Affectionately, LAFCADIO.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MR. HEARN'S LATER HANDWRITING]

TO MITCh.e.l.l McDONALD

TOKYO, December, 1898.

DEAR FRIEND,--"I've gone and been and _done_ it." This wise:--You see I kept thinking about things--discounts and money-profits and bargains, and publishers playing into each other's hands,--and the possible worthlessness of the work,--and the necessity of improving it much more before insisting upon high prices,--and the wisdom of recopying half of it,--and the risks of shipment and shipwreck and fire and dishonest post-office clerks--till I got nearly crazy! If I listened much more to the echoes of your suggestions and advice, I should have gone _absolutely_ crazy. Therefore in fifteen minutes I had the whole thing perfectly packed and labelled and addressed in various languages, and shot eastward by doubly-registered letter--dedicated to Mrs. Behrens, but entrusted largely to the G.o.ds. And to save myself further trouble of mind, I told the publishers just to do whatever they pleased about terms--and not to worry me concerning them. And I feel like a man liberated from prison,--smelling the perfumed air of a perfect spring day. "Ghostly j.a.pan" will concern me no more--unless the ship is wrecked, or the ma.n.u.script lost in some way: which must not be thought about. The book is gone, and the ill.u.s.trations go by next mail. Pray to the G.o.ds for the book--that's all that we can do now.

I hope the foot is not any worse. You are an impatient boy, too, you know--when it comes to sitting still, instead of rushing things. Please take all good care of yourself till I run down, which will be very soon.

Affectionately, LAFCADIO.

TO ERNEST FENOLLOSA

TOKYO, December, 1898.

MY DEAR PROFESSOR,--I have been meditating, and after the meditation I came to the conclusion not to visit your charming new home again--not at least before the year 1900. I suppose that I am a beast and an ape; but I nevertheless hope to make you understand.

The situation makes me think of Beranger's burthen,--_Vive nos amis les ennemis!_ My friends are much more dangerous than my enemies. These latter--with infinite subtlety--spin webs to keep me out of places where I hate to go,--and tell stories of me to people whom it would be vanity and vexation to meet;--and they help me so much by their unconscious aid that I almost love them. They help me to maintain the isolation indispensable to quiet regularity of work, and the solitude which is absolutely essential to thinking upon such subjects as I am now engaged on. Blessed be my enemies, and forever honoured all them that hate me!

But my friends!--ah! my friends! They speak so beautifully of my work; they _believe_ in it; they say they want more of it,--and yet they would destroy it! They do not know what it costs,--and they would break the wings and scatter the feather-dust, even as the child that only wanted to caress the b.u.t.terfly. And they speak of communion and converse and sympathy and friendship,--all of which are indeed precious things to others, but mortally deadly to me,--representing the breaking-up of habits of industry, and the sin of disobedience to the Holy Ghost,--against whom sin shall not be forgiven,--either in this life, or in the life to come.

And they say,--Only a day,--just an afternoon or an evening. But _each_ of them says this thing. And the sum of the days in these holidays--the days inevitable--are somewhat more than a week in addition. A week of work dropped forever into the Abyss of what might-have-been! Therefore I wish rather that I were lost upon the mountains, or cast away upon a rock, than in this alarming city of Tokyo,--where a visit, and the forced labour of the university, are made by distance even as one and the same thing.

Now if I were to go down to your delightful little house, with my boy,--and see him kindly treated,--and chat with you about eternal things,--and yield to the charm of old days (when I must confess that you fascinated me not a little),--there is no saying what the consequences to me might eventually become. Alas! I can afford friends only on paper,--I can occasionally write,--I can get letters that give me joy; but visiting is out of the possible. I must not even _think_ about other people's kind words and kind faces, but work,--work,--work,--while the Scythe is sharpening within vision.

Blessed again, I say, are those that don't like me, for they do not fill my memory with thoughts and wishes contrary to the purpose of the aeons and the Eternities!

When a day pa.s.ses in which I have not written--much is my torment.

