Dear Mitchell,—I am sending you two documents just received—one from Lowder’s new company, I suppose; the other, which makes me rather vexed, from that —— woman, who has evidently never seen or known me, and who spells my name “Lefcardio.” (Wish you would point out to her somebody who looks small and queer,—and tell her, “That is Mr. Hearn—he is waiting to see you.”) At all events, these folks have simply been putting up a job to amuse themselves or to annoy me;—— has apparently been putting up a job to annoy you. We are in the same boat; but you can take much better care of yourself than I can. I do wish that you could find out something about those —— people: I am very much ashamed at having left my card at the hotel where they were stopping.
One thing sure is that I shall not go down to the Grand Hotel again for ages to come—I wish I could venture to say “never”—nevermore. It is one more nail in my literary coffin every time I go down. If I am to be tormented by folks in this way, I had better run away from the university and from Tōkyō at once.
That —— woman is a most damnable liar. I wonder who she can be.
Well, so much for an outburst of vexation—which means nothing very real; for I only want to pour my woes into your ear. I can’t say how good I think you are, nor how I feel about the pleasure of our last too brief meeting. But I do feel more and more that you do not understand some things,—the immense injury that introductions do to a struggling writer,—the jealousies aroused by attentions paid to him,—the loss to him of creative power that follows upon invitations of any kind. You represent, in a way, the big world of society. It kills every man that it takes notice of—or rather, every man that submits to be noticed by it. Their name is legion; and they are strangled as soon as they begin to make the shadow of a reputation. Solitude and peace of mind only can produce any good work. Attentions numb, paralyze, destroy every vestige of inspiration. I feel that I cannot go to America without hiding—and never can let you know where I go to. I shall have to get away from Tōkyō,—get somewhere where nobody wants to go. You see only one side—what you think, with good reason, are the advantages of being personally known. But the other side,—the disadvantages,—the annoyances, the horrors—you do not know anything about; and you are stirring them up—like a swarm of gnats. A few more visits to Yokohama would utterly smash me—and at this moment, I do wish that I never had written a book.
No: an author’s instincts are his best guide. His natural dislike to meet people is not shyness,—not want of self-appreciation: it is empirical knowledge of the conditions necessary to peace of mind and self-cultivation. Introduce him, and you murder his power,—just as you ruin certain solutions by taking out the cork. The germs enter; and the souls of him rot! Snubs are his best medicine. They keep him humble, obscure, and earnest. Solitude is what he needs—what every man of letters knows that an author needs. No decent work was ever done under any other conditions. He wants to be protected from admiration, from kindnesses, from notice, from attentions of any sort: therefore really his ill-wishers are his friends without knowing it.
Yet here I am—smoking a divine cigar—out of my friend’s gift-box,—and brutally telling him that he is killing my literary soul or souls. Am I right or wrong? I feel like kicking myself; and yet, I feel that I ought never again in this world to visit the Grand Hotel! I wonder if my friend will stand this declaration with equanimity. He says that he will never “misunderstand.” That I know. I am only fearing that understanding in this case might be even worse than misunderstanding. And I can’t make a masterpiece yet. If I could, I should not seem to be putting on airs. That is the worst of it.
Hope you will forgive and sympathize with
Lafcadio.