delicious arabesques about the Name of Allah in the Muezzin's Song,--and
do suddenly awake by night with a Voice in my ears, as of a Summons to
Prayer. Bismillah!--enormous is God!
(Punishment No. 2)
_Monograph upon the Music of the Witches' Sabbath._
_Dictionary of the Musical Instruments of all Nations._
With 50,000 wood engravings.
_The Musical Legends of All Nations._
By H. Ed. Krehbiel and Lafcadio Hearn. Seven Vols. in 8vo, with 100
chromolithographs and 2000 eau-fortes. Price $300 per vol. 24th edition.
_On the Howling Dervishes_, and on the melodies of the six other orders
of Dervishes. With music.
_The Song of the Muezzin in All Moslem Countries._ From Western Morocco
to the Chinese Sea. Nine hundred different Notations of the Chant--with
an Appendix treating of the Chant in the Oases and in the Soudan, as
affected by African influence. Price $8000.
_Dance-Music of the Ancient Occident_, 1700 Ex.
_Temple-Melodies of the Ancient and Modern World._ Vol. I, China. Vol.
II, India. Vol III, Rome. Vol. IV, Greece. Vol. V, Egypt, etc.
(To be continued.)
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, February, 1884.
DEAR KREHBIEL,--Please don't let my importunacy urge you to write when
you have little time and leisure. I only want to hear from you when it
gives you pleasure and kills time. Never mind if I take a temporary
notion to write every day--you know I don't mean to be unreasonable.
Now, as I have your postal card I'll cease the publication of my
imaginary musical library, and will reserve that exquisite torture for
some future occasion when I shall think you have treated me horribly.
Just so soon as this beastly weather changes I'll go to New York, and
hope you'll be able--say in April--to give me a few days' loafing-time.
I'm afraid, however, I shall have to leave my Ideas behind me. I know I
could never squeeze them under or over the Brooklyn Bridge. Furthermore,
I'm afraid the Elevated R. R. cars might run over my Ideas and hurt
them. In fact, 't is only in the vast swamps of the South, where the
converse of the frogs is even as the roar of a thousand waters, that my
Ideas have room to expand.
Your banjo article delighted me,--of course, there is a great deal that
is completely new to me therein. By the way, have you noticed the very
curious looking harps of the Niam-Niams in Schweinfurth? They seem to me
rather nearly related to the banjo in some respects. I am glad my little
notes were of some use to you. I will take good care of the proof.
Every time I see anything you'd like, I'll send it on. The etymology of
the banjo is a very interesting thing; perhaps I may find something
fresh on the subject some day.
Yours enthusiastically,
L. HEARN.
I know you would not care to hear about "the thousand different
instruments to which the daughter of Pharaoh introduced King Solomon on
the day he married her," because the names of the instruments and the
melodies which were performed upon them and the various chants to all
the idols of Egypt which the daughter of Pharaoh taught Solomon are
utterly forgotten. Yet, by the Kabbalistic rules of Gematria and Temurah
might they not be exhumed?
In treatise Shekalim of Seder Mo'ed of the Talmud of Jerusalem it is
related on the authority of Rabbi Aha, that Hogrus ben Levi, who
directed the singing in the temple, "knew a vast number of melodies, and
possessed a particular talent for modulating them in an agreeable voice.
_By thrusting his thumb into his mouth he produced many and various
sorts of chants, so that his brethren, the Cohanim, were utterly amazed
thereat._"
Hast read in Chap. XII of the Treatise Shabbat (Seder Mo'ed) concerning
that lost Hebrew musical instrument, unlike any other instrument known
in the history of mankind?...
TO H.E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, March, 1884.
DEAR KREHBIEL,--I was quite glad to get your short letter, knowing how
busy you are. Johnson changed his mind about Havana, as the season there
has been very unhealthy; and for the time being I am disappointed in
regard to the Spanish-Creole music. But it is only a question of a
little while when I shall get it. I sent you the other day some
Madagascar music. You will observe it is arranged for men and women
alternately. By the way, speaking of the refrain, I think you ought to
find it scientifically treated in Herbert Spencer's "Sociology;" for in
that giant summary of all human knowledge, everything relating to the
arts of life is considered comparatively and historically. I have not
got it: indeed I could not afford so immense a series as a mere work of
reference, and life is too short. But you can easily refer to it in your
public libraries. This reminds me of a curious fact I observed in
reading Tylor--the similarity of an Australian song to a Greek chorus at
Sparta,--at least, the construction thereof. You remember the lines,
sung alternately by old men, young men, and boys:--
(OLD MEN) "We once were stalwart youths."
(YOUNG MEN) "We are: if thou likest, test our strength."
(BOYS) "We shall be, and far better too!"
Now Tylor quotes this Australian chant:--
(GIRLS) "Kardang garro."--Young-brother again.
(OLD WOMEN) "Manmal garro."--Son again.
(BOTH TOGETHER) "Mela nadjo Nunga broo."--Hereafter I shall see never.
And it is also odd to find in Jeannest that in certain Congo tribes
there is a superstition precisely like the Scandinavian superstition
about the hell-shoon"--a strange coincidence in view of the fact that
these negroes do not allow any save the king and the dead to wear shoes.
I am happy to have discovered a new work on the blacks of
Senegambia--home of the Griots; and I expect it contains some Griot
music. I have sent for it. It is quite a large volume. I am beginning to
think it would be a pity to hurry our project. The subject is so vast,
and so many new discoveries are daily being made, that I think we can
afford to gain material by waiting. I believe we can pick up a great
deal of queer African music this summer; and I feel convinced we ought
to get specimens of West Indian Creole music.
I am afraid my imagination may have outstripped human knowledge in
regard to negro physiology. You remember my suggestion about the
possible differentia in the vocal chords of the two races. I feel more
than ever convinced there _is_ a remarkable difference. I heard a negro
mother the other day calling her child's name--a name of two
syllables--Ella;--the first syllable was a low but very loud note, the
second a very high sharp one, with a fractional note tied to its tail;
and I don't believe any white throat could have uttered that
extraordinary sound with such rapidity and flexibility. The Australian
_Coo-eee_ was nothing to it! Well, I have been since studying Flower's
"Hunterian Lectures on the Comparative Anatomy of Man;" and I find that
the science of comparative anatomy is scarcely yet well defined--what,
then, can be said about the Comparative Physiology of Man? Nevertheless
Flower is astonishing. He indicates extraordinary race-differences in
the pelvic index--(the shape of the pelvis)--the length and proportion
of the limbs, etc. I have been thinking of writing to him on the
subject. Tell me,--do you approve of the idea?
I have also sent to Europe for some works on Oriental music.
Your affectionate friend,
L.H.
Charley Johnson spent a week with me. He is the same old Charley. We had
lots of fun and talk about old times. He was quite delighted with my
library; nearly every volume of which is unfamiliar to ordinary readers.
I have now nearly five hundred volumes--Egyptian, Assyrian, Indian,
Chinese, Japanese, African, etc., etc. Johnson seems to have become a
rich man. The fact embarrassed me a little bit. Somehow or other, wealth
makes a sort of Chinese wall between friends. One is afraid to be one's
self, or even to be as friendly as one would like toward somebody who is
much better off. You know what I mean. Of course, I only speak of my
private feelings; for Charley was just the same to me as in the old
days.
TO W. D. O'CONNOR
NEW ORLEANS, MARCH, 1884.
MY DEAR O'CONNOR,--What a delicious writer you are!--you do not know
what pleasure your letter gave me, and how many novel combinations of
ideas it evoked. I like your judgement of the _Musée Secret_; and yet
... I do not find it possible to persuade myself that the "mad excess of
love" should not be indulged in by mankind. It is _immemorial_ as you
say;--Love was the creator of all the great thoughts and great deeds of
men in all ages. I felt somewhat startled when I first read the earliest
Aryan literature to find how little the human heart had changed in so
many thousand years;--the women of the great Indian epics and lyrics are
not less lovable than the ideal beauties of modern romance. All the
great poems of the world are but so many necklaces of word-jewelry for
the throat of the _Venus Urania_; and all history is illuminated by the
_Eternal Feminine_, even as the world's circle in Egyptian mythology is
irradiated by Neith, curving her luminous woman's body from horizon to
horizon. And has not this "mad excess" sometimes served a good purpose?
I like that legend of magnificent prostitution in Perron's "Femmes
Arabes," according to which a battle was won and a vast nomad people
saved from extinction by the action of the beauties of the tribe, who
showed themselves unclad to the hesitating warriors and promised their
embraces to the survivors,--of whom not over-many were left. Neither do
I think that passion necessarily tends to enervate a people. There is
an intimate relation between Strength, Health, and Beauty; they are
ethnologically interlinked in one embrace,--like the _Charities_. I
fancy the stout soldiers who followed Xenophon were far better judges of
physical beauty than the voluptuaries of Corinth;--the greatest of the
exploits of Heracles was surely an amorous one. I don't like Bacon's
ideas about love: they should be adopted only by statesmen or others to
whom it is a duty to remain passionless, lest some woman entice them to
destruction. Has it not sometimes occurred to you that it is only in the
senescent epoch of a nation's life that love disappears?--there were no
grand loves during the enormous debauch of which Rome died, nor in all
that Byzantine orgy interrupted by the lightning of Moslem swords....
Again, after all, what else do we live for--ephemeræ that we are? Who
was it that called life "a sudden light between two darknesses"? "Ye
know not," saith Krishna, in the Bhagavad-Gita, "either the moment of
life's beginning or the moment of its ending: only the middle may ye
perceive." It is even so: we are ephemeræ, seeking only the pleasure of
a golden moment before passing out of the glow into the gloom. Would not
Love make a very good religion? I doubt if mankind will ever cease to
have faith--in the aggregate; but I fancy the era _must_ come when the
superior intelligences will ask themselves of what avail are the noblest
heroisms and self-denials, since even the constellations are surely
burning out, and all forms are destined to melt back into that infinite
darkness of death and of life which is called by so many different
names. Perhaps, too, all those myriads of suns are only golden swarms of
ephemeræ of a larger growth and a larger day, whose movements of
attraction are due to some "mad excess of love."
The account your friend gave you of De Nerval's suicide is precisely
like the details of M. de Beaulieu's picture exposed in 1859--and, I
_think_, destroyed by the police for some unaccountable reason. It is
described in Gautier's "Histoire du Romantisme," pp. 143-4 (note).... I
am glad you notice my hand once in a while, and that you liked my De
Nerval sketch and the "Women of the Sword." You speak of magazine-work.
I think the magazines are simply _inabordables_. My experiences have
been disheartening. "Very good, very scholarly--_but not the kind_ we
want;"--"Highly interesting--sorry we have no room for it;"--"I regret
to say we cannot use it, but would advise you to send it to X--;"
"Deserves to be published; but unfortunately our rules exclude"--etc. I
have an article now with the _Atlantic_--an essay upon the _Adzan_, or
chant of the muezzin; its romantic history, etc. This has already been
rejected by other leading magazines. Another horrible fact is that after
your article is accepted, the editor rewrites it in his own way,--and
then prints your name at the end of the so-created abomination. This is
the plan of ----. I would like to see the ideal newspaper started we
used to talk about: then we could write--eh?
