DEAR K.,--Like a woman I must always add a P.S.

Something that has been worrying me demands utterance. A Paris correspondent of the _Tribune_, grossly misinformed, has written an error to that paper on "Lakme." "Lakme" may have been drawn from "Le Mariage de Loti,"--the weirdest and loveliest romance, to my notion, ever written;--but that novel has nothing to do with India or English officers. It is a novel of Polynesian life in Tahiti. It is unspeakably beautiful and unspeakably _odd_. I translated its finest pa.s.sages in a so-and-so way when it first came out, and won the good will of its clever author, Julien Viaud, who sent me his portrait and a very pretty letter. I have collected every sc.r.a.p "Loti" wrote, and translated many things: will send you a rough-and-ready translation from his new novel on Sunday. No writer ever had such an effect upon me; and time strengthens my admiration. I hold him the greatest of living writers of the Impressionist School; and still he is something more--he has a spirituality peculiarly his own, that reminds you a little of Coleridge.

I cannot even think of him without enthusiasm. Therefore I feel sorry to hear of him being misrepresented. He is a great musician in the folk-lore way, too; and in one of my letters to him I mentioned your name. Some day you might come together; and he could sing you all the Polynesian and African songs you want. He has lived in the Soudan. I sent you once a fragment by him upon those African improvisors, called Griots. If the _Tribune_ ever wants anything written about Loti, see if you can't persuade them to apply to me. I know all about his life and manners, and I would not ask any remuneration for so delightful a privilege as that of being able to do him justice in a great paper. His address is 141 Rue St. Pierre, Rochefort-sur-Mer. You might see him in Europe, perhaps.

LAFCADIO H.

TO H. E. KREHBIEL

NEW ORLEANS, October, 1886.

DEAR KREHBIEL,--While in hideous anxiety I await the decision of my future by various d.a.m.nably independent censors, I must seize the moment of leisure--the first calm after a prolonged storm of work--to chat with you awhile, and to thank you for your musical aid. Alden is, of course, deliberating over the "Legend of l'Ile Derniere;" Roberts Bros. are deliberating over "Chinese Ghosts;" I am also deliberating about a voyage to Havana, the Mystical Rose of a West Indian dawn--with palms shaking their plumes against the crimsoning. What are you deliberating about? Something that I shall be crazy to read, no doubt, and will have the delight of celebrating the appearance of in the editorial columns of the provincial _T.-D._! O that I were the directing spirit of some new periodical--backed by twenty million dollar publishing interests,--and devoted especially to the literary progression of the future,--the realization of a dream of poetical prose,--the evolution of the Gnosticism of the New Art! Then, wouldn't I have lots to say about The Musician,--_my_ musician,--and the Song of Songs that is to be!

For my own purpose now lieth naked before me, without shame. I suppose we all have a purpose, an involuntary goal, to which the Supreme Ghost, unknowingly to us, directs our way; and when we find we have accomplished what _we_ wished for, we also invariably find that we have travelled thither by a route very different from that which we laid out for ourselves, and toward a consummation not precisely that which we antic.i.p.ated--although pleasing enough. Well, you remember my ancient dream of a poetical prose,--compositions to satisfy an old Greek ear,--like chants wrought in a huge measure, wider than the widest line of a Sanscrit composition, and just a little irregular, like Ocean-rhythm. I really think I will be able to realize it at last. And then, what? I really don't know. I fancy that I shall have produced a pleasant effect on the reader's mind, simply with pictures; and that the secret work, the word-work, will not be noticed for its own sake. It will be simply an eccentricity for critics; an originality for those pleased by it--but I'm sure it will be grateful unto the _musical_ ear of H. E. K.!

Now I remember promising to write about going to New York.

Br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r!

'Tis winter. My lizard blood freezes at the thought. In my room it is 71: that is cold for us. New York in winter signifieth for such as me--Dissolution,--eternal darkness and worms. Transformation of physical and vital forces of L. H. into the forces of innumerable myriads of worms! "And though a man live many years, and rejoice in them all--yet let him remember the Days of Darkness,--for they shall be many!" No: March, April, or May! But you say,--"Then it will be the same old story, and seasons will cycle, and generations pa.s.s away, and yet he will not come." Yet there are symptoms of my coming: little spider-threads of literary weaving with New York are thickening. When the rope is strong, I can make my bridge.--Think of the trouble I would have with my $1800 of books, and all my other truck. Alas! I have an anchor!

My friend Matas has returned. He tells me delightful things about Spanish music, and plays for me. He also tells me much concerning Cuban and Mexican music. He says these have been very strongly affected by African influence--full of contretemps. He tried to explain about the accompaniments of Havanen and Mexican airs having peculiar interresemblances of a seemingly _dark_ origin--the ba.s.s goes all the time something like _Si, Mi, Si,--si, mi, si_. "See me?--see?" that's how I remembered it. But he has given me addresses, and I will be able to procure specimens.

