Part 21

DEAR HENDRICK,--I have two unanswered letters from you--delayed in reaching me because of my change of residence. One is only a glorious shout of joy and sympathy;--the other describes charmingly the incidents and sensations of your Nova Scotia days. It struck me while reading it that the great pleasure each of you had was in watching the display of the powers and the graces of the other, in the new field,--and from thinking about that I began to think of my own experiences. I believe that my happiest glows of sympathetic admiration have been felt under somewhat like circumstances. If one's friend is a fine keen man, and one is proud of him, what greater enjoyment than to see him face the unfamiliar and watch him dealing with it _en maître_,--turning it this way and that with symmetrical ease,--and winning all he wants with a smile or a bright jest? The pleasure of watching a play is nothing to it. And again, what _novel_ (it is always new, you know)--what novel delight that of seeing a soldier, a man of business, or even a "man of God," turning into a boy under the mere joyous bath of air and sun and summer air out of town! It gives one a larger sense of humanity, and a sort of awe at the omnipotent magic of Nature.

Well, I have a house,--a large, but, I regret to say, not beautiful house in Tōkyō. There is no garden,--no surprises,--no delicacies,--no chromatic contrasts: a large bald utilitarian house, belonging to a man who owns eight hundred Japanese houses, and looks after them all at seventy-eight years of age. He was a sake-brewer: he is now good to the poor,--buries free of charge the head of any family unable to pay the expenses of a Buddhist funeral. He looked at my boy and played with him and said: "You are too pretty,--you ought to have been a girl. When you get a little older you will be studying things you ought not to study,--pulling girls about, and doing mischief." (Because he used to be an old rascal himself.) But he set me thinking. I don't think K. will be very handsome; but if he feels like his father about pretty girls,--what shall I do with him? Marry him at 17 or 19? Or send him to grim and ferocious Puritans that he may be taught the Way of the Lord? I am now beginning to think that really much of ecclesiastical education (bad and cruel as I used to imagine it) is founded upon the best experience of man under civilization; and I understand lots of things which I used to think superstitious bosh, and now think solid wisdom. Don't have children (Punch's advice is the same, you know) unless you want to discover new Americas....

In haste to give a lecture on _ballad_ literature(!).

Affectionately, LAFCADIO.

TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK

TŌKYŌ, October, 1896.

DEAR HENDRICK,--I have had several delightful letters from you, some of which were not answered in detail, though deserving to be. Let me see about my deficiencies in acknowledging your letters during recent hurry and flurry:--That sermon, belonging to the 13th--or perhaps the 10th century--was really an amazement. Thanks for kindly note about Lowell's words of praise....

As for the university. Because the shadow of the Jesuit, broadening back through the centuries, is very black, and because I saw stake-fires in it, I didn't relish the idea of his acquaintance. But that _had_ to come, you know. There was a weary matriculation ceremony at which all of us had to be present; and it was purely Japanese, so that we could not understand it. We had to sit for three hours and listen. So I and the Jesuit, for want of anything else to do, got into a religious discussion; and I found him charming. Of course, he said that every thought which I thought was heresy,--that all the philosophy of the 19th century was false,--that everything accomplished by free thought and Protestantism was folly leading to ruin. But we had sympathies in common,--the contempt of religion as convention, scorn of the missionaries, and just recognition of the sincerely and profoundly religious character of the Japanese,--denied, of course, by the ordinary class of missionary jackasses. Then we were both amused by the architecture of the university. It is ecclesiastical, of course,--and the pinnacles and angles are tipped with cruciform ornaments. "C'est tout-a-fait comme un monastère," said my comrade of the beard;--"et ceçi,--on en fera une assez jolie église. _Et pourtant ce n'est pas l'esprit Chrétien qui_," etc. His irony was delicious, and the laughter broke the ice.

Now comes a queer fact. The existing group of professors in the Library college who keep a little together are the Professor of Philosophy (Heidelberg), the Professor of Sanscrit and Philology (Leipsig), the Professor of French Literature (Lyons), and the Professor of English Literature--from the devil knows where. There is little affiliation outside. Now all this group is--including myself--Roman Catholic by training. Why it is, I can't say, except the Jesuit, we are not believers,--but there is a human something separating us from the _froid protestantisme_, or the hard materialism of the other foreign professors,--something warmer and more natural. Is it not the _Latin_ feeling surviving in Catholicism,--and humanizing paganly what it touches?--penetrating all of us--the Russian, the German, the Frenchman, and L. H., through early association? Really there is neither art nor warm feeling nor the spirit of human love in the stock Protestantism of to-day.--I regret to say, however, that I have no Spencerian sympathizer. In my beliefs and tendencies I stand alone; and the Jesuit marvels at the astounding insanity of my notions. He, like all of his tribe, does not quite know how to take the American. The American Professor of Law--enormously self-sufficient, and aggressive--rather embarrasses him. I saw him wilt a little before him; and I like him all the better for it,--as he is certainly very delicate, and his shrinking was largely due to this delicacy. But all these are only impressions of the moment.