So you think Doré's Raven a failure! I hope you are not altogether
right. I thought so when I first looked at the plates; but the longer I
examined them, the more strongly they impressed me. There is ghostly
power in several. What do you think of "The Night's Plutonian Shore;"
and the "Home by Horror haunted"? I must say that the terminal vignette
with its Sphinx-death is one of the most terrible ideas I have ever seen
drawn--although its force might be augmented by larger treatment. I
would like to see it taken up by that French artist who painted that
beautiful "Flight into Egypt," where we see the Virgin and Child (in
likeness of an Arab wanderer with her baby), slumbering between the
awful granite limbs of the monster.
Your Gautier has just arrived. If you had sent me a little fortune you
could not have pleased me so much. I never saw the photo before: it not
only pleased, it excelled anticipation. You know our preconceived ideas
of places we should like to visit and people we should like to know,
usually excel the reality; but the head of Gautier seems to me grander
than I imagined. One can almost hear him speak with that mellow, golden,
organ-toned voice of his which Bergerat described; and I like that
barbaric luxury of his attire,--there is something at once rich and
strange about it, worthy some Khan of the Golden Horde.... I really feel
quite enthusiastic about my new possession.
I am glad to hear you dislike Matthew Arnold. He seems to me one of the
colossal humbugs of the century: a fifth-rate poet and unutterably
dreary essayist;--a sort of philosophical hermaphrodite, yet lacking
even the grace of the androgyne, because there is neither enough of
positivism nor of idealism in his mental make-up to give real character
to it. Don't you think Edwin Arnold far the nobler man and writer? I
love that beautiful enthusiasm of his for the beauties of strange faiths
and exotic creeds. This is the spirit that, in some happier era, may
bless mankind with a universal religion in perfect harmony with the
truths of science and the better nature of humanity.
You ask about this climate. One who has lived by the sea and on the
mountain-tops, as I have, must spend several years here to understand
how this intertropical swamp-life affects the unacclimated. The first
year one becomes very sick--fevers of unfamiliar character attack him;
the appetite vanishes, the energies become enfeebled. The second summer
one feels even worse. The third summer one can just endure without
absolute sickness. The fourth, one begins to gain flesh and strength.
But the blood has completely changed, the least breath of really cool
air makes one shiver, and energy never becomes quite restored. After a
few years in Louisiana, hard work becomes impossible. We are all lazy,
enervated, compared with you Northerners. When my Northwestern friends
come down here, it seems to me like a coming of Vikings and Berserkers;
they are so full of life and blood and vital electricity! But when it is
cold to me, it seems frightfully warm to them; and yet we used once to
work together as reporters with the thermometer 20 below zero.
Sorry to say that Leloir died before completing the illustrations; and I
suppose the subscribers to the edition will be the losers. It was to be
issued in parts. Perhaps ten numbers were out. But I am not sure whether
any of the engravings were printed. I based my error upon the critique
of Leloir's work in _Le Livre_. It is dangerous to anticipate!
I believe I have the very latest edition of W. W. [Walt Whitman]--1882
(Rees, Welsh & Co.), which I like very much. You did not quite
understand my allusion to the Bible. I wished to imply that it was when
W. W.'s verses approached that biblical metre in form, etc., that we
most admired him. I agree with all you say about slang,--especially
nautical slang; also about the grand irregularity of the wave-chant.
Still I'll have to write some examples of what I refer to, and will do
so later.
Yours very warmly and gratefully,
L. HEARN.
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, March, 1884.
DEAR KREHBIEL,--I am sorry to be in such a hurry that I have to write a
short letter; but I must signal my pleasure at seeing you coming out in
public, and I have a vision of future greatness for you. As for myself,
I trust I shall in a few years more obtain influence enough to be able
to return some of your many kindnesses in a literary way. Eventually we
may be able to pull together to a very bright goal, if I can keep my
health.
I think that Osgood will announce the book about the 1st of April, but I
am not sure. It would hardly do to anticipate. I send you his letter.
The terms are not grand; but a big improvement on Worthington's. Next
time I hope I will be able to work _to order_. You can return letter
when you are done with it, as it forms a part of my enormous collection
of letters from publishers--(199 rejections to 1 acceptation).
I expect I shall have to postpone my visit until the book is out, as I
must wait here to receive and correct proofs. I have dedicated the book
to Page Baker, as it was entirely through his efforts that I got a
hearing from Osgood. The reader _had already rejected_ the MS. when
Baker's letter came.
From the _Atlantic_ I have not yet heard. If I have good luck (which is
extremely improbable) I would make the Muezzin No. 1 in a brief series
of Arabesque studies, which would cost about two years' labour--at
intervals. I have several subjects in mind: for example, the lives of
certain outrageous Moslem Saints, and a sketch of the mulatto and
quadroon slave-poets of Arabia before Mahomet; "The Ravens," as they
were called from their color;--also the story of the _Ye monnat_, or
those who died of love.... But these are beautiful dreams in embryo!
Yours affectionately,
L. HEARN.
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, March, 1884.
Postal-card.
... It is related by Philostratus in his life of Apollonius of Tyana,
that when Apollonius visited India, and asked the Brahmins to give him
an example of (musical) magic, the Brahmins did strip themselves naked
and dance in a ring, each tapping the earth with a staff, and singing a
strange hymn. Then the earth within the ring rose up, quivering, even as
fermenting dough,--and rose higher,--and undulated and was lost in great
waves,--and elevated the singers unto the height of two cubits....
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, April, 1884.
DEAR KREHBIEL,--I read your leader with no small interest; and "the
gruesome memories" were revived. The killing of the man in the Vine
Street saloon, however, interested me most as a memory-reviving
interest. That murderer was the most magnificent specimen of
athletic manhood that I ever saw,--I suspect he was a gipsy; for he
had all the characteristics of that race, and _was not a regular
circus-employee_,--only a professional rider, now with one company, now
with another. Did you see him when you were there? He was perhaps 6 feet
4; for his head nearly touched the top of the cell. He had a very
regular handsome face, with immense black eyes; and an Oriental sort of
profile:--then he seemed slender, in spite of his immense force,--such
was the proportion of his figure. A cynical devil, too. I went to see
him with the coroner, who showed him the piece of the dead man's skull.
He took it between his fingers, held it up to the light, handed it back
to the coroner and observed; "Christ!--_he must have had a d--d rotten
skull_." He was ordered to leave town within twenty-four hours as a
dangerous character. It is a pity such men should be vulgar murderers
and ruffians;--what superb troopers they would make! I shall never
forget that splendid stature and strength as long as I live....
I don't know whether I shall ever be living in that terrible metropolis
of yours. It will be impossible for me ever again to write or read by
night; and hard work has become impossible. If I could ever acquire
reputation enough to secure a literary position on some monthly or
weekly periodical where I could take it easy, perhaps I might feel like
enduring the hideous winters. But I am just now greatly troubled by the
question, What shall I work for?--to what special purpose? Perhaps some
good fortune may come when least expected.
Now I want to talk about our trip. I think it better not to go now. Page
wants me to take a good big vacation this summer,--a long one. If I wait
till it gets warm, I will be able to escape the feverish month; and if
you should be in Cincinnati at the Festival, or elsewhere, I would meet
you anyhow or anywhere you say. Were I to leave now I could not do so
later; and I am waiting for some curious books and things which I want
to bring you so that we can analyze them together. A month or so won't
make much difference.
Will write you soon. Had to quit work for a few days on account of
eye-trouble.
Yours very truly,
L. HEARN.
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, May, 1884.
DEAR KREHBIEL,--I have been so busy that I have not been able to answer
your last. They are sending me proofs at the rate of twenty pages a day;
and you can imagine this keeps me occupied in addition to my other work.
Alas! I find that nothing written for a newspaper--at least for an
American newspaper--can be perfect. My poor little book will show some
journalistic weaknesses--will contain some hasty phrases or redundancies
or something else which will mar it. I try my best to get it straight;
but the consequences of hasty labour are perpetually before me,
notwithstanding the fact that the collocation of the material occupied
nearly two years. I am thinking of Bayard Taylor's terrible observation
about American newspaper-work. It seems to be generally true. Still
there _are_ some who write with extraordinary precision and correctness.
I think you are one of them.
What troubles my style especially is ornamentation. An ornamental style
must be perfect or full of atrocious discords and incongruities; and
perfect ornamentation requires slow artistic work--except in the case of
men like Gautier, who never re-read a page, or worried himself about a
proof. But I think I'll improve as I grow older.
I won't be away till June. Then I'll have some queer books in my
satchel, and we'll talk the book over. I fear it is no use to discuss it
beforehand, as I shall be overwhelmed with work. Another volume of the
Talmud has come, and some books about music containing Chinese hymns. By
the way, in Spencer's last volume there is an essay on musical
origination. I have had only time to glance at it. Your Creole music
lecture cannot fail to be extremely curious; wish I could _hear_ and see
it. The melodies will certainly make a sensation if you have a good
assortment. Did you borrow anything from Gottschalk?--I hope you did:
the Bamboula used to drive the Parisians wild.
Thanks for the musical transcription. I'm afraid the project won't pan
out, however. Trübner & Co. of London made an offer, but wanted me to
guarantee the American sale of 100 copies--that means pay in advance. I
would not perhaps have objected, if they had mentioned a low price; but
when I tried to get them to come down to about 5s. per copy they did not
write me any more.
Then I abandoned the pursuit of the Ignis Fatuus of Success, and
withdrew into the Immensities and the Eternities, even as the rhinoceros
withdraweth into the recesses of the jungle. And I gave myself up to the
meditation of the Vedas and of the Puranas and of the Upanishads, and of
the Egyptian Ritual of the Dead,--until the memory of magazines and of
publishers faded out of my mind, even as the vision of demons.
Yours very truly,
L. HEARN.
TO W. D. O'CONNOR
NEW ORLEANS, May, 1884.
MY DEAR O'CONNOR,--I did not get time until to-day to drop you a line;
and just at present I am enthusiastically appreciating your observations
regarding The Foul Fiend Routine. I wish I could escape from his brazen
grip; and nevertheless he has done me service. He has stifled my younger
and more foolish aspirations, and clipped the foolish wings of my
earlier ambition with the sharp scissors of revision. It is true that I
now regret my inability to achieve literary independence; but had I
obtained a market for my wares in other years, I should certainly have
been so ashamed of them by this time, that I should fly to some desert
island. These meditations follow upon the incineration of several
hundred pages of absurdities written some years back, and just committed
to the holy purification of fire....
I am not, however, sorry for writing the fantastic ideas about love
which you so thoroughly exploded in your letter; they "drew you out,"
and I wanted to hear your views. I suppose, however, that the mad excess
is indulged in by every nation at a certain period of existence--perhaps
the Senescent Epoch, as Draper calls it. What a curious article might be
written upon "The Amorous Epochs of National Literatures,"--or something
of that sort; dwelling especially upon the extravagant passionateness of
Indian, Persian, and Arabic belles-lettres,--and their offshoots! Not to
bore you further with theories, however, I herewith submit another
specimen of excess from the posthumous poetry of Gautier. It has been
compared to those Florentine statuettes, which are kept in shagreen
cases, and only exhibited, whisperingly, by antiquaries to each
other....
There is real marmorean beauty in the lines,--their sculpturesqueness
saves them from lewdness. I think them more beautiful than Solomon's
simile, or the extravagances of the Gita-Govinda.
June 29.
