Dear Miss Bisland,—At the time your letter reached me, the few proofs sent had been given away;—I have not many friends, of course, but I did not have many proofs either. The best I can therefore do is to send original photo. This is taking a liberty, I suppose, to send what wasn’t asked for; but it is the best I can do, and you can pitch it away if you don’t want it.
My novelette is done, and I am waiting to hear of its fate before starting. I am sure you will like it, and recognize a good deal of the scenery. I do not know how long I shall stay in New York;—might only stay a very short time, but quite long enough to see you once,—for a little while. Then again I might take a notion to stay in the North—don’t really know what I shall do.
What would be nice, if one could manage it, would be to live in the country, or in some vast wilderness, and ship one’s work away. But I fear that will only be possible when I have become Ancient as the Moon,—if I should ever become ancient
Very truly,
Lafcadio Hearn.
P. S. I met no more Hindoos here, but I met some other singular beings.
My last pet was a Chinese doctor, whose name I cannot pronounce. He tried to teach me Chinese; but I discovered nasal tones almost impossible to imitate,—snarling sounds like the malevolent outcries of contending cats.... “Gha!—ho-lha! Koum Yada! Gha! ghwang hwa!—yow sum!” Under the placid naïveté of a baby, my Chinese tutor concealed a marvellous comprehension of human motives and of human meannesses. He observed like a judge, and smiled always—always, with the eternal, half-compassionate, half-divine smile of the images of Fo.