Mr. Katayama--dear Mr. Katayama--wrote a charming little poem. I am going to have a large copy made of it, and have it mounted as a little _kakemono_, for a souvenir. I love all these funny little things: they are the real j.a.pan--the humour and the kindness and the grace of it. As for the so-called New j.a.pan,--with its appearance of Occidentalism, and its utter loss of the old poetry and the old courtesy--well, however necessary it may be, it is certainly as much of a moral loss as it is a material advance. I wish I could live somewhere out of the sight and the sound of all that is new.

I had a letter from Ochiai, which I shall answer in a day or so;--for the moment I am behind with all my correspondence. What can be the matter with the lad? He did not tell me the nature of his sickness.

I am really sorry for him. Strangely enough, on the very same day, I had a letter from one of the cleverest of the k.u.mamoto students, who seemed a tower of strength, but who has broken down after a year at the university. Some students I liked have gone mad; numbers have died; numbers have had to give up. The strain is too great because the hardship is too great,--the cold, the poor cheap food, the poor thin clothes. "Hardy" the lads claim to be. So naturally they are--much hardier than Europeans in certain respects. But some knowledge of physiology seems to be needed in Government schools. No man--however strong--can keep hardy while the heavy strain of study is unsupported by good living. I think most of the lads I know who died or went mad would never have even fallen sick if they had had only hard physical labour. Physical labour is not dangerous, but strengthening. And in the Government schools there is no feeling for the lads: everybody has to do the best he can for himself. Those who do get through the mill are not always the best--though they may be the strongest.

Ever, with best regards of all of us, LAFCADIO HEARN (KOIZUMI YAk.u.mO).

TO PAGE M. BAKER

KOBE, March, 1896.

DEAR PAGE,--I have your exquisite photo of Constance--like a bit of marble it is.... And I have your letter--a very dear letter, though--excuse me--I cannot help hating the typewriter!

I have been very sick with inflammation of the lungs, and unable to move until recently. But I shall soon, I hope, be able to send you something....

About my name. Koizumi is a family name: I take my wife's name as her husband by adoption--the only way in which I could become a j.a.panese citizen. Koizumi means "little spring" or "little source."

The other name means "many clouds," and is an alternate poetical name for Izumo, the "Place of the Issuing of Clouds." For I became a citizen of the province of Izumo, where I am officially registered. The word is also the first word of the most ancient poem in the j.a.panese language--referring to a legend of the sacred records. _Please do not publish this!_ it is a little private matter, and the whole explanation, though read at a glance by a j.a.panese, would require many pages to make clear. As to your other question, I always wear the j.a.panese dress at home or in the interior. In Kobe or the large cities I wear Western clothes when I go on the street; because it does not do there for a man with a long nose to be too "j.a.panesey"--there has been a surplus of "j.a.panesey" display on the part of foreigners of the jocose cla.s.s. I am j.a.panese only among j.a.panese....

And you have been very sick too. Do you know that I am often worried by the fear that one of us might die before we meet again? I very often think about you. Please take every care of yourself,--all the outing you can. I think, though, you are a long-lived tough race--you Bakers; and that Page M. Baker will be writing some day an obituary of Lafcadio Hearn that was,--with many pleasant observations which the said Lafcadio never deserved and never will deserve.

You think I am misanthropic--no, not exactly; but I do feel an intense hatred for the business cla.s.s of Northern mankind. You know I never could learn much about them till I was a.s.s enough to go North.... And you will remember that settled dislikes or likes come to this creature at intervals--never thereafter to depart. My last horror--one that I can scarcely bear--is what is called "business correspondence." That is why I say that I dislike the sight of typewriting--though I a.s.sure you, dear Page, I am glad to get a line from you written or printed in any way, shape, or form.

