Ever faithfully,
Lafcadio Hearn.
TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK
Kōbe, January, 1895.
Dear Hendrick:—Three books and a catalogue reached me—Mallock, Kipling, and a volume by Morris—for which more than thanks the value much exceeding, I fear, the slight difference between us.
It now seems to me that time is the most precious of all things conceivable. I can’t waste it by going out to hear people talk nonsense,—or by going to see pretty girls whom I can’t marry, being married already,—or by playing games of cards, etc., to kill time,—or by answering letters written me by people who have neither real fine feeling nor real things to say. Of course I might on occasion do some one of these things,—but, having done it, I feel that so much of my life has been wasted—sinfully wasted. There are rich natures who can afford the waste; but I can’t, because the best part of my life has been wasted in wrong directions and I shall have to work like thunder till I die to make up for it. I shall never do anything remarkable; but I think I have caught sight of a few truths on the way.
I might say that I have become indifferent to personal pleasures of any sort,—except sympathy and sympathetic converse; but this might represent a somewhat morbid state. What is more significant, I think, is the feeling that the greatest pleasure is to work for others,—for those who take it as a matter of course that I should do so, and would be as much amazed to find me selfish about it as if an earthquake had shaken the house down. Really I am not affecting to think this; I feel it so much that it has become a part of me.
Then of course, I like a little success and praise,—though a big success and big praise would scare me; but I find that even the little praise I have been getting has occasionally unhinged my judgement. And I have to be very careful.
Next, I have to acknowledge to feeling a sort of resentment against certain things in which I used to take pleasure. I can’t look at a number of the Petit Journal pour Rire or the Charivari without vexation, almost anger. I can’t find pleasure in a French novel written for the obvious purpose of appealing to instincts that interfere with perception of higher things than instincts. I would not go to see the Paris opera if it were next door and I had a free ticket—or, if I did go, it would be for the sake of observing the pleasure given to somebody else. I should not like to visit the most beautiful lady and be received in evening dress. You see how absurd I have become—and this without any idea of principle about the matter, except the knowledge that I ought to avoid everything which does not help the best of myself—small as it may be. Whenever by chance I happen to make a deviation from this general rule, work suffers in consequence.
I think that on the whole I am gaining a little in the path; but I have regular fits of despondency and disgust about my work, of course. One day I think I have done well; the next that I am a hideous ass and fool. Much is a question of nervous condition. But I feel sure that a long-continued period of self-contentment would be extremely injurious to me; and that checks and failures and mockeries are indispensable medicine.