You see how busy I have been. And my brain seems so full of dust and hot
sun and feverish vapours that it is hard to write at all.... I am
thinking of what you said about Arnold's translating the Koran. There
are two English translations besides Sale's--one in Trübner's Oriental
Series, and one in Max Müller's "Sacred Books of the East" (Macmillan's
beautiful edition). Sale's is chiefly objectionable because the _suras_
are not versified: the chapters not having been so divided in early
times by figures. But it is horribly hard to find anything in it. The
French have two superb versions: Kazimirski and La Beaume. Kazimirski is
popular and cheap; the other is an analytical Koran of 800 4to pp. with
concordance, and designed for the use of the Government bureaux in
Algeria. I have it. It is unrivalled.
My book is out; and you will receive a copy soon. If you ever have time,
please tell me if there is anything in it you like. It is not a gorgeous
production,--only an experiment. I have a great plan in view: to
popularize the legends of Islam and other strange faiths in a series of
books. My next effort will be altogether Arabesque--treating of Moslem
saints, singers, and poets, and hagiographical curiosities--eschewing
such subjects as the pilgrimage to the _ribath_ (monastery) of
Deir-el-Tiu in the Hedjaz, where fragments of the broken _aidana_ of
Mahomet are kissed by the faithful....
I'm sorry to say I know little of Bacon except his Essays. Those
surprised and pleased me. I started to read them only as a study of Old
English; but soon found the ideas far beyond the century in which they
were penned. You will be shocked, I fear, to know that I am terribly
ignorant of classic English literature,--of the sixteenth, seventeenth,
and eighteenth centuries. Not having studied it much when at college, I
now find life too short to study it,--except for style. When I want to
clear mine,--as coffee is cleared by the white of an egg,--I pour a
little quaint English into my brain-cup, and the Oriental extravagances
are gradually precipitated. But I think a man must devote himself to one
thing in order to succeed: so I have pledged me to the worship of the
Odd, the Queer, the Strange, the Exotic, the Monstrous. It quite suits
my temperament. For example, my memories of early Roman history have
become cloudy, because the Republic did not greatly interest me; but
very vivid are my conceptions of the Augustan era, and great my delight
with those writers who tell us how Hadrian almost realized that
impossible dream of modern æsthetes, the resurrection of Greek art. The
history of modern Germany and Scandinavia I know nothing about; but I
know the Eddas and the Sagas, and the chronicles of the Heimskringla,
and the age of Vikings and Berserks,--because these were mighty and
awesomely grand. The history of Russia pleaseth me not at all, with the
exception of such extraordinary episodes as the Dimitris; but I could
never forget the story of Genghis Khan, and the nomad chiefs who led
1,500,000 horsemen to battle. Enormous and lurid facts are certainly
worthy of more artistic study than they generally receive. What De
Quincey told us in his "Flight of a Tartar Tribe" previous writers
thought fit to make mere mention of.... But I'm rambling again.
I don't know whether I shall be able to go North as I hoped--I have so
much private study before me. But I do really hope to see you some day.
Couldn't you get down to our Exposition?...
Did you ever read Symonds's "Greek Poets"? The final chapters on the
genius of Greek art are simply divine. I mention them because of your
observation about our being or not being ephemeral. I feel fearful we
are. But Symonds says what I would have liked to say, so much better,
that I would like to let him speak for me with voice of gold.
Very truly your friend,
LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO H.E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, June, 1884.
DEAR KREHBIEL,--I'm expecting every day to get some Griot music and some
queer things, and have discovered an essay upon just the subject of
subjects that interests Us:--the effect of physiological influences upon
the history of nations, and "the physiological character of races in
their relation to historical events." Wouldn't it be fine if we could
write a scientific essay on Polynesian music in its manifestations of
the physiological peculiarities of the island-races? Nothing would give
me so much pleasure as to be able some day to write a most startling and
stupefying preface to some treatise of yours upon exotic music--a
preface nevertheless strictly scientific and correct. By the way, have
you any information about Eskimo music? If you have, tell me when I see
you. I have some singular songs with a _double-refrain_,--but no
music,--which I found in Rink. Why the devil didn't Rink give us some
melodies?
I am especially interested just now in Arabic subjects; but as I am
following the Arabs into India, I find myself studying the songs of the
bayaderes. They are very strange, and sometimes very pretty--sweetly
pretty. Maisonneuve promised to publish some of this Indian music; but
that was in '81, and we haven't got it yet. I have found curious titles
in Trübner's collection; but I'm afraid the music isn't
published--"Folk-Songs of Southern India," etc.
I want you to tell me how long you will stay in New York, as I would
like to go there soon. The vacations are beginning. Don't fail to keep
me posted as to your movements. How did you like the sonorous cry of the
bel-balancier man?
Am writing in haste; excuse everything excusable.
Yours affectionately,
L. HEARN.
A man ignorant of music is likely to say silly things without knowing it
when writing to a professor; so you must excuse my faults on the ground
of good will to you. I have just destroyed two pages which I thought
might be waste of time to read.
TO H.E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, June, 1884.
DEAR K.,--I want you to let me hear about old Bìlâl for the following
reasons:--
1. I have discovered that a biography of him--the only one in existence
probably--may be found in Wüstenfeld's "Nawawi," for which I have
written. If the text is German I can utilize it with the aid of a
_bouquiniste_ here.
2. I have been lucky enough to engage a copy of Ibn Khallikan in 24
volumes--the great Arabic biographer. It containeth legends. The book is
dear but invaluable to an Oriental student,--especially to me in the
creation of my new volume, which will be all Arabesques.
And here is another bit of news for you. My _Senegal_ books have thrown
a torrent of light on the whole history of American slave-songs and
superstitions and folk-lore. I was utterly astounded at the revelation.
All that had previously seemed obscure is now lucid as day. Of course,
you know the slaves were chiefly drawn from the _West Coast_; and the
study of ethnography and ethnology of the West Coast races is absolutely
essential to a knowledge of Africanism in America. As yet, however, I
have but partly digested my new meal.
Siempre á V.,
LAFCADIO HEARN.
NEW ORLEANS, June, 1884.
DEAR K.,--Your letter has given me unspeakable pleasure. In making
the acquaintance of Howells, you have met the subtlest and noblest
literary mind in this country,--scarcely excepting that prince of
critics, Stedman; and you have found a friend who will aid you in
climbing Parnassus, not for selfish motives, but for pure art's sake.
Cultivate him all you can....
I got a nice letter from Ticknor. He actually promises to open the
magazine-gates for me. And a curious coincidence is that the book is
published on my birthday, next Friday.
I will write you before I start for New York in a few weeks more....
I will bring my African books with me, and other things.
Yours sincerely,
LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, October, 1884.
DEAR KREHBIEL,--I sit down to write you the first time I have had
leisure to do justice to the subject for a month.
Now I must tell you what I am doing. I have been away a good deal, in
the Creole archipelagoes of the Gulf, and will soon be off again, to
make more studies for my little book of sketches. I sent you the No. 2,
as a sample. These I take as much pains with as with magazine work, and
the plan is philosophical and pantheistic. Did you see "Torn
Letters,"--(No. 1) about the _Biscayena_. The facts are not wholly true;
I was very nearly in love--not quite sure whether I am not a little in
love still,--but I never told her so. It is so strange to find one's
self face to face with a beauty that existed in the Tertiary
epoch,--300,000 years ago,--the beauty of the most ancient branch of
humanity,--the oldest of the world's races! But the coasts here are just
as I described them, without exaggeration,--and I am so enamoured of
those islands and tepid seas that I would like to live there forever,
and realize Tennyson's wish:--
"I will wed some savage woman; she shall rear my dusky race:
Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive and they shall run,--
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun,
Whistle back the parrot's call,--leap the rainbows of the brooks,--
Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books."
The islanders found I had one claim to physical superiority anyhow,--I
could outswim the best of them with the greatest ease. And I have
disciplined myself physically so well of late years, that I am no longer
the puny little fellow you used to know.
All this is sufficiently egotistical. I just wanted, however, to tell
you of my wanderings and their purpose. It was largely inspired by the
new style of Pierre Loti--that young marine officer who is certainly the
most original of living French novelists.
All this summer Page could not get away; so you will not have the
pleasure of seeing my very noble and lovable friend,--a tall, fine,
eagle-faced fellow, primitive Aryan type. I only got away on the pledge
to give the results to the _T.-D._, which is giving me all possible
assistance in my literary undertakings.
I was glad to receive Creole books, as I am working on Creole subjects.
Several new volumes have appeared. I have some Oriental things to send
you--music, if you will agree to return in one month from reception. But
you need not have expressed those other things--made me feel sorry. I
expressed them to you for other reasons entirely.
I have a delightful Mexican friend living with me, and teaching me to
speak Spanish with that long, soft, languid South American Creole accent
that is so much more pleasant than the harsher accent of Spain. His name
is José de Jesus y Preciado, and he sends you his best wishes, because
he says all my friends must be his friends too.
Now, I hope you'll write me a pretty, kind, forgiving letter,--not
condescendingly, but really nice,--you know what I mean.
Your supersensitive and highly suspicious friend,
LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, January, 1885.
DEAR FRIEND KREHBIEL,--Many, many happy New Years. Your letter came
luckily during an interval of rest,--so that I can answer it right away.
I have not been at all worried by your silence,--as your former kind
lines showed me you had fully forgiven my involuntary injustice and my
voluntary, but only momentary _malice_. (Please give this last the
French accent, which takes off the edge of the word.)
In a few days my Creole Dictionary will be published in New York; and I
will not forget to send you a copy, just as soon as I can get some
myself. I do not expect to make anything on the publication. It is a
give-away to a friend, who will not forget me if he makes money, but who
does not expect to make a fortune on it. This kind of thing is never
lucrative; and the publication of the book is justified only by
Exposition projects. As for the "Stray Leaves" I have never written to
the publishers yet about them,--so afraid of bad news I have been. But I
have dared to try and get a good word said for it in high places. I
succeeded in obtaining a personal letter from Protap Chunder Roy, of
Calcutta, and hope to get one from Edwin Arnold. This is cheeky; but
publishers think so much about a commendation from some acknowledged
authority in Oriental studies.
The prices are high; the markets are all "bulled;" and for the first
time I find my room rent here (twenty dollars per month) and my salary
scarcely enough for my extravagant way of life. Money is a subject I am
beginning to think of in connection with everything except--art. I still
think nobody should follow an art purpose with money in view; but if no
money comes in time, it is discouraging in this way,--that the lack of
public notice is generally somewhat of a bad sign. Happily, however, I
have joined a building association, which compels me to pay out $20 per
month. Outside of this way of saving, I save nothing,--except queer
books imported from all parts of the world.
Very affectionately yours,
HEARN.
TO H. E. KREHBIEL.
NEW ORLEANS, January, 1885.
MY DEAR KREHBIEL,--I fear I know nothing about Creole music or Creole
negroes. Yes, I have seen them dance; but they danced the Congo, and
sang a purely African song to the accompaniment of a dry-goods box
beaten with sticks or bones and a drum made by stretching a skin over a
flour-barrel. That sort of accompaniment and that sort of music, you
know all about: it is precisely similar to what a score of travellers
have described. There are no harmonies--only a furious contretemps. As
for the dance,--in which the women do not take their feet off the
ground,--it is as lascivious as is possible. The men dance very
differently, like savages, leaping in the air. I spoke of this spectacle
in my short article in the _Century_.
One must visit the Creole parishes to discover the characteristics of
the real Creole music, I suspect. I would refer the _Century_ to
Harris's book: he says the Southern darkies don't use the banjo. I have
never seen any play it here but Virginians or "upper country" darkies.
