of future miracles, and telling each other all their troubles, and bracing each other up. I had such a friend once. We were both about fifteen when separated, but had been together from ten. Our friendship began with a fight, of which I got the worst;--then my friend became for me a sort of ideal, which still lives. I should be almost afraid to ask where he is now (men grow away from each other so): but your letter brought his voice and face back,--just as if his very ghost had come in to lay a hand on my shoulder....
Kōbe is a nice little place. The effect on me is not pleasant, however. I have become too accustomed to the interior. The sight of foreign women--the sound of their voices--jars upon me harshly after long living among purely natural women with soundless steps and softer speech. (I fear the foreign women here, too, are nearly all of the savagely _bourgeoise_ style--affected English and affected American ways prevail.) Carpets,--dirty shoes,--absurd fashions,--wickedly expensive living,--airs,--vanities,--gossip: how much sweeter the Japanese life on the soft mats,--with its ever dearer courtesy and pretty, pure simplicity. Yet my boy can never be a Japanese. Perhaps, if he grows old, there will some day come back to him memories of his mother's dainty little world,--the _hibachi_,--the _toko_,--the garden,--the lights of the household shrine,--the voices and hands that shaped his thought and guided every little tottering step. Then he will feel very, very lonesome,--and be sorry he did not follow after those who loved him into some shadowy resting-place where the Buddhas still smile under their moss....
Ever affectionately, LAFCADIO.
TO BASIL HALL CHAMBERLAIN
KŌBE, January, 1895.
DEAR CHAMBERLAIN,--I'm able now to write and read a little every day--not much, as to reading: writing tires the eyes less. Glad you like "Glimpses," as I see by your last kind letter. Of course it is full of faults: any work written in absolute isolation must be. It's taking, though: the publishers announce a third edition already, and the notices have been good--in America, enthusiastic. _The Athenæum_ praised it fervidly; but a few English papers abuse it. The mixture of blame and praise means literary success generally.
The earthquakes are really horrible. I can sympathize with you.
The sensation of foreign life here is very unpleasant, after life in the interior. A foreign interior is a horror to me; and the voices of the foreign women--China-Coast tall women--jar upon the comfort of existence. Can't agree with you about the "genuine men and women" in the open ports. There are some--very, very few. (Thank the Gods I shall never have to live among them!) The number of Germans here makes life more tolerable, I fancy. They are plain, but homely, which is a virtue, and liberal, which commercial English or Americans (the former especially) seldom are. They have their own club and a good library. But life in Yunotsu or Hino-misaki, or Oki, with only the bare means for Japanese comfort, were better and cleaner and higher in every way than the best open ports can offer.