Affectionately, LAFCADIO.

TO W. D. O'CONNOR

NEW ORLEANS, February, 1887.

DEAR O'CONNOR,--Please, if feeling free enough from other and more important labours, write to me, let me have a few lines from you--telling me how you are, and how the years pa.s.s.

With me they have been somewhat uneventful--except, indeed, that your wish to see me succeed with the Harpers has been realized: I have become a contributor to the _Magazine_, and am going to have the honour of a short sketch of myself in it,--of course, in connection with the New Southern Literary Movement. And I will also soon have the pleasure of sending you a new production, just got, or getting out by a Boston house,--my "Chinese Ghosts;" brief studies in poetical prose, if you like. They may amuse you in a leisure moment.

I am soon going to run away to Florida, and perhaps the West Indies, for a romantic trip--a small literary bee in search of inspiring honey.

There is a good market for books on Florida; and I may be able to get one out this next winter. You will like my sketch in _Harper's_ when it appears, as it deals with topics in which you are directly interested professionally,--Gulf-coasts and shifting dunes, sands, winds and tides, storms, and valiant saving of life. I think I am beginning to learn how to do good work.

I trust you are feeling strong and hearty. Last time you wrote me you were quite ill.

How delightful it would be if you could take a trip with me in March, to the Floridian springs, to windy Key West, or to the palmier Antilles, where we might watch together the rose-blossoming of extraordinary sunrises, the conflagration of apocalyptic sunsets. Is it impossible? My dreams now are full of fantastic light--a Biblical light: and the World-Ghost, all blue, promises inspiration. Could we not celebrate the Blue Ghost's pentecost together?

Affectionately, LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO W. D. O'CONNOR

NEW ORLEANS, March, 1887.

DEAR O'CONNOR,--I was sincerely pained to hear of your illness; and reading your long, kind, affectionate letter, felt that I had, without intending it, strained your generosity by causing you to write so much while ill. Not that your letter was wanting in any of those splendid and unique qualities which, I think, make you unrivalled as a letter-writer; but that, having been once severely shocked by overwork myself, I am fully aware how much it costs to write a long letter when the nervous system flags. In sending you this tiny book, I only desire to amuse you in leisure moments when you might feel inclined to read it;--don't think I want you to write me about it; for if you were to write again before you get quite strong you would pain me....

I find I will have to go to the West Indies by way of New York;--at first I intended to go through lower Florida, and take a steamer at Key West for Havana. But I would have to change vessels so many times, I thought it best to get a New York steamer for Trinidad. In Trinidad I can see South American flora in all their splendour; in Jamaica and, especially, Martinique, I can get good chances to study those Creole types which are so closely allied to our own. I want to finish a tiny volume of notes of travel--Impressionist-work,--always keeping to my dream of a _poetical prose_.

But I feel you will have to make some new departure in your own work at Washington: so terrible a mill as they have there for grinding minds, frightens me! I used to think Government positions were facile to fill, and exacted less than ordinary professions in private life. I see such is not the case; and I hope you will be prudent, and not return to the same exacting duties again--_enemigo reconciliado, enemigo doblado_. My own sad experience at journalistic work, which broke me down, did me great good: it rendered it out of the question ever to put myself in a similar situation, and instead of the old loss of liberty I found leisure to study, to dream a little, to conceive an ambition which I now hope to fulfil in the course of a few years, if I live. Out of the misfortune, good came to me; and I notice that Nature is really very kind when we obey her;--she gives back more than she takes away, she lessens energies to increase mental powers of a.s.similation; she compels recognition, like the G.o.d of Job "who maketh silence in the high places," and after having taught us what we _cannot_ do, then returns to us a hundredfold that which she first took away. This is just what she will do for you; and I even hope the day will come when you will feel quite glad that you did overwork yourself a little, because the result turned the splendid stream of your mind into a broader channel of daily action, not confined within boundaries of hewn stone, but shadowed by odorous woods, and swept by free winds, and changing under the pressure of the will-current.

I want you to feel full of cheer and faith in this dear Nature of ours, who is certain to make you strong and lucky,--if you don't go back to that horrid brain-mill in the Capital.

I will write you a little while I am gone,--if I can find a little strange bit of tropical colour to spread on the paper,--like the fine jewel-dust of scintillant moth-wings.

Believe me, with sincerest wishes and regards,

Affectionately, LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO H. E. KREHBIEL

NEW ORLEANS, 1887.

