You asked me about Gautier. I have read and possess nearly all his works; and before I was really mature enough for such an undertaking I translated his six most remarkable short stories: (“Une Nuit de Cléopâtre;” “La Morte Amoureuse;” “Arria Marcella;” “Le Pied de Momie;” “Le Roi Candaule;” and “Omphale”), which were published by R. Worthington under the title of the opening story,—“One of Cleopatra’s Nights.” The work contains, I regret to say, several shocking errors; and the publisher refused me the right to correct the plates. The book remains one of the sins of my literary youth; but I am sure my judgement of the value of the stories was correct, and if ever able I shall try to get out a new and correct edition. Of Sainte-Beuve I have read very little—found him silver-grey. Most of the Romantic school I have. If you like Gautier, how much more would you like the work of Julien Viaud (Pierre Loti). We know each other by letter. Read “Le Roman d’un Spahi” first; I think it will astonish you. Then “Le Mariage de Loti;” then "Fleurs d’Ennui.” All his work, which has already won, even for so young a man, the highest encomium of the Academy, and the Vitel prize, is extraordinary; but my dislike of grey skies, fogs and ice, causes me to find less pleasure in “Mon Frère Yves,” and “Pêcheur d’Islande,” though there are superb tropical pages scattered through the latter.
I send you a little Arabian story, which I wrote for Harper’s Bazar last winter, and which I will reproduce some day in another shape, if I live to complete my Arabian plan. Perhaps you are familiar with the legend.
You will be glad to hear my novelette has been purchased by the Magazine. So that I may ultimately hope to be able to leave journalism alone. It is not arduous work for me; but I am a thorough demophobe, and it compels me to meet many disagreeable experiences,—experiences which often result in absolute nervous prostration caused wholly by annoyance. You can imagine the difficulties of creating artistic things only in the intervals of a long succession of petty troubles. Such troubles would be absurd to most minds, but to me they are horribly serious: I have a badly-balanced nervous make-up.
Next week I go away to hunt up some tropical or semi-tropical impressions. The Atlantic has given me some attention, and I am going to try to make a sketch for them.
Yours must be a very remarkable mind: I was greatly impressed by the plan and purpose and admirable instructive excellence of that optic model you sent me the circular of. In fact, I feel very small when I compare the work of my fancy with the work of such knowledge as yours. Still I have the power to give you pleasure, which is quite a consolation.
Believe me very truly, your friend,
Lafcadio Hearn.
P.S. Are you inclined to believe in a further evolution of the colour-sense? Spencer, in vol. II “Biology,” is rather conservative as to the further prospects of physical evolution, although I suppose further moral evolution must necessitate a further progress in the nervous system.