The slave-songs you refer to are infinitely more interesting than
anything Cable's got; but still, I fancy his material could be worked
over into something really pretty. Gottschalk found the theme for his
Bamboula in Louisiana--_Quand patate est chinte_, etc., and made a
miracle out of it.
Now if you want any further detailed account of the Congo dance, I can
send it; but I doubt whether you need it. The Creole songs, which I have
heard sung in the city, are Frenchy in construction, but possess a few
African characteristics of method. The darker the singer the more marked
the oddities of intonation. Unfortunately most of those I have heard
were quadroons or mulattoes. One black woman sang me a Voudoo song,
which I got Cable to write--but I could not sing it as she sang it, so
that the music is faulty. I suppose you have seen it already, as it
forms part of the collection. If the _Century_ people have any sense
they would send you down here for some months next spring to study up
the old ballads; and I believe that if you manage to show Cable the
importance of the result, he can easily arrange it....
You answered some of my questions charmingly. Don't be too sarcastic
about my capacity for study. My study is of an humble sort; and I never
knew anything, and never shall, about acoustics. But I have had to study
awful hard in order to get a vague general idea of those sciences which
can be studied without mathematics, or actual experimentation with
mechanical apparatus. I have half a mind to study medicine in practical
earnest some day. Wouldn't I make an imposing Doctor in the Country of
Cowboys? A doctor might also do well in Japan. I'm thinking seriously
about it.
This is the best letter I can write for the present, and I know it's not
a good one. I send a curiosity by Xp to you.
The Creole slaves sang usually with clapping of hands. But it would take
an old planter to give reliable information regarding the accompaniment.
Yours very truly,
L. HEARN.
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, 1885.
DEAR KREHBIEL,--I regret having been so pressed for time that I was
obliged to return your MS. without a letter expressing the thanks which
you know I feel. I scribbled in pencil--which you can erase with a bit
of bread--some notes on the Cajan song, that may interest you.
The Harpers are giving me warm encouragement; but advise me to remain a
fixture where I am. They say they are looking now to the South for
literary work of a certain sort,--that immense fields for observation
remain here wholly untilled, and that they want active, living,
opportune work of a fresh kind. I shall try soon my hand at fiction;--my
great difficulty is my introspective disposition, which leaves me in
revery at moments when I ought to be using eyes, ears, and tongue in
studying others rather than my own thoughts.
I find the word _Banja_ given as African in Bryan Edwards's "West
Indies." My studies of African survivals have tempted me to the purchase
of a great many queer books which will come in useful some day. Most are
unfortunately devoted to Senegal; for our English travellers are
generally poor ethnographers and anthropologists, so far as the Gold
Coast and Ivory Coast are concerned. You remember our correspondence
about the comparative anatomy of the vocal organs of negroes and whites.
A warm friend of several years' standing--a young Spanish physician and
professor here--is greatly interested in this new science: indeed we
study comparative human anatomy and ethnology in common, with
goniometers and Broca's instruments. He states that only microscopic
work can reveal the full details of differentiation in the vocal organs
of races; but calls my attention to several differences already noticed.
Gibb has proved, for instance, that the cartilages of Wrisberg are
larger in the negro;--this would not affect the voice especially; but
the fact promises revelations of a more important kind. We think of your
projects in connection with these studies.
I copied only your Acadian boat-song. What is the price of the
slave-song book? If you have time to send me during the next month the
music of "Michié Preval," and of the boat-song, I can use them admirably
in _Mélusine_....
Your friend,
L. H.
TO W. D. O'CONNOR
NEW ORLEANS, March, 1885.
Big P. S. No. 1.
I forgot in my hurried letter yesterday, to tell you that if you ever
want a copy of "Stray Leaves," don't go and buy it, as you have been
naughty enough to do, but tell me, and I'll send you what you wish. I
hope to dedicate a book to you some day, when I am sure it is worth
dedicating to you.
I am quite curious about you. Seems to me you must be like your
handwriting,--firmly knit, large, strong, and keen;--with delicate
perceptions, (of course I know _that_, anyhow!) well-developed ideas of
order and system, and great continuity of purpose and a disposition as
level and even as the hand you write. If my little scraggy hand tells
you anything, you ought to recognize in it a very small, erratic,
eccentric, irregular, impulsive, variable, nervous disposition,--almost
exactly your antitype in everything--except the love of the beautiful.
Very faithfully,
L. H.
Big P. S. No. 2.
I did not depend on _Le Figaro_ for statements about Hugo; but picked
them up in all directions. What think you of his refusal to aid poor
blind Xavier Aubryet by writing a few lines of preface for his book?
What about his ignoring the services of his greatest champion, Théophile
Gautier? What about his studied silence in regard to the works of the
struggling poets and novelists of the movement which he himself
inaugurated? I really believe that the man has been a colossus of
selfishness. One who prejudiced me very strongly against him, however,
was that eccentric little Jew, Alexander Weill, whose reminiscences of
Heine made such a sensation. Perhaps after all literary generosity is
rare. Flaubert and Gautier possessed it; but twenty cases of the
opposite kind, quite as illustrious, may be cited. In any event I am
glad of your rebuke. Whether my ideas are right or wrong, I believe we
ought not to speak of the weaknesses of truly great men when it can be
avoided;--therefore I cry _peccavi_, and promise to do so no more.
Yours very sincerely,
LAFCADIO HEARN.
[Illustration: MR. HEARN'S EARLIER HANDWRITING]
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, 1885.
DEAR KREHBIEL,--I have been away in Florida, in the track of old Ponce
de Leon,--bathing in the Fount of Youth,--talking to the
palm-trees,--swimming in the great Atlantic surf. Charley Johnson and I
took the trip together,--or to be strictly fair, it was he that induced
me to go along; and I am not sorry for the expense or the time spent, as
I enjoyed my reveries unspeakably. For bathing--sea-bathing--I prefer
our own Creole islands in the Gulf to any place in Florida; but for
scenery and sunlight and air,--air that is a liquid jewel,--Florida
seems to me the garden of Hesperus. I'll send you what I have written
about it....
Charles Dudley Warner, whose acquaintance made here, strikes me as the
nicest literary personage I have yet met.... Gilder of the _Century_ was
here--a handsome, kindly man.... A book which I recently got would
interest you--Symonds's "Wine, Women, and Song." I had no idea that the
Twelfth Century had its literary renascence, or that in the time of the
Crusades German students were writing worthy of Horace and Anacreon. The
Middle Ages no longer seem so Doresquely black.
Your friend,
LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO REV. WAYLAND D. BALL
NEW ORLEANS, 1885.
MY DEAR BALL,--I regret my long silence, now broken with the sincere
pleasure of being able to congratulate you upon a grand success and
still grander opportunities. The salary you are promised is nearly
double that obtained by the best journalist in the country (excepting
one or two men in highly responsible positions of managers); it far
exceeds the average earnings of expert members of the higher
professions; and there are not many authors in the United States who can
rely upon such an income. So that you have a fine chance to accumulate a
nice capital, as well as ample means to indulge scholarly tastes and
large leisure to gratify them. I feared, sensitive as you are, to weigh
too heavily upon one point before, but I think I shall not hesitate to
do so now. I refer to the question of literary effort. Again I would
say: Leave all profane writing alone for at least five years more; and
devote all your talent, study, sense of beauty, force of utterance to
your ministerial work. You will make an impression, and be able to rise
higher and higher. In the meanwhile you will be able to mature your
style, your thought, your scholarship; and when the proper time comes be
able also to make a sterling, good, literary effort. What we imagine new
when we are young is apt really to be very old; and that which appears
to us very old suddenly grows youthful at a later day with the youth of
Truth's immortality. None, except one of those genii, who appear at
intervals as broad as those elapsing in Indian myth between the
apparition of the Buddhas, can sit down before the age of thirty-five or
forty, and create anything really great. Again the maxim, "Money is
power,"--commonplace and vulgar though it be,--has a depth you will
scarcely appreciate until a later day. It is power for good, quite as
much as for evil; and "nothing succeeds like success," you know. Once
you occupy a great place in the great religious world of wealth and
elegance and beauty, you will find yourself possessed of an influence
that will enable you to realize any ambition which inspires you. This is
the best answer I can now give to your last request for a little
friendly counsel, and it is uttered only because I feel that being older
than you, and having been knocked considerably about the world, I can
venture to offer the results of my little experience.
As you say, you are drawing nearer to me. I expect we shall meet, and be
glad of the meeting. I shall have little to show you except books, but
we will have a splendid time for all that. Meanwhile I regret having
nothing good to send you. The story appeared in _Harper's Bazar_.
Sincerely your friend,
LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO REV. WAYLAND D. BALL
NEW ORLEANS, July, 1885.
MY DEAR BALL,--Your welcome letter came to me just at a happy moment
when I had time to reply. I would have written before, but for a
protracted illness. I am passionately fond of swimming; and the clear
waters of that Florida spring seduced me into a plunge while very hot.
The water was cold as death; and when I got back to New Orleans, I had
the novel experience of a Florida fever,--slow, torpid, and
unconquerable by quinine. Now I am all right.
The language of "Stray Leaves" is all my own, with the exception of the
Italic texts and a few pages translated from the "Kalewala." The Florida
sketch I sent you, although published in a newspaper, is one of a number
I have prepared for the little volume of impressions I told you about. I
sent it as an illustration of the literary theory discussed in our
previous correspondence, which I am surprised you remember so well.
Apropos of your previous letter, I must observe that I do not like
James Freeman Clarke's work,--immense labour whose results are nullified
by a purely sectarian purpose. Mr. Clarke sat down to study with the
preconceived purpose of belittling other beliefs by comparison with
Christianity,--a process quite as irrational and narrow as would be an
attempt in the opposite direction. My very humble studies in comparative
mythology led me to a totally different conclusion,--revealing to me a
universal aspiration of mankind toward the Infinite and Supreme, so
mighty, so deeply sincere, so touching, that I have ceased to perceive
the least absurdity in any general idea of worship, whether fetish or
monotheistic, whether the thought of the child man or the dream of hoary
Indian philosophy. Nor can I for the same reason necessarily feel more
reverence for the crucified deity than for that image of the Hindoo god
of light, holding in one of his many hands Phallus, and yet wearing a
necklace of skulls,--symbolizing at once creation and destruction,--the
Great Begetter and the Universal Putrifier.
A noble and excellently conceived address that of yours on Thos.
Paine,--bolder than I thought your congregation was prepared for. Yes, I
certainly think you are going to effect a great deal in a good cause,
the cause of mental generosity and intellectual freedom. I almost envy
you sometimes your opportunities as a great teacher, a social
emancipator, and I feel sure what you have already done is nothing to be
compared with what you will do, providing you retain health and
strength.
I don't know just what to say about your literary articles; but I can
speak to the editor-in-chief, who is my warm personal friend. The only
difficulty would be the bigotry here. Even my editorials upon Sanscrit
literature called out abuse of the paper from various N. O. pulpits, as
"A Buddhist Newspaper," an "Infidel sheet," etc. If published first in
the Boston paper, I could get the lecture reproduced, I think, in ours.
If you expect remuneration you would have to send the MS. first to us
and take the chances. I think what you best do in the interim would be
to write on the subject to Page M. Baker, Editor _T.-D._, mentioning my
name, and await reply.
You asked me in a former letter a question I forgot to answer. I have no
photograph at present, but will have some taken soon and will send you
one.