DEAR KREHBIEL,--Your letter contained a cutting truth,--"This is not a country to dream in; but to get rich or go to the poorhouse." Still, O golden-haired musician, is it not a crime to stifle the aspirations toward the beautiful which strive to burn upon the altar of every generous heart? Why not aim to kindle the holy fire, in spite of harsh realities and rains of Disappointment?

If you have written any pretty things recently let me see a copy soon as possible.

Don't forget me altogether. It will be best to address me at post-office.

A gentleman lent me a bundle of Creole music yesterday. I could not copy it; the writing was too funny; but he is going to have it copied in order to send it to you.

Very truly yours, LAFCADIO HEARN.

_Afterthought!_--It has just occurred to me to ask if you are familiar with Lissajous' experiments. I know nothing about them except what I found in Flammarion's great "Astronomie Populaire." One extraordinary chapter on numbers gives diagrams of the vibrations of harmonics--showing their singular relation to the geometrical designs of crystal-formation;--and the chapter is aptly closed by the Pythagorean quotation: ?e? ? Te?? ?e?et?e?.--"G.o.d _geometrizes_ everywhere."... I should imagine that the geometry of a fine opera would--were the vibrations outlined in similar fashion--offer a network of designs which for intricate beauty would double discount the arabesque of the Alhambra. I was reading in an article on Bizet not long ago that music has ceased to be an art and has become a _science_--in which event it must have a _mathematical_ future!... Probably all this is old to you; but it produced such an impression upon me when I first saw it, that I believe its mention won't tire you anyhow. And then, between friends, it is a pleasure to exchange thoughts even of the most hyperbolical, and, perhaps, useless description.

L. H.

I send specimen music choral dance of Greek women in Megara. It is called _La Trata_, and was first published in Bourgault-Ducoudray's "Souvenirs d'une mission musicale en Grece;"--I took mine from _Melusine_. The dance is very peculiar, and is supposed to have been danced in antique times at the festival of Neptune or Poseidon. The women form a chain, by so interlacing their hands that across each woman's breast the hands of those on either side of her are clasped. The dancers move forward and retreat in file,--as if pulling _nets_. Ancient tomb-paintings show it was known in early Roman times also;--might not the music be as old as the dance,--as old as Phidias anyhow?... I suppose this is absurd, but wish it wasn't.

TO H. E. KREHBIEL

NEW ORLEANS, 1887.

DEAR KREHBIEL,--Excuses for silence between us are, I fancy, recognized as unnecessary, since they always have a good cause. I read with admiration and pleasure the fine critiques you were kind enough to send me; and I verily believe that you will be recognized sooner or later, if you are not already, as the best musical critic in the United States. Of course, I'm talking now on a subject I know little about; yet, if there be any superior to you, I am sure it is only that, being much older than you, they may have had a generation longer of opportunities for study.

My little book is advancing; and I am now face to face with what I recognize as one of the most awful situations in life, the criticism of the proof-reader. I don't mean the commonplace proof-reader, who is a mere printer; but the terrible scholar who supervises proofs for a leading cla.s.s of publishers, such as the man of the University or Riverside Press, who knows all rules of grammar, all laws of form, all the weaknesses of writers,--and whose frightful suggestions are often simply crushing! What you have spent a month in making a beauty-blossom of style, may suddenly fade into worthless dust at one touch of his terrific pencil, making the simple hook-mark "?". I can imagine I hear a voice asking: "Do you desire to make a fool of yourself by having this line in print?" And then the after-thoughts, the premature hurrying away of proofs, the frantic rush to the telegraph-office to have them returned or corrected, the humble letters of apology for trouble given, the yells of anguish in bed at night when I think to myself, "Oh! what a d--d a.s.s I have been!" I have been now three times in front of this awful man, and like the angels he is without wrath and wholly without pity.

Your query about an opera-subject which suggested my lines about Rabyah, also inspired me to make the story a poetical sketch in my best style, which I sent to _Harper's Bazar_; and perhaps, when you read it, you will think again more favourably about the theme. I am going one of these days to make a study on the romance of Rabyah's courtship and marriage, which is very pretty in the rendering of the old Arabian chronicles. I understand exactly what you want; but not having any accurate idea of stage-necessities and theatrical exigencies, I fear you must always remain the one to determine the worth of any operatic suggestion possible to make. Now, for example, I can't understand why Rabyah's death could not be _mounted_, etc. You will like the _colour_ of my sketch for the _Bazar_, to which I gave the t.i.tle of "Rabyah's Last Ride." I have adopted the Arabic names, in preference to Lyall's or Muir's, unp.r.o.nounceable at sight.--It seems to me that you can devise a splendid piece of gloomy beauty from the "Kalewala."

I am going to the West Indies as soon as my book is out. It will be a tiny 16mo, with Chinese figures.

Believe me always your warmest friend,