Ghosts! After getting your letter last night I dreamed. Do you remember that splendid Creole who used to be your city editor--whose voice seemed to come up from a well, a lover of music and poetry and everything nice? John----? Is it not a sin that I have forgotten his name? Next to yourself I see him, however, more distinctly than any other figure of the old days. He recited "The Portrait" of Owen Meredith in that caressing abysmal voice of his. Last night I was talking to him. He sat in a big chair in the old office, and told me wonderful things,--which I could not recall on waking; but I was vaguely annoyed by the fact that he "avoided the point." So I interrupted, and said: "But you do not tell me--you are dead--is there ..." I only remember saying that. Then the light in his eyes went out, and there was nothing. I woke up in the dark and wondered.

For six years in j.a.pan I have been walking up and down--over matted floors--by myself, just as I used to do in that room you wrote me from.

Curiously, my little boy has the same habit. It is very difficult to make him keep still at meal-time. He likes to take a nibble or sup of something, then walk up and down, or run, then another nibble, etc.--I hope the G.o.ds will save him from adopting other former habits of mine, which are less innocent, when he grows up:--for example, if he should take a foolish fancy to every damozel in his path. However, I expect that his mother's strong common-sense, which he seems to inherit, will counterbalance the fantasticalities bequeathed him by me.... It has only been since his entrance into this world that I fully realize what a "disgraceful person" I used to be.

I live pretty much alone--have no foreign friends and very few j.a.panese friends outside of my family, which numbers, however, a good many dear souls. How isolated I have managed to be you can imagine from the fact that sometimes for months no one sees me except home-folks. I work when I can; and when I cannot I bury myself in studies--philosophical studies: you can scarcely believe how they interest me now, and I find worlds of inspiration in them--new perceptions of commonplace fact. I try not to worry, and let things take their course. Probably next year I shall be leading a busier life; but I don't know whether j.a.panese officialism can be endured for any great length of time. I had one dose of it too much already. The people are the best in the world; the military and naval men are _men_, and generally _braves garcons_....

The old men are divine: I do not know any other word to express what they are. When you meet a horrid j.a.panese, though, there is a distorted quality about him that makes him a unique monster--he is like an awry caricature of a Western mean fellow, without the vim and push--solid contemptibility _in petto_. You can scarcely imagine what he may be.

Every transition period has its peculiar monsters.

I wonder, wonder, wonder whether I shall see you again,--and walk up and down on that cocoanut matting,--and make noises through the speaking-tube leading to the composing-room. Perhaps I could make some sketches of American life better now--after having looked back at it from this distance of eight thousand odd miles....

LAFCADIO HEARN (Y. KOIZUMI).

TO SENTARO NISHIDA

KOBE, April, 1896.

DEAR NISHIDA,--It made me happy to get your letter, and to hear from you that you think I am beginning to understand the j.a.panese a little better. My other books have had success in Europe as well as America;--the leading French review (_Revue des Deux Mondes_) had a long article about me; and the _Spectator_, the _Athenaeum_, the _Times_ and other English journals have been kind. Still, I am not foolish enough to take the praise for praise of fact,--feeling my own ignorance more and more every day, and being more pleased with the approval of a j.a.panese friend than with the verdict of a foreign reviewer, who, necessarily, knows nothing to speak of about j.a.pan. But one thing _is_ encouraging,--namely, that whatever I write about j.a.pan hereafter will be widely read in Europe and elsewhere,--so that I may be able to do good. My first book is being translated into German.

I got a beautiful letter from Mr. Senke the other day, to which he has, I trust, by this time the answer,--in which I told him that I hope to see Matsue and Kizuki again in about another month. Setsu, mother, and the boy come with me. Kazuo is now much better--except morally;--he is more mischievous than ever. I want him to have as much of the sea this summer as he can bear. And I want to swim at Kizuki and Mionoseki, and to talk to you all I can--without tiring you.

