I don’t feel to-day, though, like I used to feel in Izumo. I have become very grey, and much queerer looking; and as I never make any visits or acquaintances outside of my quiet little neighbourhood, I have become also rather henjin. But I have written half a new book. I am not able to say now what it will be like: for the things I most wish to put into it—stories of real life—have not yet been written. I have finished only the philosophical chapters. One subject is “Nirvana,” and another the study of matter in itself as unreality,—or at least as a temporary apparition only. Then I have taken up the defence of Japanese methods of drawing, under the title of “Faces in the Old Picture-Books.” My public, however, is not all composed of thinkers; and I have to please the majority by telling them stories sometimes. After all, every public more or less resembles a school-class. They say, just like my students always used to say when they felt very tired or sleepy, hot days,—“Teacher, we are tired: please tell us some extraordinary story.”
I can’t just now remember when—at Matsue—a man came into the classroom to watch my teaching. He came from some little island. I have quite forgotten the name. He looked a little like Mr. Takahashi;—but there was something different in his face,—a little sad, perhaps. When the class was over he came to me and said something very good and kind, and pressed my hand and went away to his island. It is a queer thing that experiences of this kind are often among the most vivid of one’s life—though they are so short. I have often dreamed of that man. Often and often. And the dream is always the same. He is the director of a beautiful little school in a very large garden, surrounded by high white walls. I go into that garden by an iron gate. It is always summer. I teach for that man; and everything is gentle and earnest and pleasant and beautiful, just as it used to be in Matsue,—and he always repeats the nice things he said long ago. If I can ever find that school, with the white walls and the iron gate,—I shall want to teach there, even if the salary be only the nice things said at the end of the class. But I fear the school is made of mist, and that teacher and pupils are only ghosts. Or perhaps it is in Hōrai.
Ever with best regards from all of us, faithfully,
Lafcadio Hearn.
TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK
Tōkyō, August, 1897.
Dear Hendrick,—As for Miss Josephine’s letter, I believe that I cannot answer it at all: it was so sweet that I could only sit down quietly and think about it,—and I feel that any attempt to answer it on paper would be no use. There is only one way that it ought to be adequately answered, and that way I hope that you will adopt for my sake.
It was a more than happy little romance—that which you told me of, and makes one feel new things about the great complex life of your greater world. The poetry of the story makes a singular appeal to me now—possibly because in this Far East such loving sympathy is non-existent (at least outside of the household). Artistic life depends a great deal upon such friendships: I doubt whether it can exist without them, any more than butterflies or bees could exist without flowers. The ideal is created by the heart, no doubt; but it is nourished only by others’ faith and love for it. In all this great Tōkyō I doubt if there is a man with an ideal—or a woman (I mean any one not a Japanese); and so far as I have been able to hear and see there are consequently no friendships. Can there possibly be friendships where there is no aspirational life? I doubt it very much.
I must eat some humble pie. My work during the past ten months has been rather poor. Why, I cannot quite understand—because it costs me more effort. Anyhow I have had to rewrite ten essays: they greatly improved under the process. I am trying now to get a Buddhist commentary for them—mostly to be composed of texts dealing with preëxistence and memory of former lives. I took for subjects the following:—Beauty is Memory;—why beautiful things bring sadness;—the riddle of touch—i. e., the thrill that a touch gives;—the perfume of youth;—the reason of the pleasure of the feeling evoked by bright blue;—the pain caused by certain kinds of red;—mystery of certain musical effects;—fear of darkness and the feeling of dreams. Queer subjects, are they not? I think of calling the collection “Retrospectives.” It might be dedicated to “E. B. W.,”—I fancy that I should do well to use the initials only; for some of the essays might be found a little startling. But when the work will be finished I cannot tell.
