Lafcadio Hearn.
TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK
Tōkyō, November, 1896.
Dear Hendrick,—I fear—I suspect that this position has been given unto me for a combination of reasons, among which the dominant is that I may write at ease many books about Japan. This has two unfortunate aspects. Firstly, the people who do not know what labour literary work is imagine that books can be written by the page as quickly as letters, and keep asking me why I don’t get out another book—that means the Influence of Hurry-Scurry. Secondly, I am plunged into a world of which the highest possible effort in poetry seems to be this:—
“Sometimes I hear your flute,
But I never can see your face,
O beautiful Oiterupé!”
Who is Oiterupé? Euterpe, of course. And this represents, I do assure you, the very highest possible result of a Western education at Göttingen, etc., upon the mind of the modern Japanese poet. Formerly he would have said something. Now he is struck dumb by—Heidelberg or Göttingen.
I have only twelve hours a week in which to teach; but, as I told you before, there are no text-books, and the university will not buy any; and the general standard of English is so low that I am sure not half of my classes understand what I say. Worst of all, there is no discipline. The students are virtually the masters in certain matters: the authorities fear their displeasure, and they do things extraordinary which fill European professors with amazement and rage—such as ordering different hours for their lectures, and demanding after a menacing fashion subscriptions for their various undertakings. Fancy the following colloquy:—