I have learned about Japan only enough to convince me that I know nothing about Japan.
Perhaps your kind professor suspects as much;—for has he not plainly said that no (American) university would hire me to teach English or French literature? That means accurate perception of my range, in one direction. Possibly, therefore, he would not expect from me any attempts at a pretence of exact knowledge.
I have held a chair of English literature here for nearly seven years, by setting all canons at defiance, and attempting to teach only the emotional side of literature, in its relations to modern thought;—playing with philosophy, as a child can play with the great sea. I have been allowed to do just as I pleased,—on the condition of being interesting (which condition the students take care shall be fulfilled). Should I attempt to lecture about Japan, I imagine that it would be necessary to allow me nearly the same liberty in America. I might hope to be suggestive,—to set minds dreaming or darkling in new directions. But I could not pretend to impart exact knowledge. I could not afford to fail: that would be ... a great shame to my good name at home. So I cannot answer “Yes” without being certain of my ability to perform all that could be reasonably expected of me,—as a small “man-of-letters” (not as anything else).
What I could do would be about thus:—
I could attempt a series of lectures upon Japanese topics,—dealing incidentally with psychological, religious, social, and artistic impressions,—so as to produce in the minds of my hearers an idea of Japan different from that which is given in books. Something, perhaps, in the manner of Mr. Lowell’s “Soul of the Far East” (incomparably the greatest of all books on Japan, and the deepest),—but from a different point of view.
What I could not do would be to put myself forward as an authority upon Japanese history, or any special Japanese subject. The value of my lectures would depend altogether upon suggestiveness,—not upon any crystallizations of fact.
Again, there is a doubt to be solved—concerning quantity as well as quality. To do my best, I should hope that quantity were not too strongly insisted upon. How many lectures would be wanted during one term—distinct lectures? and how many hours would be demanded for a lecture?... You see, the conditions in Tōkyō are monstrous: I have to lecture twelve hours a week on four different subjects;—that means for lecturing what reporter’s work means in relation to literature!... I imagine that I could endeavour to do something about equal to the work of Professor Rhys-Davids in his American lectures,—as to bulk. The six lectures represent a volume of about 225 pages. Lectures to represent, in printed form, a carefully made book of about 250 or 300 pages would represent my best effort.
For I have reached that time of life at which “the state of the weather” becomes a topic of enormous importance.
And the rest of what has to be said I shall put into a letter, which I pray you to read, and to poke into the fire if it is not satisfactory.