Very sincerely yours,
LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO REV. WAYLAND D. BALL
NEW ORLEANS, 1885.
DEAR BALL,--I regret extremely my long delay in writing you--due partly
to travel, partly to work, for I have considerable extra work to do for
the Harpers, and for myself. You ask me about literary ventures. I
suppose you have seen the little book Osgood published for me last
summer--"Stray Leaves from Strange Literature," a volume of Oriental
stories. Since then I have had nothing printed except a dictionary of
Creole proverbs which could scarcely interest you,--and some Oriental
essays, which appeared in newspapers only, but which I hope to collect
and edit in permanent form next year. Meantime I am working upon a
little book of personal impressions, which I expect to finish this
summer. Of course I will keep the story you want for you, and mail it;
and if you have not seen my other book I will send it you.
Your project about a correspondence is pleasant enough; but I am now
simply overwhelmed with work, which has been accumulating during a short
absence in Florida. In any event, however, I do not quite see how this
thing could prove profitable. I doubt very much if Christ is not a myth,
just as Buddha is. There may have been a teacher called Jesus, and there
may have been a teacher Siddartha; but the mythological and
philosophical systems attached to these names have a far older origin,
and represent only the evolution of human ideas from the simple and
primitive to the complex form. As the legend of Buddha is now known to
have been only the development of an ancient Aryan sun-myth, so probably
the legend of Jesus might be traced to the beliefs of primitive and
pastoral humanity. What matter creeds, myths, traditions, to you or me,
who perceive in all faiths one vast truth,--one phase of the Universal
Life? Why trouble ourselves about detailed comparisons while we know
there is an Infinite which all thinkers are striving vainly to reach by
different ways, and an Infinite invisible of which all things visible
are but emanations? Worlds are but dreams of God, and evanescent; the
galaxies of suns burn out, the heavens wither; even time and space are
only relative; and the civilization of a planet but an incident of its
growth. To those who feel these things religious questions are valueless
and void of meaning, except in their relation to the development of
ethical ideas in general. And their study in this light is too large for
the compass of a busy life.
In haste, your friend,
LAFCADIO HEARN.
I read your sermon with pleasure and gave a copy to our editor-in-chief.
TO W. D. O'CONNOR
NEW ORLEANS, July, 1885.
MY DEAR O'CONNOR,--Your kind little surprise came to me while I was very
ill, and, I believe, helped me to get better; for everything which
cheers one during an attack of swamp-fever aids convalescence. As you
know, I made a sojourn in East Florida; and I exposed myself a good
deal, in the pursuit of impressions. The wonderful water especially
tempted me. I am a good swimmer, and always crazy to enjoy a dive, so I
yielded to the seduction of Silver Spring. It was a very hot day; but
the flood was cold as the grip of old Death. I didn't feel the effect
right away; but when I got back home found I had a fever that quinine
would take no effect upon. Now I am getting all right, and will be off
to the sea soon to recruit.
Well, I thought I would wait to write until I could introduce myself to
you, as you so delicately divined that I wanted you to do to me; but I
delayed much longer than I wished or intended. Photographs are usually
surprises;--your face was not exactly what I had imagined, but it
pleased me more--I had fancied you a little stern, very dark, with
black eyes,--partly, perhaps, because others of your name whom I
knew had that purplish black hair and eyes which seems a special
race-characteristic,--partly perhaps from some fantastic little idea
evolved by the effort to create a person from a chirography, as though
handwriting constituted a sort of _track_ by which individuality could
be recognized. I know now that I should feel a little less timid in
meeting you; for I seem to know you already very well,--for a long
time,--intimately and without mystery.
I send a couple of little clippings which may interest you for the
moment,--one, a memory of Saint Augustine; the other, a translation
which, though clumsy, preserves something of a great poet's weird fancy.
I am sorry that I have so little to tell you in a literary way. As you
seem to see the _T.-D._ very often, you watch me tolerably closely, I
suppose. I have been trying to complete a little volume of impressions,
but the work drags on very, very slowly: I fear I shan't finish it
before winter. Then I have a little Chinese story accepted for _Harper's
Bazar_, which I will send you, and which I think you will like.
Otherwise my plans have changed. With the expansion of my private study,
I feel convinced that I know too little to attempt anything like a
serious volume of Oriental essays; but my researches have given me a
larger fancy in some directions, and new colours, which I can use
hereafter. Fiction seems to be the only certain road to the publishers'
hearts, and I shall try it, not in a lengthy, but a brief
compass,--striving as much as possible after intense effects. I think
you would like my library if you could see it,--it is one agglomeration
of exotics and eccentricities.
And you do not now write much?--do you? I would like to have read the
paper you told me of; but I fear the _Manhattan_ is dead beyond
resurrection--and, by the way, Richard Grant White has departed to that
land which is ruled by absolute silence, and in which a law of fair
play, unrecognized by our publishers, doth prevail. Do you never take a
vacation? If you could visit our Grande Isle in the healthy season, you
would enjoy it so much! An old-fashioned, drowsy, free-and-easy Creole
watering-place in the Gulf,--where there is an admirable beach, fishing
extraordinary, and subjects innumerable for artistic studies--a hybrid
population from all the ends of heaven, white, yellow, red, brown,
cinnamon-colour, and tints of bronze and gold. Basques, Andalusians,
Portuguese, Malays, Chinamen, etc. I hope to make some pen drawings
there.
Have you seen the revised Old Testament? How many of our favourite and
beautiful texts have been marred! I almost prefer the oddity of
Wickliffe.... And, by the way, I must tell you that Palmer's Koran is a
fine book! ("Sacred Books of the East," Macmillan.) Sale is now
practically obsolete.
Hoping I will be able, one of these days, to write something that I can
worthily dedicate to you,
Believe me
Very affectionately,
LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, October, 1885.
DEAR KREHBIEL,--I would suggest as a title for Tunison's admirably
conceived book, "The Legends of Virgil," or, better still, "The
Virgilian Legend" (in the singular), as it is the custom among
folklorists to assemble a class of interrelated myths or fables under
such a general head. Thus we have "The Legend of Mélusine, or Mère
Lusine;" "The Legend of Myrrdlium, or Merlin;" "The Legend of Don
Juan"--although each subject represents a large number of myths,
illustrating the evolutional history of one idea through centuries. This
title could be supplemented by an explanatory sub-title.
Of course you can rely on me to praise, sincerely and strongly, what I
cannot but admire and honourably envy the authorship of. I wish I could
even hope to do so fine a piece of serious work as this promises to be.
I am exceedingly grateful for your prompt sending of the Creole songs,
which I will return in a day or two. Some Creole music of an _inedited_
kind--just one or two fragments--I would like so as to introduce your
rôle well. I now fear, however, that I shall not be able to devote as
much time to the work as I hoped.
As for my "thinkings, doings, and ambitions," I have nothing interesting
to tell. I have accumulated a library worth $2000; I have studied a
great deal in directions which have not yet led me to any definite goal;
I have made no money by my literary outside work worth talking about;
and I have become considerably disgusted with what I have already done.
But I have not yet abandoned the idea of evolutional fiction, and find
that my ethnographic and anthropologic reading has enabled me to find a
totally new charm in character-analysis, and suggested artistic effects
of a new and peculiar description. I dream of a novel, or a novelette,
to be constructed upon totally novel principles; but the outlook is not
encouraging. Years of very hard work with a problematical result! I feel
pretty much like a scholar trying hard to graduate and feeling tolerably
uneasy about the result.
Since you have more time now you might drop a line occasionally. I hope
to hear you succeed with the Scribners;--if not, I would strongly
recommend an effort with Houghton, Mifflin & Co., the most appreciative
publishers on this side of the Atlantic.
Yours very affectionately,
LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, 1885.
DEAR K.,--I was in hopes by this time to have been able to have sent you
for examination a little volume by La Selve, in which a curious account
is given of the various negro-creole dances and songs of the Antilles.
The book has been ordered for a very considerable time, but owing to
some cause or other, its arrival has been delayed.
I find references made to Duveyrier (_Les Touaregs du Nord_) in regard
to the music of those extraordinary desert nomads, who retain their blue
eyes and blonde hair under the sun of the Timbuctoo country; and to
Endemann (by Hartmann) as a preserver of the music of the Basutos (South
Africa). Hartmann himself considers African music--superficially,
perhaps, in the smaller volume--in his "Peuples d'Afrique;" and in his
"Nigritiens" (Berlin: in 2 vols.). I have the small work ("Peuples
d'Afrique") which forms part of the French International Scientific
Series, but has not been translated for the American collection.
Hartmann speaks well of the musical "aptitudes" of the African races,
while declaring their art undeveloped; and he even says that the famous
Egyptian music of Dendera, Edfu, and Thebes never rose above the
orchestration at an Ashantee or Monbuttoo festival. He even remarks that
the instruments of the ancient Egyptian and modern Nigritian peoples are
almost similar. He also refers to the negro talents for improvisation,
and their peculiar love of animal-fables--the same, no doubt, which
found a new utterance in the negro myths of the South. The large work of
Hartmann I have never seen, and as it is partly chromolithographed I
fear it is very expensive. The names Hartmann and Endemann are very
German: I know of the former only through French sources,--perhaps you
have seen the original. He supports some of his views with quotations
you are familiar with perhaps--from Clapperton, Bowdich, and
Schweinfurth.
It is rather provoking that I have not been able to find any specimens
of Griot music referred to in French works on Senegal; and I fancy the
Griot music would strongly resemble (in its suitability to improvisation
especially) the early music of the negroes here. Every French writer on
Senegal has something to say about the Griots, but none seem to have
known enough music to preserve a chant. The last two works published
(Jeannest's "Au Congo" and Marche's "Afrique Occidentale") were written
by men without music in their souls. The first publishes pictures of
musical instruments, but no music; and the second gives ten lines to the
subject in a volume of nearly 400 pp. Seems to me that a traveller who
was a musician might cultivate virgin soil in regard to the African
music of the interior. All I can find relating to it seems to deal with
the music of South Africa and the west and north coasts;--the interior
is unknown musically. I expect to receive La Selve soon, however,--and
if his announcement be truthful, we shall have something of interest
therein regarding the cis-Atlantic Africa.
L. H.
I saw a notice in the _Tribune_ regarding the negro Pan's pipe described
by Cable. I never saw it; but the fact is certainly very interesting.
The cane is well adapted to inspire such manufacture.
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, 1885.
DEAR K.,--Just got a letter from you. Hope my reply to your delightful
suggestion was received. I fear I write too often; but I can only write
in snatches. Were I to wait for time to write a long letter, the result
would be either 0 or something worse.
I have already in my mind a little plan. Let me suggest a long preface,
and occasional picturesque notes to your learning and facts. For
example, I would commence by treating the negro's musical
patriotism--the strange history of the Griots, who furnish so singular
an example of musical prostitution, and who, although honoured and
petted in one way, are otherwise despised by their own people and
refused the rites of burial. Then I would relate something about the
curious wanderings of these Griots through the yellow desert northward
into the Moghreb country--often a solitary wandering; their performances
at Arab camps on the long journey, when the black slaves come out to
listen and weep;--then their hazardous voyaging to Constantinople, where
they play old Congo airs for the great black population of Stamboul,
whom no laws or force can keep within doors when the sound of Griot
music is heard in the street. Then I would speak of how the blacks carry
their music with them to Persia and even to mysterious Hadramaut, where
their voices are held in high esteem by Arab masters. Then I would touch
upon the transplantation of negro melody to the Antilles and the two
Americas, where its strangest black flowers are gathered by the
alchemists of musical science, and the perfume thereof extracted by
magicians like Gottschalk. (How is that for a beginning?)
