But my work is not done yet: I can’t afford luxuries till it is done, I suppose—at least so the gods think.
No: I shall not burn the MS. yet; but if I decided, after deliberation, to burn it, I think I should be right. How much I now wish I had burned things which I printed ten or twelve years ago!
I think with you that the U.S.N. will sweep the Spaniards off the sea; but still I feel slightly uneasy.
I have met a most extraordinary man to whom I gave your address,—in case he should need advice, or wish to see Amenomori. He is going to the hotel, but is now at Nikko. His name is E. T. Sturdy. He has lived in India,—up in the Himalayas for years,—studying Eastern philosophy; and the hotel delicacies will do him no good, because he is a vegetarian. He is a friend of Professor Rhys-Davids, who gave him a letter of introduction to me; and has paid for the publication of several Eastern texts—Pali, etc. Beyond any question, he is the most remarkable person I have met in Japan. Fancy a man independent, strong, cultivated, with property in New Zealand and elsewhere, voluntarily haunting the Himalayas in the company of Hindoo pilgrims and ascetics,—in search of the Nameless and the Eternal. Yet he is not a Theosophist exactly, nor a Spiritualist. I did not get very near him—he has that extreme English reserve which deludes under the appearance of almost boyish frankness; but I think we might become fast friends did we live in the same city. He told me some things that I shall never forget,—very strange things. I envy, not him, but his independence. Think of being able to live where one pleases, nobody’s servant,—able to choose one’s own studies and friends and books. On the other hand, most authors write because they are compelled to find occupation for their minds. Would I, being independent, become idle? I don’t think so; but I know that some of my work has been done just to keep the mind from eating itself,—as does the stomach without food. Ergo, perhaps, I ought to be maintained in a condition of “eternal torment”?
Well, it is not impossible that you may eventually suggest to me something of the great story that is eventually to be written—let us hope. Assuredly if I once start in upon it, I shall be asking you questions, and you will be able to help me very much.
Ever affectionately,
Lafcadio.