Well, what you say about my work (always seizing upon the best in it, and showing such penetrant sympathy with its effort or aim) counts for more than a myriad printed criticisms.
My boy is accustomed to kissing—from his father only, who always so dismisses him at bed-time; and he understands very well the charm of Lady Elizabeth’s sweet message, after hearing from me what the privilege signifies. But I have fairly given up the idea of taking him with me to America for the present. The risk is too great. I must try to make a nest for him first, and be sure of keeping alive myself.
In the mean time, I have been treated very cruelly by the Japanese Government, and forced out of the service by intrigues,—in spite of protests from the press, and from my students, who stood by me as long as they dared. To make matters worse, I fell sick;—I have been sick for months. About three weeks ago, I burst a blood-vessel, and I am not allowed to talk. So I fear that the lecture-business is out of the question; and I am not altogether sorry, because I do not know enough about the subject. I would wish never again to write a line about any Japanese subjects: all my work has only resulted in making for me implacable enemies.
The problem with me now is simply how I shall be able to live, and support my family. I must try to do something in America,—where the winter will not kill me off in a hurry. Literary work is over. When one has to meet the riddle of how to live there must be an end of revery and dreaming and all literary “labour-of-love.” It pays not at all. A book brings me in about $300,—after two years’ waiting. My last payment on four books (for six months) was $44. Also, in my case, good work is a matter of nervous condition. I can’t find the conditions while having to think about home—with that fear for others which is “the most soul-satisfying” of fears, according to Rudyard Kipling. However, we are all right for the time being; and I can provide for the home before I go.
Thank you for telling me the name of your book. I had hard work to get your little volume of travel when it came out: ages pass here before an “ordered” book comes. But in America I can keep track of you. I want very much to see your book. It will either tell me very, very much about you—or it will tell me nothing of you, and therefore have the charm of the Unknowable. Oh! do read the divine Loti’s “L’Inde sans les Anglais!” No mortal critic—not even Jules Lemaître or Anatole France—can explain that ineffable and superhuman charm. I hope you will have everything of Loti’s. Sometime ago, when I was afraid that I might die, one of my prospective regrets was that I might not be able to read L’Inde sans les Anglais.”
Much I should wish to see you in Japan—but human wishes!... Yet I think I could make you feel pleased for a little while—though our cooking be of the simplest. My little wife knows your face so well—your picture hangs now in her room. We have a garden, and a bamboo grove.
Now you must be tired reading me. As soon as I can feel well, I shall go to some fishing-village with my boy; and, if lucky, perhaps I shall leave for America in the fall. But nothing is yet certain.
With all grateful thought from
Lafcadio Hearn.
You cannot imagine how hungry and thirsty I have become to see you again,—or how much afraid I feel at times that I may not see you: though a season is short.