Enjoyment is not for me,--excepting in the completion of work. But I have not been the loser by my visits to you both--did I not get that wonderful story? And so I have given you more time than any other person or persons in Tokyo. But now--through the seasons--I must again disappear. Perhaps _le jeu ne vaudra pas la chandelle_; nevertheless I have some faith as to ultimate results.

Faithfully, with every most grateful and kindly sentiment,

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MASAn.o.bU OTANI

TOKYO, December, 1898.

DEAR OTANI,--To-day I received the gift sent from Matsue,--and the very nice letter with which you accompanied it. I think that a better present, or one which could give me sincerer pleasure will never be received. It is a most curious thing, that strange texture,--and a most romantic thing also in its way,--seeing that the black speckling that runs through the whole woof is made by characters of letters or poems or other texts, written long ago. And I must a.s.sure you that I shall always prize it--not only because I like it, but particularly because your mother wove it. I am going to have it made into a winter _kimono_ for my own use, which I shall always wear, according to season, in my study-room. Surely it is just the kind of texture which a man of letters ought to wear! My best thanks to you and your family,--most of all to your kind mother,--and my earnest wishes for a fortunate year to come.

Your collection of poems this month interested me a great deal in a new way--the songs separately make only a small appeal to imagination; but the tone and feeling _of the ma.s.s_ are most remarkable, and give me a number of new ideas about the _character of the "folk-work."_ ...

With renewed best wishes for a happy and fortunate New Year to you and yours,

Sincerely, Y. KOIZUMI.

TO ----

DEAR FRIEND,--I am afraid this letter which I am now writing will not please you altogether. Forgive anything in it which you do not like--for the sake of the friendship behind it.

The matter is difficult; and I cannot at this moment report any progress. I understand something of the matter. It is not any use to try to do anything further until I explain things as well as I can, and have heard your answer. Before I can do anything more, I want you to make some promises to _me_, your friend. After that you can make them to her, if you love her well enough.

To begin with, in regard to explanation, I think you are wrong, and that your wife and her father are quite right. Under the same circ.u.mstances, if I were her father, I should take her away from her husband if I could.

You are not wrong by _heart_--you are wrong only because you do not understand, do not know the conditions. Women of different cla.s.ses cannot be all treated alike. Your wife is a refined, gentle lady--very sensitive and very easily hurt by harsh words or neglect. You cannot expect to treat such a lady like a farm-servant or a peasant-woman. It would kill her. But I have heard (_not_ from your wife, but from other persons) that she was allowed by you to work in the garden, under a hot sun, thirty days after childbirth and the loss of her child. This seems to me a _terrible_ thing, and you cannot have known what it means to a woman's const.i.tution.

A refined lady will not submit to be treated like a servant--unless she has no spirit at all. Your wife's action shows that she has self-respect and spirit; and you want the mother of your children to be a woman of spirit and self-respect. Do not be angry with her because she shows this honourable pride. It is good.

I do not think that you can expect your wife to act as a daughter to your parents, or to live with them as a daughter exactly in the old way. Meiji has changed many things. Girls who have pa.s.sed through the new schools are no longer hardy and strong like the Samurai women of old days. Observe how many of them die after a year of marriage.

Then your parents and your wife belong to different eras,--different conditions,--different worlds. If they should expect your wife to be all to them that a daughter-in-law might have been in the old days, I fear that would be impossible. She has not the strength for that; and her whole nature is differently const.i.tuted.

I think you could only be happy by living alone with each other in your own house. Perhaps this seems wrong to you,--but that is Meiji. The fault is in the times, not in hearts.

If you marry another educated lady of the new school, you will have exactly the same trouble. The old conditions cannot be maintained under the new system of change.

But the chief trouble, of course, would be your att.i.tude to your wife.

You have not, I think, been considerate to her--regarded her too much as one bound to serve and obey. It will not do in _her_ case. She has spirit, and she wants different treatment. It is better for a strong man to treat a wife exactly as he would treat a child that he loves.