I would divide my work into brief sections of about 1½ pages
each--every division separated by Roman numerals and containing one
particular group of facts.
I would also try to show a relation between negro _physiology_ and negro
music. You know the blood of the African black has the highest human
temperature known--equal to that of the swallow--although it loses that
fire in America. I would like you to find out for me whether the negro's
vocal cords are not differently formed, and capable of _longer_
vibration than ours. Some expert professor in physiology might tell you;
but I regret to say the latest London works do not touch upon the negro
vocal cords, although they do show other remarkable anatomical
distinctions.
Here is the only Creole song I know of with an African refrain _that is
still sung_:--don't show it to C., it is one of _our_ treasures.
(Pronounce "Wenday," "makkiyah.")
_Ouendé, ouendé, macaya!_
Mo pas barassé, _macaya_!
_Ouendé, ouendé, macaya!_
Mo bois bon divin, _macaya_!
_Ouendé, ouendé, macaya!_
Mo mangé bon poulet, _macaya_!
_Ouendé, ouendé, macaya!_
Mo pas barassé, _macaya_!
_Ouendé, ouendé, macaya!_--
_Macaya!_
I wrote from dictation of Louise Roche. She did not know the meaning of
the refrain--her mother had taught her, and the mother had learned it
from the grandmother. However, I found out the meaning, and asked her if
she _now_ remembered. She leaped in the air for joy--apparently.
_Ouendai_ or _ouendé_ has a different meaning in the eastern Soudan; but
in the Congo or Fiot dialect it means "to go"--"to continue to," "to go
on." I found the word in Jeannest's vocabulary. Then _macaya_ I found in
Turiault's "Etude sur la Langage Créole de la Martinique:" ça veut dire
"manger tout le temps"--"excessivement." Therefore here is our
translation:--
Go on! go on! _eat enormously!_
_I_ ain't one bit ashamed--_eat outrageously_!
_Go on! go on! eat prodigiously_!
_I_ drink good wine,--_eat ferociously_!--
Go on! go on!--_eat unceasingly_!--
I eat good chicken--gorging myself!--
Go on! go on! etc.
How is this for a linguistic discovery? The music is almost precisely
like the American river-music,--a chant, almost a recitative until the
end of the line is reached; then for your mocking-music!
And by the way, in Guyana, there is a mocking-bird more wonderful than
ours--with a voice so sonorous and solemn and far-reaching that those
Creole negroes who dwell in the great aisles of the forest call it _zozo
mon-pè_ (l'oiseau mon-père), the "My father-bird." But the word father
here signifieth a spiritual father--a _ghostly_ father--the
"Priest-bird"!
Now dream of the vast cathedral of the woods, whose sanctuary lights are
the stars of heaven!
L. H.
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, 1885.
DEAR KREHBIEL,--You are a terribly neglectful correspondent: I have
asked you nearly one hundred questions, not a single one of which you
have ever deemed it worth while to answer. However, that makes no matter
now,--as none of the questions were very important, certainly not in
your estimation. I think you are right about the negro-American music,
and that a Southern trip will be absolutely essential,--because I have
never yet met a person here able to reproduce on paper those fractional
tones we used to talk about, which lend such weirdness to those songs.
The naked melody robbed of these has absolutely no national
characteristic. The other day a couple of darkeys from the country
passed my corner, singing--not a Creole song, but a plain negro
ditty--with a recurrent burthen consisting of the cry:--
_Oh! Jee-roo-sa-le-e-em!_
I can't describe to you the manner in which the syllable _lem_ was
broken up into four tiny notes, the utterance of which did not occupy
one second,--all in a very low but very powerful key. The rest of the
song was in a regular descending scale: the _oh_ being very much
prolonged and the other notes very quick and sudden. Wish I could write
it; but I can't. I think all the original negro-Creole songs were
characterized by similar eccentricities. If you could visit a Creole
plantation,--and I know Cable could arrange that for you,--you would be
able to make some excellent studies.
Cable told me he wanted you to treat these things musically. I am
_sure_, however, that his versions of them lack something--as regards
rhythm (musical), time, and that shivering of notes into musical
splinters which I can't describe. I have never told him I thought so;
but I suggest the matter to you for consideration. I think it would be a
good idea to have a chat with him about a Southern trip in the interest
of these Creole studies. I am also sure that one must study the original
Creole-ditty among the full-blooded French-speaking blacks of the
country,--not among the city singers, who are too much civilized to
retain originality. When the bamboulas were danced there was some real
"Congo" music; but the musicians are gone God knows where. The results
of your Southern trip might be something very important. There is a rage
in Europe for musical folk-lore. Considering what Gottschalk did with
Creole musical themes, it is surprising more attention has not been paid
to the ditties of the Antilles, etc. I am told there are stunning
treasures of such curiosities in Cuba, Martinique,--all the Spanish and
French possessions, but especially the former. The outlook is
delightful; but I think with you that it were best to rely chiefly upon
_personal_ study. It strikes me the thing ought to be scientifically
undertaken,--so as to leave as little as possible for others to improve
upon or even to glean. If you care for names of French writers on
African music, I can send.
Didst ever hear the music of the Zamacueca?
L. H.
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, February, 1886.
DEAR KREHBIEL,--Your very brief note was received almost simultaneously
with my first perusal of your work in the _Century_. But the
Cala-woman's song is, I really think, imaginary. I have the real
cry,--six notes and some fractions,--which I will send you when I get a
man to write it down. The patate-cry is less African, but very pleasing.
I have been somewhat surprised to discover that the word Voudoo is not
African, but the corruption of a South-American mythological term with a
singular history--too long to write now, but at your service whenever
you may need it.
Plympton has been here on his way to the W. Indies _via_ Florida--a
white shadow, a ghost, a Voice,--utterly broken down. I fear his summers
are numbered. He will return to his desk only to die, I fancy. A good,
large-minded, frank, eccentric man--always a friend to me.
If you are interested in Provençal literature and song, and are not
acquainted with Hueffer's "Troubadours" (Chatto & Windus), let me
recommend the volume as one of the most compact and scholarly I have yet
seen. It is not exactly _new_, but new in its popularity on this side.
His theories are original; his facts, of course, may be all old to you.
Houssaye is not a New Orleans favourite, like Albert Delpit, the
Creole,--or Pierre Loti,--or Guy de Maupassant,--or the leaders of the
later schools of erudite romance, such as Anatole France,--or the
psychologists of naturalism. Finally, I am sorry to say, the same
material saw light months ago in the _Figaro_, and is now quite ancient
history to French-speaking New Orleans. However, I have to leave the
matter entirely to Page, and the greatest obstacle will be price,--as we
usually only pay $5 for foreign correspondence. Picayunish, I know; but
Burke will pay $75 for a note from Loti, or a letter from Davitt, just
for the name.
Try Roberts Bros, for Tunison. Chatto & Windus, of London, might also
like the book;--the only trouble is that in England there is a lurking
suspicion (not without foundation) of the untrustworthiness of American
work of this kind,--so many things have been done hastily in this
country, without that precision of scholarship and leisurely finish
indispensable to solid endurance. If they can only be induced to _read_
the MS., perhaps it would be all right. Rivington of London is another
enterprising firm in the same line.
I expect to see you this summer--also to send you a volume of Chinese
stories. Material is developing well. Won't write again until I can tear
and wrench and wring a big letter out of you.
Affectionately,
L. HEARN.
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, February, 1886.
MY DEAR MUSICIAN,--Your letter delighted me. Strange as it may seem to
you, the books and papers you sent me, I never received!
I feel a somewhat malicious joy in telling you that the translations you
considered so abominable are printed without the least alteration, and
also in assuring you that if you can spare time to read them you will
like them. Still, I must say that the book is not free from errors, and
that were I to do it all over again to-day, I should be able to improve
upon it. It is my first effort, however, and I am therefore a little
anxious; for to commence one's literary career with a collapse would be
very bad. I think I shall see you in New York this summer. I have a
project on foot--to issue a series of translations of archaeological and
artistic French romance--Flaubert's "Tentation de Saint-Antoine;" De
Nerval's "Voyage en Orient;" Gautier's "Avatar;" Loti's most
extraordinary African and Polynesian novels; and Baudelaire's "Petits
Poëmes en Prose." If I can get any encouragement, it is not impossible
that I might stay in New York awhile; but there is no knowing. I am
working steadily toward the realization of one desire--to get rid of
newspaper life.
No: I am not writing on music now--only book reviews, French and Spanish
translations, and an occasional editorial. The musical reviews of the
_Times-Democrat_ are the work of Jean Augustin--one of the few talented
Creoles here, who is the author of a volume of French poems, and is
personally a fine fellow. We are now very busy writing up the Carnival.
I have charge of the historical and mythological themes,--copies of
which I will send you when the paper is printed. One of the themes will
interest you as belonging to a novel and generally little known subject;
but I have only been able to devote two days apiece to them (four in
all), so you will make allowance for rough-and-ready work.
I am very happy to hear you are cozy, and nicely established, and the
father of a little one, which I feel sure must inherit physical and
mental comeliness of no common sort.
I cannot write as I wish to-day, as Carnival duties are pressing. So I
will only thank you for your kindness, and conclude with a promise to do
better next time.
Your friend and admirer,
L. HEARN.
By the way, would you like a copy of De l'Isere's work on diseases of
the voice, and the _rapports_ between sexual and vocal power? I have a
copy for you, but you must excuse its badly battered condition. I have
built up quite a nice library here; and the antiquarians bring me odd
things when they get them. This is one, but it has been abused.
L. H.
TO W. D. O'CONNOR
NEW ORLEANS, April, 1886.
MY DEAR O'CONNOR,--Your dainty little gift was deeply appreciated. By
this mail I send you a few papers containing an editorial on the
subject--rather hastily written, I much regret to say, owing to pressure
of other work,--but calculated, I trust, to excite interest in the
nobly-written defence of Mrs. Pott's marvellous commentary.
I have not written you because I felt unable to interest you in the
condition I have been long in--struggling between the necessities of my
_trade_ and the aspirations of what I hope to prove my _art_. I have a
little Chinese book on Ticknor & Co.'s stocks: if it appear you will
receive it, and perhaps enjoy some pages. The volume is an attempt in
the direction I hope to make triumph some day: _poetical prose_. I send
also some cuttings,--leaves for a future volume to appear, God knows
when, under the title "Notebook of an Impressionist." Before completing
it I expect to publish a novelette, which will be dedicated to you,--if
I think it worthy of you. I will work at it all this summer.
I may also tell you that since I last wrote a very positive change has
been effected in my opinions by the study of Herbert Spencer. He has
completely converted me away from all 'isms, or sympathies with 'isms:
at the same time he has filled me with the vague but omnipotent
consolation of the Great Doubt. I can no longer give adhesion to the
belief in human automatism,--and that positive skepticism that imposes
itself upon an undisciplined mind has been eternally dissipated in my
case. I do not know if this philosophy interests you; but I am sure it
would, if you are not already, as I suspect, an adept in it. I have only
read, so far, the First Principles; but all the rest are corollaries
only.