I have been away. I have been at Ise, Futami, and nearly a week in Osaka. Ise disappointed me a little. The scenery is superb; but I like Kizuki better. At Ise there is so much money,--such enormous hotels,--such modernization: the place did not _feel_ holy to me, as Kizuki did. Even the _miko_ won't show their faces for less than five yen. Besides, it was bitterly cold, and hurt my lungs. I came back sick.

Osaka delighted me beyond words. Excepting Kyoto, it is certainly the most interesting city on this side of j.a.pan. And I could never tell you how Tennoji delighted me--what a queer, dear old temple.

I went to Sakai, of course,--and bought a sword, and saw the grave of the eleven samurai of Tosa who had to commit _seppuku_ for killing some foreigners,--and told them I wished they could come back again to kill a few more who are writing extraordinary lies about j.a.pan at this present moment. I would rather live a month in Osaka than ten years free of rent in Tokyo.

Speaking of Tokyo reminds me to tell you that my engagement with the university is not yet a.s.sured. Day before yesterday I had a letter from Professor Toyama that my becoming a j.a.panese citizen had raised a difficulty "which," he wrote, "we must manage to get over somehow."

I wrote him that I was not worried about the matter, and had never allowed myself to consider it very seriously,--hinting also that I would not accept any low salary. What he will next write I don't know, and don't very much care. If Matsue were a little warmer in winter I should rather be teaching there. Indeed I think that even after a few years in Tokyo, I should be asking to get back to Matsue; and in any event I hope to make a home there. If I can get such a _yashiki_ as I had--I mean buy one for my own home--Matsue would be a very happy place to work and study in. Besides, if my health keeps fair, I can hope eventually to be able to travel in the coldest winter months, and then the Matsue climate would make no difference for me. In summer it is delicious. Even Setsu now thinks it better to live in the interior; and I shall be glad to escape from the open ports. I have seen enough of the foreigners here, and like them less than ever.

I should certainly like Mr. Asai very much, from your charming account of him; and, at any rate, I expect to see both you and him within forty days from this writing. If you think he would like a copy of "Kokoro" it will make me very happy to send him one. As he has studied philosophy, however, I don't know what he will think of the chapters on the Idea of Preexistence and the Worship of Ancestors. You know the school of thought that I follow is bitterly opposed; and I believe it is not honestly taught in any English establishment. In one or two American universities it is partly taught; but only the French have given it really fair attention abroad.

LAFCADIO HEARN (Y. KOIZUMI).

P. S. It made me feel queer to be addressed by Prof. Toyama as "Mr.

Yak.u.mo Koizumi"!

TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK

TOKYO, May, 1896.

DEAR HENDRICK,-- ... Somebody (who, I do not know) has been sending me books. Did you send me a book by Richard LeGallienne? I thought Mrs.

Rollins had sent it, and I wrote to her nice things about it, which vexed her into sending me a very sharp criticism of it (she _is_ a critic), and proving me to have praised a worthless book out of liking for the sender! Where am I? I am certainly wrong. I did think the book nice because of my belief that she sent it; and I am now equally convinced that it isn't nice at all, because she proved that it was not. I should certainly make a bad critic if I were acquainted with authors and their friends. One sees what does not exist wherever one loves or hates. As I am rather a creature of extremes, I should be an extremely crooked-visioned judge of work. I have not tried to answer Mrs. Rollins's letter--fact is, I _can't_.

No: the head on the t.i.tle-page of "Kokoro" is not Kazuo, but the head of a little boy called Takaki. The photograph was soft and beautiful, and showed an uncommonly intellectual type of j.a.panese head. The woodcut is rather coa.r.s.e and hard.--But I enclose a third edition of Kazuo: he is growing a little better-looking, but is not so strong as I could wish; and he is so sensitive that I am very much worried about his future. Physical pain he bears well enough; but a mere look, a careless word, a moment of unconscious indifference is fire to his little soul. I don't know what to do with him. If he shows the artistic temperament I shall try to educate him in Italy or France. With an emotional nature one is happier among Latins. I confess that I can only bear the uncommon types of Englishmen, Germans, and Americans,--the conventional types simply drive me wild. On the other hand, I can feel at home with even a villain, if he be Spaniard, Italian, or French.

