TO H. E. KREHBIEL

NEW ORLEANS, 1882.

KALEWALA

DEAR K.,--The Society of Finnish Literature celebrated, in 1885, I think, the first centennial of the publication of the "Kalewala."

There are two epics of Finland--just as most peoples have two epics--most people at least of Aryan origin; and the existence of such tremendous poems as the "Kalewala" and "Kanteletar" affords, in the opinion of M. Quatref.a.ges, a strong proof that the Finns are of Aryan origin.

Loennrot was the Homer of Finland, the one who collected and edited the oral epic poetry now published under the head of the "Kalewala."

But Leouzon Le Duc in 1845 published the first translation. (This I have.) Loennrot followed him three years later. Le Duc's version contained only 12,100 verses. Loennrot's contained 22,800. A second French version was subsequently made (which I have sent for). In 1853 appeared Castren's magnificent work on Finnish mythology, without which a thorough comprehension of the "Kalewala" is almost impossible.

You will be glad to know that the _definitive_ edition of the "Kalewala," as well as the work of Castren, have both been translated into German by Herr Schiefner (1852-54, I believe is the date). Since then a whole ocean of Finnish poetry and folk-lore and legends has been collected, edited, published, and translated. (I get some of these facts from _Melusine_, some from the work of the anthropologist Quatref.a.ges.)

In order to get a correct idea of what you might do with the "Kalewala,"

_you must get it and read it_. Try to get it in the German! I can give you some idea of its beauties; but to give you its movement, and plot, or to show you precisely how much operatic value it possesses, would be a task beyond my power. It would be like attempting to make one familiar with Homer in a week.

Once you have digested it, I can then be of real service, perhaps. You would need the work of Castren also--which I cannot read. To determine the precise mythological value, rank, power, aspect, etc., of G.o.ds and demons, and their relation to natural forces, one must read up a little on the Finns. I have Le Duc, but he is deficient.

I don't think that any epic surpa.s.ses that weirdest and strangest of runes. It is not so well known as it deserves. It gives you the impression of a work written by wizards, who spoke little to men, and much to nature--but the sinister and misty nature of the eternally frozen North.

You have in the "Kalewala" all the elements of a magnificent operatic episode,--weirdness, the pa.s.sion of love, and the eternal struggle between evil and good, between darkness and light. You have any possible amount of melody,--a universe of inspiration for startling and totally novel musical themes. The scenery of such a thing might be made wilder and grander than anything imagined even by the Talmudically vast conceptions of Wagner.

An opera founded on the "Kalewala" might be made a work worthy of the grandest musician who ever lived: think of the possibilities suggested by the picture of Nature's mightiest forces in contention,--wind and sea, frost and sun, darkness and luminosity.

I don't like the antique theme you suggest, because it has been worn so threadbare that only a miracle could give it a fresh surface. Better search the "Katha-sarit-Sagara," or some other Indian collection,--or borrow from the sublimely rough and rugged poetry of Pre-Islamic Arabia. You will never regret an acquaintance with these books--even at some cost. They epitomize all the thought, pa.s.sion, and poetry of a nation and of a period.

I prefer the "Kalewala" to any other theme you suggest. I might suggest many others, but none so vast, so grand, so multiform. Nothing in the Talmud like that. The Talmud is a _Semitic_ work; but nothing Jewish rises to the grandeur of Arabic poetry, which expresses the supreme possibilities of the Semitic mind,--except, perhaps, the Book of Job, which is thought by some to have had an Arabian creator.

What you say about the disinclination to work for years upon a theme for pure love's sake, without hope of reward, touches me,--because I have felt that despair so long and so often. And yet I believe that all the world's art-work--all that which is eternal--was thus wrought. And I also believe that no work made perfect for the pure love of art, can perish, save by strange and rare accident. Despite the rage of religion and of time, we know Sappho found no rival, no equal. Rivers changed their courses and dried up,--seas became deserts, since some Egyptian romanticist wrote the story of Latin-Khamois. Do you suppose he ever received $00 for it?

Yet the hardest of all sacrifices for the artist is this sacrifice to art,--this trampling of self under foot! It is the supreme test for admittance into the ranks of the eternal priests. It is the bitter and fruitless sacrifice which the artist's soul is bound to make,--as in certain antique cities maidens were compelled to give their virginity to a G.o.d of stone! But without the sacrifice can we hope for the grace of heaven?

