I should certainly like Mr. Asai very much, from your charming account of him; and, at any rate, I expect to see both you and him within forty days from this writing. If you think he would like a copy of “Kokoro” it will make me very happy to send him one. As he has studied philosophy, however, I don’t know what he will think of the chapters on the Idea of Preëxistence and the Worship of Ancestors. You know the school of thought that I follow is bitterly opposed; and I believe it is not honestly taught in any English establishment. In one or two American universities it is partly taught; but only the French have given it really fair attention abroad.
Lafcadio Hearn (Y. Koizumi).
P. S. It made me feel queer to be addressed by Prof. Toyama as “Mr. Yakumo Koizumi”!
TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK
Tōkyō, May, 1896.
Dear Hendrick,— ... Somebody (who, I do not know) has been sending me books. Did you send me a book by Richard LeGallienne? I thought Mrs. Rollins had sent it, and I wrote to her nice things about it, which vexed her into sending me a very sharp criticism of it (she is a critic), and proving me to have praised a worthless book out of liking for the sender! Where am I? I am certainly wrong. I did think the book nice because of my belief that she sent it; and I am now equally convinced that it is n’t nice at all, because she proved that it was not. I should certainly make a bad critic if I were acquainted with authors and their friends. One sees what does not exist wherever one loves or hates. As I am rather a creature of extremes, I should be an extremely crooked-visioned judge of work. I have not tried to answer Mrs. Rollins’s letter—fact is, I can’t.
No: the head on the title-page of “Kokoro” is not Kazuo, but the head of a little boy called Takaki. The photograph was soft and beautiful, and showed an uncommonly intellectual type of Japanese head. The woodcut is rather coarse and hard.—But I enclose a third edition of Kazuo: he is growing a little better-looking, but is not so strong as I could wish; and he is so sensitive that I am very much worried about his future. Physical pain he bears well enough; but a mere look, a careless word, a moment of unconscious indifference is fire to his little soul. I don’t know what to do with him. If he shows the artistic temperament I shall try to educate him in Italy or France. With an emotional nature one is happier among Latins. I confess that I can only bear the uncommon types of Englishmen, Germans, and Americans,—the conventional types simply drive me wild. On the other hand, I can feel at home with even a villain, if he be Spaniard, Italian, or French. According to evolutionary doctrine, however, it seems not unlikely that the Latin races will be squeezed out of existence in the future pressure of civilization. They cannot hold their own against the superior massiveness of the Northern races,—who, unfortunately, have no art-feeling at all. They will be absorbed, I suppose. In the industrial invasion of the barbarians, the men will be quietly starved to death, and the women taken by the conquerors. History will repeat itself without blood and shrieks.
What is the present matter with American civilization? Nearly all the clever American authors seem to be women, and most of them have to go “out of town” for their studies of life. American city-life seems to wither and burn up everything. There is something of the same sort noticeable in England—the authors have to go out of England. Of course, there are some great exceptions—like James and Mallock. But how many great writers deal with civilized life as it is? They go to the Highlands, like Black and Barrie,—or to Italy, like Crawford,—or to strange countries, like Kipling;—but who to-day would write “A London Romance”? This brings up another question. What is the meaning of English literary superiority? It is all very well to howl about the copyright question, and the shameful treatment of American authors; but what American authors have we to compare with the English? Excepting women like Mrs. Deland and Miss Jewett and Mrs. Phelps, etc.,—what American writers can touch English methods? James is certainly our best;—so London steals him; but he stands alone. America has no one like a dozen,—nay, a score of English writers that might be named. It certainly is not a question of remuneration; for real high ability is always sooner or later able to get all it asks for. It must be an effect of American city-life, and American training, and American environment;—perhaps over-education has something to do with it. Again—English work is so massive—even at its worst: the effort made is always so much larger. Perhaps we do things too fast. The English are slow and exact. I am told that the other Northern races are still somewhat behind—always excepting great Russia. But in the France of 1896, what is doing? The greatest writers of the age are dead or silent. Is not our horrible competitive civilization at last going to choke all aspirational life into silence? After the Du Maurier school, what will even England be able to do? Alfred Austin after Alfred Tennyson!
These are my thoughts sometimes;—then, again, I think of a possible new idealism,—a new prodigious burst of faith and passion and song greater than anything Victorian;—and I remember that all progress is rhythmical. But if this comes, it will be only, I fear, after we have been dust for a century.
I feel this is an awfully stupid letter. But I’ll write a better one soon. My best wishes for your big, big, big success. They will be realized, I think.