As a member of the faculty, I have to sometimes attend faculty meetings, called for various purposes. One of the purposes was to decide the fate of a certain German Professor of History--not nominally for the purpose, but really. I could not help the professor, and I felt that he was really unnecessary--not to speak of $500 per mensem. I do not think his contract will be renewed. I did not like the man very much: he is a worshipper of Virchow and an enemy of English psychology, etc., _ipso facto_. We could have no sympathies. But I was startled by the fashion in which those who professed to be his friends suddenly went back upon him, when they saw the drift of things. The drift was given by the Japanese Professor of Philosophy (Buddhist and other),--a fine, lean, keen, soft-spoken, persistent champion of Japanese national conservatism, and a good honest hater of sham Christianity. I like him: his name is Inoue Tetsujirō. He very sensibly observed that he saw no reason why foreign professors should forever teach _history_ in a Japanese university,--or why students should be obliged to listen to lectures not in their native tongue. I felt he was right; but it meant the doom of nearly all foreign teaching. (Perhaps I shall last for some years more, and the professors of foreign _languages_--but the rest will certainly go before long.)

I said to my little self: "Don't expect any love from those quarters, old fellow: the Japanese themselves will treat you more frankly, even if they get to hate you." I have no doubt whatever that there will be as much said against _me_ as _dare_ be said. Happily, however, my engagement is based on Japanese _policy_--kindly policy--with a strong man behind it; and mere tongue-thrusts will do me no harm at all in the present order of things.

"Sufficient for the day is," etc.

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK

TŌKYŌ, November, 1896.

DEAR HENDRICK,--I fear--I suspect that this position has been given unto me for a combination of reasons, among which the dominant is that I may write at ease many books about Japan. This has two unfortunate aspects. Firstly, the people who do not know what labour literary work is imagine that books can be written by the page as quickly as letters, and keep asking me why I don't get out another book--that means the Influence of Hurry-Scurry. Secondly, I am plunged into a world of which the highest possible effort in poetry seems to be this:--

"_Sometimes I hear your flute, But I never can see your face, O beautiful Oiterupé!_"

Who is Oiterupé? Euterpe, of course. And this represents, I do assure you, the very highest possible result of a Western education at Göttingen, etc., upon the mind of the modern Japanese poet. Formerly he would have said something. Now he is struck dumb by--Heidelberg or Göttingen.

I have only twelve hours a week in which to teach; but, as I told you before, there are no text-books, and the university will not buy any; and the general standard of English is so low that I am sure not half of my classes understand what I say. Worst of all, there is no discipline. The students are virtually the masters in certain matters: the authorities fear their displeasure, and they do things extraordinary which fill European professors with amazement and rage--such as _ordering_ different hours for their lectures, and demanding after a menacing fashion subscriptions for their various undertakings. Fancy the following colloquy:--

Professor--"But this is not a case of distress: I don't think a professor should be asked for money where money is not needed--and then--"

Student--"The question is simply, will you pay or will you not?"

Professor--"I have told you my ideas about--"

Student--"I am not interested in your ideas. Will you or will you not?"

Professor (flushing with anger, like Sigurd the Bishop)--"No."

Student turns his back upon professor, and walks away with the air of one going to prepare for a vendetta.

I have told you before that the first, second, and third year classes are mixed together. But that makes no matter. The matter is that the students can change the subjects of their studies when they please, and do so occasionally by way of showing their disapproval of the professor. "You must not teach that subject: I wish you to teach us about Greek mythology instead" is a specimen observation.

I cannot write to you about such delightful friends as the one described in your last letter, for the simple reason that I haven't any. (You know that it is very difficult for me to find sympathizers in such a frogpond as the foreign community of an open port.) The Russian professor of philosophy, although boasting a Heidelberg degree, acknowledges to me that he believes heretics ought to be burnt alive ("for the saving of their souls"), and that he hopes to see the whole world under Catholic domination. I fancy he dreams of the Russian conquest to come; and the Panslavic dream is not impossible! He is a queer man,--about fifty at least,--a bachelor. Soft and cold--snowy in fact. The Jesuit improves on acquaintance--gentle, courteous, half-sympathetic, but always on guard, like a man afraid of being struck by some human affection. The American lawyer, hard and grim, has a rough plain goodness about him--providing that he be put to no trouble.... And the German, Dr. R----, of whom I spoke rather unsympathetically before, seems to me now the finest man of the lot. There can be no question of his learning, and his dogmatism; but he gives me the solid feeling of a man honest like a great rock of black basalt--huge, hard, direct--one of those rare German types with eyes and hair blacker than a coal. His hand is broad, hard, warm always, and has something electrical in its grasp. I think I shall get fond of him, if he doesn't talk Virchow to me. (For Virchow is my _bête noir_! I hate his name with unspeakable hatred.) At all events, to my great surprise, I find this grim dark German takes absolute pleasure in doing a kindness, and in speaking well of others. Wherefore I feel that I am unreasonable and wrong to feel repelled by his liking for Virchow.

