Dear Professor,—It is too bad that I should twice have missed the pleasure of seeing you,—and still worse that Mrs. Fenollosa should have come into my wretched little street to find me absent. But it were better always when possible to let me know in advance of any chances for a visit—otherwise I can seldom be relied upon; especially in these months, for I am over head and ears in work,—with the dreadful prospect of examinations and the agonies of proof-reading to be rolled upon me at the same moment. You are so far happy to be able to command your time: I cannot often manage it.
Well, even if I had been free, I do not think I should have cared to go to the Ukioy-e exhibition again—except, of course, to hear you talk about it. I am inclined to agree with one who said that the catalogue was worth more than the view. It (not the catalogue) left me cold—partly, perhaps, because I had just been looking at a set of embroidered screens that almost made me scream with regret at my inability to purchase them. I remember only three or four at Ukioy-e,—the interesting Kappa; Shōki diverting himself; a Listening Girl—something of that sort: nothing excited in me any desire to possess it, even as a gift, except the Kappa and the Shōki. (I know I am hopeless—but it were hopeless to try to be otherwise.) Verily I prefer the modern colour-prints, which I can afford sometimes to buy. What is more, I do not wish to learn better. While I know nothing I can always follow the Shintō code and consult my heart about buying things. Were I to know more, I should be less happy in buying cheap things. It is like the Chinese characters on the shop-fronts. Once you begin to know the meaning of a few, the magical charm—- the charm of mystery—evaporates. There’s heresy for you! As for the catalogues—especially the glorious New York catalogue—I think them precious things. If they do me no other good, they serve the purpose of suggesting the range and unfathomability of my ignorance. I only regret that you do not use legends,—do not tell stories. If you did, Andersen would be quickly superseded. We buy him only for the folk-lore and the references.
Now I must thank Mrs. Fenollosa for the exceeding kindness of bringing those books so far for me. I fear I shall have little chance to read within the next couple of weeks; but if I get the least opportunity, I must try to read the “Cardinal” anyhow. I shall, whatever happens, return the volumes safely before very long. As for the Stevenson, it was not worth while thanking me for; besides, I do not candidly think it an example of the writer at his highest. But one reads these things because the times force you to.
As for the Mountain of Skulls—yes: I have written it,—about seven or eight times over; but it still refuses to give the impression I feel, and can’t define,—the impression that floated into my brain with the soft-flowing voice of the teller. I shall try again later; but, although I feel tolerably sure about the result, nothing but very hard work will develop the thing. Had I only eleven more stories of such quality, what a book could be made out of them! Still, it is quite impossible that a dozen such tales could exist. I read all the Jatakas to no purpose: one makes such a find only by the rarest and most unexpected chance.
By the way, it puzzled me to imagine how the professor knew of my insignificance having visited the exhibition! But a charming professor who made three long visits there wants very much to make Professor Fenollosa’s acquaintance,—E. Foxwell, a fellow of Cambridge, and an authority on economics. Quite a rare fine type of Englishman,—at once sympathetic and severely scientific,—a fine companion and a broad strong thinker.
Faithfully, with best regards and thanks,
Lafcadio Hearn.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Tōkyō, June, 1898.
Dear McDonald,—I wonder if you are perfectly disgusted with my silence and general invisibility. But perhaps you have been far too busy to think enough about me even to say, “D—n his lying little soul!” (which is what I would have said under like circumstances); for I have been reading about you,—and know that you have had some sad and very important duties to perform, of an unexpected character.