Et pour la tombe,—mais d’abord,—
(Now for the magnificence!)
Toi dont le glaive est le ministre,
Toi que l’Eclair suit dans les cieux,
Choisis-moi de ta main sinistre
Une belle fille aux doux yeux.
What makes the splendour of this verse? Not only the tremendous contrast,—apocalyptic. It is especially, I think, the magnificent dual use of “sinistre.” How Hugoish the whole thing is!...
I fear that what I said long ago is likely to come true: the first fire is burnt out,—the zeal is dead,—the educational effort (one of the most colossal in all history, surely) having served its immediate purpose (the recovery of national autonomy) is dead. Hence there is a prospect of decay.
Now I should like to protest against this danger in a review-article: say, “History of the Decline and Fall of Education in Japan;” or, “History of Foreign Teaching in Japan.” Could I get documents?—just a skeleton at least; of statistics, rules, details, numbers. The article has been in my mind for two years. And I notice the Japanese don’t object to healthy criticisms at all,—rather like them. They hate petting-talk, however,—and stupid misinterpretations. I should like to try the thing.
I think it is Amenomori who is writing rather savage things in the Chronicle just now, about the Mombushō, and threatens to write more. There is a something unpleasant in the tone of Japanese satire to me,—however clever, it shows that they have not yet reached the same perception of sensibility as we have. Of course I refer only to the best of them—masters. The sympathetic touch is always absent. I feel unhappy at being in the company of a cultivated Japanese for more than an hour at a time. After the first charm of formality is over, the man becomes ice—or else suddenly drifts away from you into his own world, far from ours as the star Rephan.