Now I have been selfish enough with my _Ego_;--let me trust you are
well, not over-busy, and as happy as it is possible to be under ordinary
conditions. I may run away to the sea for a while; I may run up North,
and take the liberty of spending a few hours in Washington on my way
back from New York. But whether I see you or not, believe always in my
sincere affection.
Your friend,
LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO W. D. O'CONNOR
NEW ORLEANS, April, 1886.
DEAR O'CONNOR,--I had not received your letter when I wrote mine. It
pained me to hear of your having been ill, and especially ill in a way
which I am peculiarly well qualified to understand--having been almost
given up for dead some eight years ago. The same causes, the same
symptoms--in every particular. Luckily for me I found a warmer
climate, a city where literary competition was almost nothing, and men
of influence who took an interest in my work, and let me have things my
own way. Rest and cultivation of the _animal_ part of me, and good care
by a dear good woman, got me nearly well again. I am stronger than I
ever was in some ways; but I have not the same recuperative vitality,--I
cannot trust myself to any severe mental strain. "Sickness is health,"
they say, for those who have received one of Nature's severe
corrections.
I mention my own case only to show that I understand yours, and to give
you, if possible, the benefit of my experience. Long sleep is necessary,
for two or three years. Do not be afraid to take ten, eleven, or twelve
hours when you so feel inclined. I observe that the mind accomplishes
more, and in a shorter time, after these protracted rests. Never work
when you feel that little pain in the back of the head. Rare
beefsteaks,--eggs just warmed,--and claret and water to stimulate
appetite as often as possible, are important. Doctors can do little; you
yourself can do a great deal. I think a few months, or even weeks, at
the sea, would astonish you by the result. It did me. The abyss, out of
which all mundane life is said to have been evolved,--the vast salt gulf
of Creation,--seems still to retain its mysterious power: the Spirit
still hovers over the Face of the Deep,--and the very breath of the
ocean gives new soul to the blood.
You will already know what I think of your beautiful book, with all of
which I heartily concur. But do not attempt to overwork any more. You
ought not to trust yourself to do more than three or four hours' work a
day,--and even this application ought to be interrupted at intervals. I
take a smoke every hour or so. The main thing--_please do not doubt
it_--is plenty of nourishment, cultivation of appetite, and much sleep.
Then Nature will right herself--slowly, though surely.
Do not write to me if it tires you. I know just how it is; I know also
that you feel well toward me even if you have to keep silence. I will
write whenever I think I can interest you,--and never fail to drop me a
line if I can do anything to please you--just a line. I would not have
been silent so long, had I even suspected you were ill. My own illness
of eight years back was caused by years of night-work--16 hours a day.
Several of my old comrades died at it. I quit--took courage to attempt a
different class of work, and, as the French say, I have been able to
re-make my constitution. I trust it won't bore you, my writing all this:
I understand so exactly how you have been that I am anxious to give all
the suggestions I can.
I remain, dear O'Connor,
Very affectionately,
LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, May, 1886.
DEAR KREHBIEL,--I think I shall soon be able to send you a Hindoo. Yes,
a Hindoo,--with Orientally white teeth, the result of vegetal diet and
Brahmanic abstemiousness--rather prognathous, I am sorry to say, and not
therefore of purest Aryan breed. He may be a Thug, a Sepoy deserter, a
Sikh drummed out of the army, a Brahmin who has lost caste, a Pariah
thief, a member of the Left-hand or of the Right-hand caste (or other
sections too horrible to name), a Jain, a half-breed Mongol Islamite
from Delhi, a Ghoorkha, a professional fraud, a Jesuitic convert on
trial ... I know not;--I send him to you with my best regard. You are
large and strong; you can take care of yourself! I send him to the
_Tribune_,--fearing the awful results of his visit to 305 West
Fifty-fifth Street.
How did I find him? Well, he came one day to our office to protest about
some of my editorials on Indian questions. I found he talked English
well, wrote with sufficient accuracy to contribute to the _T.-D._, and
had been in the Indian civil service. I questioned him on Hindoo
literature: found him somewhat familiar with the Mahabharata and
Ramayana, the Bhagavad-Gita and the Vedantas,--heard him reiterate the
names of the great Sanscrit poets and playwrights--Kalidasa, Vyasa,
Jayadeva, Bhartrihari. He first taught me accurately to pronounce the
awful title _Mricchakatikâ_, which means "The Chariot of Baked Clay;"
and he translated for me, although with great effort and very badly, one
of the delicious love-lyrics of the divine Amaron. Therefore I perceived
that he knew something vaguely about the vast Mother of Languages.
And he sang for me the chants of the temples, in a shrill Indian tenor,
with marvellously fine splintering of notes--melancholy, dreamy, drowsy,
like the effect of monotonous echoes in a day of intense heat and
atmospheric oppression.
Why, then, did not my heart warm toward him? Was it because, in the
columns of the _Times-Democrat_, he had boldly advocated the burning of
widows and abused the Government of which I remain a loving subject? Was
it because he made his appearance simultaneously with that of that
colossal fraud, the "North, South and Central American Exposition"? Nay:
it was because of his prognathism, his exceedingly sinister eye, like
the eye of a creature of prey; his shaky suppleness of movement; and his
mysterious past. How might I trust myself alone with a man who looked
like one of the characters of the "Moonstone"? And yet I regret ... what
a ridiculous romance I might have made!
Never mind, I send him to you! He says he is a Brahman. He says he can
sing you the chants and dirges of his sun-devoured land. Let him
sing!--let him chant! If he merit interest in the shape of fifty cents,
give it to him, and watch him slip it into his swarthy bosom with the
stealthy gesture of one about to pull forth a moon-shaped knife. Or tell
him where to get, or to look for work. He worked here in a moss-factory
and in a sash-factory and other factories; living upon rice and beans
more cheaply than a Chinaman. Yet beware you do not smite him on the
nostrils without large and solid reason. I give him a letter to you.
Amen! (P.S. His alleged name is Sattee or Suttee--perhaps most probably
the _latter_, as he advocates it.)
I received your book--a charming volume in all that makes a volume
charming: including clear tinted paper, not too glossy; fascinating
type; broad margins; tasteful binding. Thanks for dear little phrase
written in it. I will send first criticism of contents in shape of a
review. Have something else to talk of later.
I hope you received photograph sent by Baker through me,--and paper. The
translation does not convey original force of style; but it may serve to
reveal something of the author's _intensity_. His power of impressing
and communicating queer sensations makes him remarkable.
Affectionately,
L. HEARN.
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, 1886.
DEAR KREHBIEL,--I was waiting to write you in the hope of being able to
send you some literary news. I have my little Chinese book in Ticknor's
hands; but the long silence is still unbroken. The omen is not a bad
one, yet I am disappointed in not being able now, when replying to your
delightful letter, to tell you everything is O. K.,--because the book is
dedicated to you. There are only six little stories; but each of them
cost months of hard work and study, and represent a much higher attempt
than anything in the "Stray Leaves." The dedication will, I think, amuse
you if the book appears,--and will be more or less mysterious to the
rest of the world. I fear now it cannot be published in time to reach
you before you leave for Europe.
Well, dear old fellow, I think I must try to see you at New York anyhow.
At all events I must have a change. The prolonged humidity and
chilliness of our winter is telling on me; I have been considerably
pulled down in spite of an easy life, and must try the sea somewhere. I
fear the Eastern beaches are too expensive; but I could run North, and
spend the rest of the time allowed me after my visit at some obscure
fishing village. Europe, I fear, must be given up this summer. I could
visit Spain in company with a dear friend, Dr. Matas; but I feel it a
duty to myself to stick at literary work this summer in order to effect
a new departure.
Now, I must tell you about it. I am writing a novelette. It will require
at least twelve months to finish--though it will be a tiny book. It will
be all divided into microscopic chapters of a page or half-a-page each.
Every one of these is to be a little picture, with some novel features.
Some touches of evolutionary philosophy. I want to make something
altogether odd, novel, ideal in the best sense. The theme, I fear, you
will not like. The story of a somewhat improper love--a fascination
developed into a sincere but vain affection--an effort to re-create what
has been hopelessly lost,--a seeking after the impossible. I am not
quite sure yet how I shall arrange the main part;--there will be much
more of _suggestion_ than of real plot.... I do, indeed, remember your
advice; but I am not sorry not to have followed it before. My style was
not formed; I did not really know how to work; I am only now beginning
to learn. Ticknor writes that if I should undertake a novelette, he is
certain it would succeed. So I shall try. In trying I must study from
real material; I must take models where I can find them. Still the work
will be ideal to the verge of fantasy.
So much for that. If I have been selfish enough to talk first about
myself, it is partly because I cannot answer your question without
giving some of my own experience. You ask about style; you deem yours
unsatisfactory, and say that I overestimated it. Perhaps I may have
overestimated particular things that with a somewhat riper judgement I
would consider less enthusiastically. But I always perceived an uncommon
excellence in the tendency of your style--a purity and strength that is
uncommon and which I could never successfully imitate. A man's style,
when fully developed, is part of his personality. Mine is being shaped
for a particular end; yours, I think, is better adapted to an ultimately
higher purpose. The fact that you deem it unsatisfactory shows, I fancy,
that you are in a way to develop it still further. I have only observed
this, that it is capable of much more polish than you have cared to
bestow upon it. Mind! I do not mean _ornament_;--I do not think you
should attempt ornament, but rather force and sonority. Your tendency, I
think, is naturally toward classical purity and correctness--almost
severity. With great strength,--ornament becomes unnecessary; and the
general cultivation of strength involves the cultivation of grace. I
still consider yours a higher style than mine, but I do not think you
have cultivated it to one fourth of what it is capable. Now, let me say
why.
Chiefly, I fancy, for want of time. If you do not know it already, let
me dwell upon an art principle. Both you and I have a _trade_:
journalism. We have also an _art_: authorship. The same system of labour
cannot be applied to the one as to the other without unfortunate
results. Let the trade be performed as mechanically as is consistent
with preservation of one's reputation as a good _workman_: any more
labour devoted to it is an unpaid waste of time. But when it comes to
writing a _durable_ thing,--a book or a brochure,--every line ought to
be written at least twice, if possible _three_ times. Three times, at
all events, to commence with. First--roughly, in pencil: after which
correct and reshape as much as you deem necessary. Then rewrite _clean_
in pencil. Read again; and you will be surprised to find how much
improvement is possible. Then copy in ink, and in the very act of
copying, new ideas of grace, force, and harmony will make themselves
manifest. Without this, I will venture to say, fine literary execution
is _impossible_. Some writers need the discipline less than others. You,
for example, less than I. My imagination and enthusiasm have to be kept
in control; my judgements to be reversed or amended; my adjectives
perpetually sifted and pruned. But my work is ornamental--my dream is
poetical prose: a style unsuited to literature of the solid and
instructive kind. Have you ever worked much with Roget's
"Thesaurus"?--it is invaluable. Still more valuable are etymological
dictionaries like those of Skeat (best in the world), of Brachet
(French), of Dozy and Engelmann (Spanish-Arabic). Such books give one
that subtle sense of words to which much that _startles_ in poetry and
prose is due. Time develops the secret merit of work thus done....
These, dear K., are simply my own experiences, ideas, and impressions. I
now think they are correct. In a few years I might modify them. They may
contain useful suggestions. Our humblest friends may suggest valuable
things sometimes.
