TOKYO, November, 1898.

DEAR MRS. FENOLLOSA,--I see that my little word "sympathy"--used, of course, in the fine French sense of fellow-feeling in matters _not_ of the common--was as true as I could wish it....

_I_ am the one now to give thanks,--and very earnest thanks; for I confess that I felt a little nervous about your opinion. Independently of the personal quality which makes it so precious for me, I believe that it must represent, in a general way, the opinion of a number of cultured ladies whom I never have seen, and never shall see, but who are much more important as critics than any editors,--for they _make_ opinion, not in newspapers or magazines, but in social circles. And I was a little bit afraid of my new venture in "Retrospectives." I picked out the little piece sent you, because it had a j.a.panese subject as a hanging-peg,--so that I thought you and the professor would feel more inclined to take the trouble of reading it....

Well, you are one of my Rewards in this world: I don't know that I can expect any better return than your letter for a year's work on a book,--and I certainly do not want anything better. In this particular case too, with a new venture, encouragement is positively a benefit as well as a pleasure. In other cases, it might make me too well satisfied with my work, and tempt me to be careless, or at least less careful....

I see Mr. Edwards has gone; and I am sorry to think that I may never see him again,--for he is in every way a man and a gentleman. Probably we shall have a book from him some day; and it will not be a common book, for that man is incapable of the _common_: he will think hard, work solidly, and put his own square-set Oxford self into every thought. It will certainly be interesting.

My best thanks for that volume of Watson.... I have a very strong liking for Watson; and there are bits in that book of delightful worth. I shall venture to impose on your good nature by keeping it just a "weeny" bit longer,--to copy a verse or two.

I sprained my foot nearly two weeks ago, and after a week in bed and bandages, managed to hobble around the university again, but I am now all over the main trouble. Tokyo roads are dangerous after dark sometimes. The enforced homeing, however, did me good; for my next book is almost ready for the publisher.

And now that you understand my wishes to try to do something new--at least understand them well enough to write me so very pleasant a letter,--I am sure you won't think me too selfish for being so rare a visitor. I am like a setting hen,--afraid to leave my eggs till the hatching is done and the sh.e.l.ls are broken. With all best wishes and thanks,

Very truly yours, LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MITCh.e.l.l McDONALD

TOKYO, November, 1898.

DEAR McDONALD,--I have your precious letter. It came all right. I am very glad that I was mistaken about the registry-business being neglected--but I thought it my duty to make the remark. As one of my students says: "A friend is a man to whom you can tell all your _suspicions_."

Now I am going to tell you something much more than "suspicions." I think it time;--and I want you to listen, and to think over it.

You do not understand my situation.

One reason that you do not understand is because you are a bachelor. Another reason is because you are a naval officer _and_ a bachelor,--consequently to a considerable degree independent of social conventions of the smaller and meaner kind.

I am in a somewhat critical position and time. Don't make any mistake about it. Small as I am, I have mountains to lift; and if you do not realize it, you cannot help it, but can only get your fingers crushed.

Only your fingers--mind! but that will hurt more than you think.

Here is my fix: I have "down upon me"--

I. Society. Civilized society conspires to starve certain men to death.

It must do so in self-defence. There _are_ privileged men; I may become one yet.

II. I have down on me the Church. By Church, you must not think of the Roman, Greek, Episcopalian, etc., persuasions,--but all Christendom supporting missionary societies, and opposing free-thinking in every shape. Do not be deceived by a few kindly notes about my work from religious sources. They are genuine,--but they signify absolutely nothing against the great dead weight of more orthodox opinion. As Professor Huxley says, no man can tell the force of a belief until he has had the experience of fighting it. Good! Church and Society together are pretty vigorous, you will acknowledge.

III. The English and American Press in combination,--the press that represents critical opinion in London as well as in New York. Don't mistake the meaning of notices. All, or nearly all, are managed by the publishers. The policy is to praise the work--because that brings advertis.e.m.e.nts. Society, Church, Press--that means a big combination, rather. On my side I have a brave American naval officer--and the present good will of the j.a.panese Government, which has been vaguely aware that my books have been doing some good.

Now you may say, "How important the little mite thinks himself,--the cynosure of the world!" But that would be hasty thinking. I am pretty much in the position of a book-keeper known to have once embezzled, or of a man who has been in prison, or of a prost.i.tute who has been on the street. These are, none of them, you will confess, _important_ persons. But what keeps them in their holes? Society, Church, and public opinion--the Press. No man is too small to get the whole world's attention _if_ he does certain things. Talent signifies nothing. Talent starves in the streets, and dies in the ginhouse. Talent helps no one not in some way independent of society. _Temporarily_, I _am_ thus independent.

At this moment the pressure is very heavy--perhaps never will be much heavier. Why? Because I have excited some attention,--because there is a danger that I might succeed. You must not think I mean that everybody in general, or anybody in special, _thinks out these thoughts_. Not at all.

Society, Church, and Press work blindly, instinctively,--like machinery set in motion to keep a level smooth. The machinery feels the least projection, and tries to flatten it out of existence,--without even considering what it may be. Diamond or dung makes no difference.

But if the obstruction prove _too_ hard, it is lifted out of the way of the machinery. That is where my one chance lies--in making something solid that forces this kind of attention.

You might ask me, if I think thus, why dedicate a book to our friend the doctor? That is a different matter. My literary work _cannot_ be snubbed; and it goes into drawing-rooms where the author would be snubbed. Besides, a doctor can accept what other people can't.

You see that there are many who come to j.a.pan that want to see me; and you think this is a proof of kindly interest. Not a bit of it. It is precisely the same kind of curiosity that impels men to look at strange animals,--a six-legged calf, for instance. The interest in the book is in some cases genuine; the interest in the personality is of the New York _Police Gazette_ quality. Don't think I am exaggerating. When I get my fingers caught in the cogs, I can feel it.