According to evolutionary doctrine, however, it seems not unlikely that the Latin races will be squeezed out of existence in the future pressure of civilization. They cannot hold their own against the superior ma.s.siveness of the Northern races,--who, unfortunately, have no art-feeling at all. They will be absorbed, I suppose. In the industrial invasion of the barbarians, the men will be quietly starved to death, and the women taken by the conquerors. History will repeat itself without blood and shrieks.

What is the present matter with American civilization? Nearly all the clever American authors seem to be women, and most of them have to go "out of town" for their studies of life. American city-life seems to wither and burn up everything. There is something of the same sort noticeable in England--the authors have to go out of England. Of course, there are some great exceptions--like James and Mallock. But how many great writers deal with civilized life as it is? They go to the Highlands, like Black and Barrie,--or to Italy, like Crawford,--or to strange countries, like Kipling;--but who to-day would write "A London Romance"? This brings up another question. What is the meaning of English literary superiority? It is all very well to howl about the copyright question, and the shameful treatment of American authors; but what American authors have we to compare with the English? Excepting women like Mrs. Deland and Miss Jewett and Mrs. Phelps, etc.,--what American writers can touch English methods? James is certainly our best;--so London steals him; but he stands alone. America has no one like a dozen,--nay, a score of English writers that might be named.

It certainly is not a question of remuneration; for real high ability is always sooner or later able to get all it asks for. It must be an effect of American city-life, and American training, and American environment;--perhaps over-education has something to do with it.

Again--English work is so ma.s.sive--even at its worst: the effort made is always so much _larger_. Perhaps we do things too _fast_. The English are slow and exact. I am told that the other Northern races are still somewhat behind--always excepting great Russia. But in the France of 1896, what is doing? The greatest writers of the age are dead or silent.

Is not our horrible compet.i.tive civilization at last going to choke all aspirational life into silence? After the Du Maurier school, what will even England be able to do? Alfred Austin after Alfred Tennyson!

These are my thoughts sometimes;--then, again, I think of a possible new idealism,--a new prodigious burst of faith and pa.s.sion and song greater than anything Victorian;--and I remember that all progress is rhythmical. But if this comes, it will be only, I fear, after we have been dust for a century.

I feel this is an awfully stupid letter. But I'll write a better one soon. My best wishes for your big, big, _big_ success. They will be realized, I think.

Ever affectionately, LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK

MIONOSEKI, IZUMO, July, 1896.

DEAR HENDRICK,--I have just had a most delightful letter from you. Your letters are full of witty flashes and curious observation. As they contain personal portraits, I make it a duty to burn them; but I regret it--like a destruction of the artistic. The rapid sketches they give of the most extraordinary bits of character, in the midst of the most extraordinary and complicated life of the century, are such as only one having your own most peculiar opportunities could make.

Do you ever reflect how much more of life you are able to see in one month than the ordinary mortal in twenty-five years? You belong to a purely modern school of travelling observers. Fifty years ago such experiences were not possible--at least upon any scale to speak of.

But why is it that the most extraordinary experiences of business men are never written? Is it because, like the scholarly specialist who knows too much about literature to make any literature, they see too much of the wonderful to feel it? The astounding for others is for them the commonplace,--perhaps. Or perhaps they are not sympathetic like your friend Macy,--have no inclination to apply the philosophy of relations to what they see and study?

I have been sick--eyes and lungs;--and now I am in an Izumo fishing-village to recruit. I swim in the harbour every day for about five hours, and am burnt all over in all colours, and getting thinner and stronger. There are no tables here, and I have to write on the floor.

With best love and felicitations, LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO SENTARO NISHIDA