Of course, we must all go some day, if the university doesn't go first. But as all have big salaries, all prepare for the rainy day. I shall not complain if allowed to finish my three years--though I should prefer six. But you can imagine how unstable everything looks--with changes in the ministry of education about every twelve months,--and the political influences behind the students. I am reposing upon the safety-valves of a steam-boiler,--much cracked, with many of the rivets loose,--and the engineers studying how to be out of the way when the great whang-bang comes around.

And when it does come, may it blow me, for a moment at least, in the immediate vicinity of Ellwood Hendrick.

Ever affectionately, LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK

TŌKYŌ, December, 1896.

DEAR OLD FELLOW,-- ... The Emperor paid us a visit the other day; and I had to don a frock-coat and a thing which inspired the Mohammedan curse,--"May God put a HAT on you!" We stood in sleet and snow--horribly cold (no overcoats allowed) and were twice permitted to bow down before His Majesty. I confess I saw only _les bottes de S. M._ He has a deep commanding voice--is above the average in height. Most of us got cold, I think--nothing more for the nonce. Lowell discovered one delicious thing in the Far East--"The Gate of Everlasting Ceremony." But the ancient ceremony was beautiful. Swallow-tails and plugs are not beautiful. My little wife tells me: "Don't talk like that: even if a robber were listening to you upon the roof of the house, he would get angry." So I am only saying this to you: "I don't see why I should be obliged to take cold, merely for the privilege of bowing to H. M." Of course this is half-jest, half-earnest. There is a reason for things--for anything except--a plug-hat!...

Affectionately, LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK

TŌKYŌ, January, 1897.

DEAR HENDRICK,--"Sentimental Tommy" is marvellous. Gives me a very great idea of Barrie. The question with me is whether such a _milieu_ and such a suggested ancestry could produce such types as Grizel and Tommy. I am not quite sure of it: I am still under the impression that blood _will_ tell, and that children of drunkards and whores are not apt to prove angels--though there must be exceptions when the better inheritance dominates. However, the book has a good meaning as well as a great art, and the tendency is to recognitions of truths deeper than those of "Philistia." You were awfully good to send it; but I feel rather small--my last sending being so poor a sprat to your salmon.

Never mind. I'll send you my own book sometime this year--I _think_. It ought to be in the printer's hands by the time you get this letter. It will probably be called "A Living God, and Other Studies"--or something of that sort. But only the gods exactly know.

Half of my psychological book--or nearly half--is also written. I shall dedicate it probably to the Lady of a Myriad Souls--whose photo in a black frame decorates my Japanese alcove. Provided--I don't die or worse before it is finished. Any suggestions? I'm trying to explain all mysterious things which philosophers, etc., call _inexplicable_ feelings. Have you any? Please turn some over to me, and let me digest them. I've managed the _frisson_ (woman's touch), some colour-sensations, sublimities, etc. I want some mysterious feelings--some exquisitenesses,--normal only. _Parfum de jeunesse_ suggests experiences. Do you know any?...

Ever faithfully, LAFCADIO.

TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK

KŌBE, February, 1897.

DEAR HENDRICK,-- ... Oh! have you read those two marvellous things of Kipling's last--"McAndrews' Hymn," and "The Mary Gloster"? Especially the "Mary Gloster." I have no more qualified ideas about Kipling. He is to my fixed conviction the greatest of living English poets, and greater than all before him in the line he has taken. As for England, he is her modern Saga-man,--skald, scôp, whatever you like: lineal descendants of those fellows to whom the Berserker used to say: "Now you just stand right here, and see us fight so that you can make a song about it."

Meanwhile the Holy Ghost has become temporarily (perhaps) disgusted with me; and I am doing nothing for three days past. Simply can't--no feelings. I can _grind_; but what's the use? I want to do something remarkable, unique, extraordinary, audacious; and I haven't the qualifications. I want sensations--dreams--glimpses. Nothing! Will I ever get another good idea? Don't know. Will I ever have any literary success?--So swings the pendulum! I fear my next book won't be as good as it ought to be....

After all, the Jesuit _is_ really the most interesting person. We are close to each other because we are so enormously far away,--just as in Wundt's colour-theory the red and violet ends of the spectrum overlap after a fashion....

Ever faithfully, LAFCADIO HEARN. (Y. KOIZUMI.)

TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK

TŌKYŌ, May, 1897.