By her weakness and delicacy every educated woman is a child, and must be petted and loved like a child. If she be harshly treated, and have no pleasure--even if she be treated as well as you would treat a _man_-friend--then the result is unfortunate always, and the children born will show the mother's pain.

Your wife is evidently afraid of the future--thinks it impossible that she can get from you the treatment or the consideration she ought to have, and must have in order to be happy. She will not say anything definite; but I am sure of this. She will not tell you her troubles--you should know them without being told. Not to know them _shows_ the want of consideration.

The higher you go in society and in educated circles, the more the woman differs from the man. She cannot be judged or understood as a man. She becomes a distinct being with a distinct character, and very, very delicate feelings.

Well, this is enough to give you an idea of how I see the matter. _Can you honestly promise to treat your wife in a completely new way,--with such delicacy as you never did before, and always?_ If you can, I _think_ we can manage to do something. There is also something important to consider in regard to family matters. Can you not make this matter smooth also? Please answer before three o'clock. Do not come to the house until late this evening, or to-morrow. In haste,

Affectionately, your friend, Y. KOIZUMI.

TO ----

DEAR FRIEND,--After you bid us good-bye, I began to think about things, and resolved to write you a little letter about my conclusions. Of course, because I am a foreigner, I cannot pretend to make absolutely correct conclusions; but I should like to be of use to you as a friend, and therefore believe that I cannot do any harm by presenting both sides of the question, as they appear to me.

It seems that there is one view of the matter which might not have been fully thought over yet. The woman's side, I mean. It is true she has not stated it; but I imagine it might be this:--

A woman of cultivation, although seeming very strong, may be very sensitive and delicate--and may suffer more than a strong man can imagine possible, by reason of very little matters. When about to become a mother, her capacity for suffering greatly increases, and after childbirth it remains intense. These are natural conditions; but after the loss of a child, the condition is a very serious one, especially for a lady who has been well educated. I know this chiefly by some knowledge of medical physiology.--Now, what I mean is this: Anything that a wife does during or after pregnancy should, I believe, be not only forgiven, but _lovingly_ forgiven,--because _then_, what she suffers no man can really understand. And the more educated she is, the more refined she is, the more she suffers.

Suppose now we look at her view,--or at what might be her view. She has a very affectionate and true husband; but he is very strong, has never been nervous or nervously sick, cannot understand what she suffers. She is ashamed to confess her weakness and her pain. So she does not tell him. She smiles and tries to make it appear that she is strong. The loss of her child is a very great pain to her--more than any man could understand; but she tries to forget it. Still, her husband does not know all this. She is not able to be quick and active and ready, and he does not understand why. Even a woman's memory weakens during this painful period. Her mind is not so strong, and can only become as before after the weaning of her child, or many months after childbirth. To the strong peasant-woman this is a small trial; but to the educated lady it is a question of life and death, and not a few even lose their reason after losing a child--become insane. The physiologist knows this; but many do not. And the wife, in such a case, may seem not to be kind to the parents--simply because she _cannot_ be. She has the will,--not the physical power. She is in the position of one who needs a servant--needs all the help and comfort she can get--all the love she can obtain. She cannot give help and do service; because neither body nor mind is strong enough. And neither is strong enough--_because_ she has been strained to her uttermost by her years of education. It is the same way the world over. The lady cannot do or suffer as much as the woman who has not pa.s.sed her youth at schools. Mind and body have been transformed by education.

Now, dear friend, I imagine that this must be the state of affairs.

Your wife and her parents do not wish to do wrong, in my opinion. She feels that she is not strong enough to remain your wife under the same conditions. She cannot bear hardship, or do many things which seem to a man mere trifles, while in a delicate condition. And she fears that she would be unhappy and sick and lose another child. But she will never _tell_ you. A woman will not tell those things. Unless a husband can understand _without being told_,--the two cannot live together long.

The result must be, for the wife, death!

I think, dear friend, that this is the truth of the matter. Now you can separate good friends, or else--what could you do?