So much for the ugly side of the question. Let us take the cheerful one.

_Every_ man who has new ideas to express, at variance with the habits of his time, _has to meet the same sort of opposition_. It is valuable to him. It is valuable _to the world at large_. Weakness can't work or burst through it. Only strength can succeed. The man who does get through has a right to be proud, and to say: "I am strong." With health and time, I shall get through,--but I do feel afraid sometimes of physical disaster. Of course I have black moments; but they are also foolish moments--due to disordered nerves. I must just hammer on steadily and let money quarrels go to the deuce, and sacrifice everything to success. When you are in the United States you may be able to help me with the business part of the thing--providing that you understand exactly the circ.u.mstances, and don't imagine me to be a possible Kipling or Stevenson. Not only am I a mere mite in literature, but a mite that has to be put forward very, very cautiously indeed.

"Overestimate" me! well, I should rather say you did.

And now we'll leave theory for practice. I don't think you can do anything now--anything at all. You _might_--but the chances are not worth taking. You will be surprised to hear, I fancy, that the author must see his proofs--not for the purpose of a.s.suring himself that the text is according to the copy, but for the purpose of making it _different_ from the MS. Very few writers can perfect their work in MS.; they cannot see the _colour_ and line of it, till it gets into type. When a statue is cast, it is cast exactly according to the mould, and shows the lines of the mould, which have to be removed: then the polishing is done, and the last touches are given. Very slight work--but everything depends upon it. So with artistic writing. It is by changes in the printed form that the final effect is obtained. Exactness according to the MS. means nothing at all; that is only the casting,--a matter of course; and another man can no more look after your proofs than he can put on your hat. Did you ever try the experiment of letting a friend try to fit your hat comfortably on your own head? It can't be done.

Health is good; sprain about well; book nearly through--sixteen chapters written. Only, the flavour is not yet quite right.

Finally, dear friend, don't think, because I write this letter, that I am very blue, or despondent, or anything of that sort. I am feeling to-day unusually well,--and remember something said to me ten years ago by a lady who at once detested me after our introduction. She said: "A man with a nose like you should not worry about the future--he will _bore_ his way through the world." I trust in my nose. With true love to you,

LAFCADIO.

TO MITCh.e.l.l McDONALD

TOKYO, December, 1898.

DEAR McDONALD,--I am very, very sorry that you had that accident,--and I fear that you are worse off than you let me know. I must get down to-morrow (Sat.u.r.day), and see how you are--though I fear I can do no more than chatter to you like an _usots'ki_. Well, we've both had accidents lately--my foot isn't quite well yet. We must have extra good luck to make up for these mishaps.

Yes, I should be glad to know your friend Bedloe,--or any of your naval friends: they are _men_ as well as gentlemen, and I feel quite at home with them.

Ah! I had almost forgotten. I _have_ Kipling's "Day's Work" already.

It is great--very great. Don't mistake him, even if he seems too colloquial at times. He is the greatest living English poet and English story-teller. Never in this world will I be able to write one page to compare with a page of his. He makes me feel so small, that after reading him I wonder why I am such an a.s.s as to write at all. Love to you, all the same, for thinking of me in that connection.

Term's over--all but a beastly "dinner." D--n dinners! I'll _see_ you presently.

LAFCADIO.

TO MITCh.e.l.l McDONALD

TOKYO, December, 1898.

DEAR McDONALD,--Do you know we talked uninterruptedly the other day for ten hours,--for the period that people are wont to qualify when speaking of the enormity of time as "ten _mortal_ hours"? What a pity that they could not be made _im_mortal! They will be always with me,--though I really fear that I must have tired you, in spite of protests. Every time I can get such a chat with you, you become much dearer to me--so that I really cannot feel as sorry as I ought for keeping you engaged that long.

Well, I don't quite know what I shall do about the "Ghostly j.a.pan." I shall think a little longer. My duty, I feel, is to sacrifice it: only I don't want to have any tricks played upon me,--just because tricks annoy. Nevertheless I ought to accept the annoyance cheerfully: it is part of the price one must pay for success. Huxley says that one of the things most important for anybody to learn is that a heavy price must be paid for success.

I got a letter from a Yale lad, which I enclose, and a magazine which I am sending you. The wish is for an autograph; but there the case is meritorious and I want the sympathy of boys like that--who must be the writers and thinkers of 1900. So I wrote him as kind a letter as I could,--a.s.suring him, however, that I am not a Buddhist, but still a follower of Herbert Spencer. It is a nice little magazine. I suppose that H. M. & Co.'s advertis.e.m.e.nt had something to do with the matter; but from the business point of view, it is an excellent idea to try to work a book through the universities. Those lads are thinkers in their own way. See the poem on page 90,--also on page 83: both show thinking.

I ventured to advise the writer of "Body and Soul" to make a new construction of the thought. The conditions might be reversed. First the man is the body; the woman the soul. But the woman's soul is withered up by the act of the man; and the body only remains. Then the man gets sorry, and gets a soul through the sorrow of the wrong that he has done.

Then _she_ becomes the Flesh, and _he_ the Ghost. I did not explain all this--only suggested it. A case of vicarious sacrifice. How many women have to lose their own souls in order to give souls to somebody else!

Wish I was with you to-day, and to-morrow, and many days in succession.

But if we have plum pudding every day--! I mean not _you_ by the plum pudding, but the circ.u.mstantial combination. I wanted to say that pleasure spoils the soul for working purposes,--but I am afraid to attempt to carry the simile further, lest you should turn it round, and hit me with it. I shall see you erelong, anyhow.