What is the reward? The consciousness of inspiration only! I think art gives a new faith. I think--all jesting aside--that could I create something I felt to be sublime, I should feel also that the Unknowable had selected me for a mouthpiece, for a medium of utterance, in the holy cycling of its eternal purpose; and I should know the pride of the prophet that had seen G.o.d face to face.

All this might seem absurd, perhaps, to a purely practical mind (yours is not _too_ practical); but there is a practical side also. In this age of lightning, thought and recognition have become quadruple-winged, like the angels of Isaiah. Do your very best,--your very, very best: the century must recognize the artist if he is there. If he is not recognized, it is because he is not great. Have you faith in yourself? I know you are a great natural artist; I have absolute faith in you. You _must_ succeed if you make the sacrifice of working for art's sake alone.

Comparing yourself to me won't do!--dear old fellow. I am in most things a botch! You say you envy me certain qualities; but you forget how those qualities are at variance with an art whose beauty is geometrical and whose perfection is mathematical. You also say you envy me my power of application!--If you only knew the pain and labour I have to create a little good work. And there are months when I cannot write. It is not hard to write when the thought is there; but the thought will not always come--there are weeks when I cannot even think.

The only application I have is that of persistence in a small way. I write a rough sketch and labour it over and over again for half a year, at intervals of ten minutes' leisure--sometimes I get a day or two. The work done each time is small. But with the pa.s.sing of the seasons the ma.s.s becomes noticeable--perhaps creditable. This is merely the result of system.

You may laugh at this letter if you please,--this friendly protest to one whom I have always recognized as my superior,--but there is truth in it. Think over the "Kalewala," and write to

Your friend and admirer, LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO H. E. KREHBIEL

NEW ORLEANS, 1882.

MY DEAR KREHBIEL,--When I got your letter I felt as if a great load was lifted off me--the sky looked brighter and the world seemed a little sweeter than usual. As for me, you could have paid me no higher compliment. Glad you did not disapprove of the article.

Your clippings are superb. I think your style constantly gains in force and terseness. It is admirably crystallized; and I have not yet been able to form a permanent style of my own. I trust I will succeed in time; but in purity and conciseness you will always be my master, for your art has taught you style better than a thousand university professors could do. I suppose, however, you will always be slightly Gothic,--not harshly Gothic, but Middle Period,--making ornament always subordinate to the general plan. I shall always be more or less Arabesque,--covering my whole edifice with intricate designs, serrating my arches, and engraving mysticisms above the portals. You will be grand and lofty; I shall try to be at once voluptuous and elegant, like a colonnade in the mosque of Cordova.

I send you something your article on the Jubilee Singers makes me think of. It is from the pen of a marvellous writer, who long lived at Senegal. If you do not find anything new in it, return it; but if it can be of use to you, keep it. I hope to translate the whole work some day.

Your friend, L. H.

Have heard Patti; but did not understand her power until you explained it me.

TO H. E. KREHBIEL

NEW ORLEANS, 1882.

MY DEAR KREHBIEL,--Much as it pleased me to hear from you, I a.s.sure you that your letter is shocking. It is shocking to hear of anybody being compelled to work for seventeen hours a day. You have neither time to think, to study, to read, to do your best work, or to make any artistic progress--not even to hint of pleasure--while working seventeen hours a day. Nor is that all; I believe it injures a man's health and capacity for endurance, as well as his style and peace of mind. You have a fine const.i.tution; but if once broken down by over-straining the nervous system you will never get fully over the shock. It is very hard for me to believe that it is really necessary for you to do reportorial work and to write correspondence, unless you have a special financial object to accomplish within a very short s.p.a.ce of time. The editorial work touching upon art matters which you are capable of doing for the _Tribune_ might be done in the daytime; but what do you want to waste your brain and time upon reportorial work for? D--n reportorial work and correspondence, and the American disposition to work people to death, and the American delight in getting worked to death!

Well, I have nothing more to say except to protest my hope that the seventeen-hours-a-day business is going to stop before long; for the longer it lasts the more difficult it will be for you to accomplish your ultimate purpose. The devil of overworking one's self is that it renders it impossible to get fair and just remuneration for value given,--impossible also to create those opportunities for self-advancements which form the steps of the stairway to the artistic heaven,--impossible to maintain that self-pride and confident sense of worth without which no man, however gifted, can make others fully conscious of it. When you voluntarily convert yourself into a part of the machinery of a great daily newspaper, you must revolve and keep revolving with the wheels; you play the man in the treadmill. The more you involve yourself the more difficult it will be for you to escape. I said I had nothing further to observe; but I find I must say something more,--not that I imagine for a moment I am telling you anything new, but because I wish to try to impress anew upon you some facts which do not seem to have influenced you as I believe they ought to do.