DEAR E. H.,--I have been reading your last over and over again--because it is very pretty indeed, one of the very prettiest letters I ever read. There is altogether something so deliriously _assured_ about it--so full of happy confidence, that I feel quite comfortable and jolly about you ... notwithstanding the fact that I am tolerably sure you will be taken utterly away from me in the end. For this shall a man leave not only his friend, but his father and his mother,--saith the Sacred Book. You know that particular passage makes the Japanese mad,--but not quite so mad as the observation: "Unless a man shall hate his father and his mother," etc., which has knocked the wind out of much missionary enterprise.

I can't write much more about yourself, because I don't know anything yet. So I shall talk about Tōkyō.

As you know, I have been somewhat idle--for a month at least. And the loneliness thickens. And certain gentlemen make it a rule to spit upon the ground with a loud noise when I pass by. I believe the trick is not confined to the Occident, having found Japanese skilful at it; but these be nevertheless manners of Heidelberg doctors! Nevertheless, it won't work.

But really the conditions are very queer. I felt instinctively before going to Tōkyō, that I was going into a world of intrigue; but what a world I had no conception. The foreign element appears to live in a condition of perpetual panic. Everybody is infinitely afraid of everybody else, afraid to speak not only their minds, but to speak about anything except irrelevant matters, and then only in a certain formal tone sanctioned by custom. They huddle together sometimes at parties, and talk all together loudly about nothing,--like people in the expectation of a possible catastrophe, or like folks making a noise to drive away ghosts, or fear of ghosts. Somebody, quite accidentally, observes--or rather drops an observation about facts. Instantly there is a scattering away from that man as from dynamite. He is isolated for several weeks by common consent. Then he goes to work to reform a group of his own. Gradually he collects one--and rival groups are formed. But presently some one in another party or chat talks about something as it ought to be. Bang-fizz--chaos and confusion. Then all the groups unite to isolate that wicked tongue. The man is dangerous--an intriguer--ha! And so on--_ad lib_.

This is panic, pure and simple, and the selfishness of panic. But there is some reason for it--considering the class of minds. We are all in Japan living over earthquakes. Nothing is stable. All Japanese officialdom is perpetually in flux,--nothing but the throne is even temporarily fixed; and the direction of the currents depends much upon force of intrigue. They shift, like currents in the sea, off a coast of tides. But the side currents penetrate everywhere, and _clapotent_ all comers, and swirl round the writing-stool of the smallest clerk,--whose pen trembles with continual fear for his wife's and babies' rice. Being good or clever or generous or popular or the best man for the place counts for very little. Intrigue has nothing at all to do with qualities. Popularity in the biggest sense has, of course, some value, but only the value depending upon certain alternations of the rhythm of outs-and-ins. That's all.

In the Orient intrigue has been cultivated as an art for ages, and it has been cultivated as an art in every country, no doubt. But the result of the adoption of constitutional government by a race accustomed to autocracy and caste, enabled intrigue to spread like a ferment, in new forms, through every condition of society,--and almost into every household. It has become an infinite net--unbreakable, because elastic as air, though strong enough to upset ministers as readily as to oust clerks.

Future prospects--? _Dégringolade_.

I feel sorry to say that I think I have been wrong about a good many of my sincere hopes and glowing predictions. Tōkyō takes out of me all power to hope for a great Japanese future. You know how easily a society in such a state can be manipulated by shrewd foreign influence. The race must give evidence of some tremendous self-purifying and self-solidifying power, before my hopes can be restored to their former rainbow hues. At present I think it can truthfully be said that every official branch of service shows the rapidly growing weakness that means demoralization. The causes are numerous--too numerous to mention,--inadequate pay being a large one, as the best men will not take positions at $15 or $20 a month. But the great cause is utter instability and discouragement. The P. O., the telegraph-service, the railroads, etc., all are in a queer state.

And I--am as a flea in a wash-bowl. My best chance is to lie quiet and wait the coming of events. I hope to see Europe, with my boy, some day.

Well, this is only private history to amuse E. H., to make Western by contrast to Eastern life seem more beautiful to him. Affectionately,

LAFCADIO.

TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK

TŌKYŌ, May, 1897.

DEAR E. H.,--I am still alive in alternations of gloom and sun. I anticipate now chiefly a national bankruptcy, or a war with Russia to upset my bank-account. There is a Buddhist text (Saddharma-Pundarika, chap. III, verse 125):--"The man whom they happen to serve is unwilling to give them much, and what he gives is soon lost. Such is the fruit of sinfulness." It would be impossible, I imagine, that I should escape some future extraordinary experience of calamity. It is simply ridiculous,--can't help seeing the absurdity of it. Otherwise I have sorrow.

For my friends have been dying quickly. Some years ago, one said to me: "You will outlive us: foreigners live longer than Japanese." This I did not think true, as I know many Japanese over eighty, and the longevity of the western farmers is sometimes extraordinary--