Under all the levity of Henri Murger's picturesque Bohemianism, there is a serious philosophy apparent which elevates the characters of his romance to heroism. They followed one principle faithfully,--so faithfully that only the strong survived the ordeal,--never to abandon the pursuit of an artistic vocation for any other occupation however lucrative,--not even when she remained apparently deaf and blind to her worshippers. The conditions pictured by Murger have pa.s.sed away in Paris as elsewhere: the old barriers to ambition have been greatly broken down. But I think the moral remains. So long as one can live and pursue his natural vocation in art, it is a duty with him never to abandon it if he believes that he has within him the elements of final success.

Every time he labours at aught that is not of art, he robs the divinity of what belongs to her.

Do you never reflect that within a few years you will no longer be the YOUNG MAN,--and that, like Vesta's fires, the enthusiasm of youth for an art-idea must be well fed with the sacred branches to keep it from dying out? I think you ought really to devote all your time and energies and ability to the cultivation of one subject, so as to make that subject alone repay you for all your pains. And I do not believe that Art is altogether ungrateful in these days: she will repay fidelity to her, and recompense sacrifices. I don't think you have any more right to play reporter than a great sculptor to model fifty-cent plaster figures of idiotic saints for Catholic processions, or certain painters to letter steamboats at so much a letter. In one sense, too, Art is exacting. To acquire real eminence in any one branch of any art, one must study nothing else for a lifetime. A very wide general knowledge may be acquired only at the expense of depth. But you are certainly right in thinking of the present for other reasons. Still, there is nothing so important, not only to success but to confidence, hope, and happiness, as good health and a strong const.i.tution; and these you must lose if you choose to keep working seventeen hours a day! It is well to be able to do such a thing on a brief stretch, but it is suicide, moral and physical, to keep it up regularly. The rolling-mill hand, or the puddler, or the moulder, or the common brakeman on a railroad cannot keep up at such hours for a great length of time; and you must know that even hard labour is not so exhausting as brain-work. Don't work yourself sick, old friend,--you are in a fair way to do it now.

Your friend, L. H.

TO JEROME A. HART

NEW ORLEANS, May, 1882.

DEAR SIR,--Thanks for your kindly little article. I suppose it emanated from the same source as the charming translation of Gautier's "Spectre de la Rose"--which we reproduced here, comparing it with the inferior translation--or rather mutilation--of the same poem which appeared in the ----.

Your translation of the epitaph seems to me superb as far as the first two lines go; but I can hardly agree with you as to the last. "La plus belle du monde" cannot be perfectly rendered by "the loveliest in the land"--which is a far weaker expression, by reason of the circ.u.mscribed idea it involves. "La plus belle du monde" is an expression of paramount force, simple as it is; it conveys the idea of beauty without an equal, not in any one country, but in the whole world. But I think your second line is a masterpiece of faithfulness; and, as you justly remark, my hobby is literalism.

Very sincerely yours, LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO JEROME A. HART

NEW ORLEANS, May, 1882.

DEAR SIR,--I am very grateful for your kind letter and the pleasure of making your acquaintance even through an epistolary medium.

We have the same terrible proverb in Spanish that you cite in Italian; but it certainly can never apply to the _Argonaut's_ exquisite translations--preserving metre, colour, and warmth so far as seems to be possible. Still, I must say that I do not believe the poetry of one country can be perfectly reproduced in corresponding metre in the poetry of another: much that is even marvellous may be done,--yet a little of the original perfume evaporates in the process. Therefore the French gave _prose_ translations of Heine and Byron: especially in regard to the German poet they considered translation in metrical form impossible.

Nevertheless it is impossible also to refrain from attempting such things at times,--when the beauty of exotic verse seems to take us by the throat with the strangulation of pleasure. I have felt impelled occasionally to make an essay in poetical translation; the result has generally been a dismal failure, but I venture to send you a specimen which appears to be less condemnable than most of my efforts. I cannot presume to call it a translation,--it is only an adaptation.

As for the lines in "Clarimonde," if the book ever reaches a second edition, I think I will be able to remedy some of their imperfections.

Skaldic verse, I suppose, would be anachronistically vile; but something corresponding to the metre of "La Chanson de Roland,"