Talking of change in opinions, I am really astonished at myself. You
know what my fantastic metaphysics were. A friend disciplined me to read
Herbert Spencer. I suddenly discovered what a waste of time all my
Oriental metaphysics had been. I also discovered, for the first time,
how to apply the little general knowledge I possessed. I also learned
what an absurd thing positive skepticism is. I also found unspeakable
comfort in the sudden and, for me, eternal reopening of the Great Doubt,
which renders pessimism ridiculous, and teaches a new reverence for all
forms of faith. In short, from the day when I finished the "First
Principles,"--a totally new intellectual life opened for me; and I hope
during the next two years to devour the rest of this oceanic philosophy.
But this is boring you too much for the nonce.
Believe me, dear friend, affectionately,
LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, 1886.
DEAR KREHBIEL,--I must drop you another line or two; for you must let me
hear from you again before you go to Europe.
I have completely recovered from the nervous shock which the sudden
return of my tiny volume produced in spite of myself; and all my
scattered plans are being re-crystallized. I know my work is good in
some respects; and if it bears reading over well, next winter I may take
a notion to publish a small edition at my own expense. In fact, I
believe I will have to publish several things at my own expense. Even if
my art-ideas are correct (and I sincerely believe they are)--in their
most mature form they would represent a heterodox novelty in American
style, and literary heterodoxies no publisher will touch. I am going to
give up the novelette idea,--it is too large an undertaking at
present,--and will try short stories. My notebooks will always be
useful. Whenever I receive a new and strong impression, even in a dream,
I write it down, and afterwards develop it at leisure. These efforts
repay me well in the end.
There are impressions of blue light and gold and green, correlated to
old Spanish legend, which can be found only south of this line. I
obtained a few in Florida;--I must complete the effect by future visits:
therefore I shall go to the most vast and luminous of all ports known to
the seamen of the South--the Bay of the Holy Ghost (Espiritu Santo),--in
plainer language, Tampa. So I shall vegetate a while longer in the
South. I have some $600 saved up; but, I fear, under present
circumstances, that I would be imprudent to expend it all in a foreign
trip, and will wait until I can make some sort of impression with some
new sort of work. The _T.-D._ will save expenses for me on Florida trip,
and instead of roar and rumble of traffic and shrieking of steam and
dust of microbes, I shall dream by the shores of phosphorescent seas,
and inhale the Spirit that moveth over the face of the Deep.
I forgot in my last to thank you for little notice in the playbill of my
Gautier stories; but you were mistaken as to their being paraphrases.
They were literal translations, so far as I was able to make them at the
time. I am sorry that they now appear full of faults: especially as I
cannot get any publisher to take them away from Worthington. If I
succeed some day, I may be able to get out a more perfect edition in
small neat shape. "Stray Leaves" also has several hideous errors in it.
I never dare now to look at them for fear of finding something else
worse than before.
By the way, last year I had to muster up courage to condemn a lot of
phantasmagoria to the flames.
Very affectionately,
LAFCADIO.
DEAR K.,--Like a woman I must always add a P.S.
Something that has been worrying me demands utterance. A Paris
correspondent of the _Tribune_, grossly misinformed, has written an
error to that paper on "Lakme." "Lakme" may have been drawn from "Le
Mariage de Loti,"--the weirdest and loveliest romance, to my notion,
ever written;--but that novel has nothing to do with India or English
officers. It is a novel of Polynesian life in Tahiti. It is unspeakably
beautiful and unspeakably _odd_. I translated its finest passages in a
so-and-so way when it first came out, and won the good will of its
clever author, Julien Viaud, who sent me his portrait and a very pretty
letter. I have collected every scrap "Loti" wrote, and translated many
things: will send you a rough-and-ready translation from his new novel
on Sunday. No writer ever had such an effect upon me; and time
strengthens my admiration. I hold him the greatest of living writers of
the Impressionist School; and still he is something more--he has a
spirituality peculiarly his own, that reminds you a little of Coleridge.
I cannot even think of him without enthusiasm. Therefore I feel sorry to
hear of him being misrepresented. He is a great musician in the
folk-lore way, too; and in one of my letters to him I mentioned your
name. Some day you might come together; and he could sing you all the
Polynesian and African songs you want. He has lived in the Soudan. I
sent you once a fragment by him upon those African improvisors, called
Griots. If the _Tribune_ ever wants anything written about Loti, see if
you can't persuade them to apply to me. I know all about his life and
manners, and I would not ask any remuneration for so delightful a
privilege as that of being able to do him justice in a great paper. His
address is 141 Rue St. Pierre, Rochefort-sur-Mer. You might see him in
Europe, perhaps.
LAFCADIO H.
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, October, 1886.
DEAR KREHBIEL,--While in hideous anxiety I await the decision of my
future by various damnably independent censors, I must seize the moment
of leisure--the first calm after a prolonged storm of work--to chat with
you awhile, and to thank you for your musical aid. Alden is, of course,
deliberating over the "Legend of l'Ile Dernière;" Roberts Bros. are
deliberating over "Chinese Ghosts;" I am also deliberating about a
voyage to Havana, the Mystical Rose of a West Indian dawn--with palms
shaking their plumes against the crimsoning. What are you deliberating
about? Something that I shall be crazy to read, no doubt, and will have
the delight of celebrating the appearance of in the editorial columns of
the provincial _T.-D._! O that I were the directing spirit of some new
periodical--backed by twenty million dollar publishing interests,--and
devoted especially to the literary progression of the future,--the
realization of a dream of poetical prose,--the evolution of the
Gnosticism of the New Art! Then, wouldn't I have lots to say about The
Musician,--_my_ musician,--and the Song of Songs that is to be!
For my own purpose now lieth naked before me, without shame. I suppose
we all have a purpose, an involuntary goal, to which the Supreme Ghost,
unknowingly to us, directs our way; and when we find we have
accomplished what _we_ wished for, we also invariably find that we have
travelled thither by a route very different from that which we laid out
for ourselves, and toward a consummation not precisely that which we
anticipated--although pleasing enough. Well, you remember my ancient
dream of a poetical prose,--compositions to satisfy an old Greek
ear,--like chants wrought in a huge measure, wider than the widest line
of a Sanscrit composition, and just a little irregular, like
Ocean-rhythm. I really think I will be able to realize it at last. And
then, what? I really don't know. I fancy that I shall have produced a
pleasant effect on the reader's mind, simply with pictures; and that the
secret work, the word-work, will not be noticed for its own sake. It
will be simply an eccentricity for critics; an originality for those
pleased by it--but I'm sure it will be grateful unto the _musical_ ear
of H. E. K.!
Now I remember promising to write about going to New York.
Br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r!
'Tis winter. My lizard blood freezes at the thought. In my room it is
71°: that is cold for us. New York in winter signifieth for such as
me--Dissolution,--eternal darkness and worms. Transformation of physical
and vital forces of L. H. into the forces of innumerable myriads of
worms! "And though a man live many years, and rejoice in them all--yet
let him remember the Days of Darkness,--for they shall be many!" No:
March, April, or May! But you say,--"Then it will be the same old story,
and seasons will cycle, and generations pass away, and yet he will not
come." Yet there are symptoms of my coming: little spider-threads of
literary weaving with New York are thickening. When the rope is strong,
I can make my bridge.--Think of the trouble I would have with my $1800
of books, and all my other truck. Alas! I have an anchor!
My friend Matas has returned. He tells me delightful things about
Spanish music, and plays for me. He also tells me much concerning Cuban
and Mexican music. He says these have been very strongly affected by
African influence--full of contretemps. He tried to explain about the
accompaniments of Havanen and Mexican airs having peculiar
interresemblances of a seemingly _dark_ origin--the bass goes all the
time something like _Si, Mi, Si,--si, mi, si_. "See me?--see?" that's
how I remembered it. But he has given me addresses, and I will be able
to procure specimens.
Affectionately,
LAFCADIO.
TO W. D. O'CONNOR
NEW ORLEANS, February, 1887.
DEAR O'CONNOR,--Please, if feeling free enough from other and more
important labours, write to me, let me have a few lines from
you--telling me how you are, and how the years pass.
With me they have been somewhat uneventful--except, indeed, that your
wish to see me succeed with the Harpers has been realized: I have become
a contributor to the _Magazine_, and am going to have the honour of a
short sketch of myself in it,--of course, in connection with the New
Southern Literary Movement. And I will also soon have the pleasure of
sending you a new production, just got, or getting out by a Boston
house,--my "Chinese Ghosts;" brief studies in poetical prose, if you
like. They may amuse you in a leisure moment.
I am soon going to run away to Florida, and perhaps the West Indies, for
a romantic trip--a small literary bee in search of inspiring honey.
There is a good market for books on Florida; and I may be able to get
one out this next winter. You will like my sketch in _Harper's_ when it
appears, as it deals with topics in which you are directly interested
professionally,--Gulf-coasts and shifting dunes, sands, winds and tides,
storms, and valiant saving of life. I think I am beginning to learn how
to do good work.
I trust you are feeling strong and hearty. Last time you wrote me you
were quite ill.
How delightful it would be if you could take a trip with me in March, to
the Floridian springs, to windy Key West, or to the palmier Antilles,
where we might watch together the rose-blossoming of extraordinary
sunrises, the conflagration of apocalyptic sunsets. Is it impossible? My
dreams now are full of fantastic light--a Biblical light: and the
World-Ghost, all blue, promises inspiration. Could we not celebrate the
Blue Ghost's pentecost together?
Affectionately,
LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO W. D. O'CONNOR
NEW ORLEANS, March, 1887.
DEAR O'CONNOR,--I was sincerely pained to hear of your illness; and
reading your long, kind, affectionate letter, felt that I had, without
intending it, strained your generosity by causing you to write so much
while ill. Not that your letter was wanting in any of those splendid and
unique qualities which, I think, make you unrivalled as a letter-writer;
but that, having been once severely shocked by overwork myself, I am
fully aware how much it costs to write a long letter when the nervous
system flags. In sending you this tiny book, I only desire to amuse you
in leisure moments when you might feel inclined to read it;--don't think
I want you to write me about it; for if you were to write again before
you get quite strong you would pain me....
I find I will have to go to the West Indies by way of New York;--at
first I intended to go through lower Florida, and take a steamer at Key
West for Havana. But I would have to change vessels so many times, I
thought it best to get a New York steamer for Trinidad. In Trinidad I
can see South American flora in all their splendour; in Jamaica and,
especially, Martinique, I can get good chances to study those Creole
types which are so closely allied to our own. I want to finish a tiny
volume of notes of travel--Impressionist-work,--always keeping to my
dream of a _poetical prose_.
But I feel you will have to make some new departure in your own work at
Washington: so terrible a mill as they have there for grinding minds,
frightens me! I used to think Government positions were facile to fill,
and exacted less than ordinary professions in private life. I see such
is not the case; and I hope you will be prudent, and not return to the
same exacting duties again--_enemigo reconciliado, enemigo doblado_. My
own sad experience at journalistic work, which broke me down, did me
great good: it rendered it out of the question ever to put myself in a
similar situation, and instead of the old loss of liberty I found
leisure to study, to dream a little, to conceive an ambition which I now
hope to fulfil in the course of a few years, if I live. Out of the
misfortune, good came to me; and I notice that Nature is really very
kind when we obey her;--she gives back more than she takes away, she
lessens energies to increase mental powers of assimilation; she compels
recognition, like the God of Job "who maketh silence in the high
places," and after having taught us what we _cannot_ do, then returns to
us a hundredfold that which she first took away. This is just what she
will do for you; and I even hope the day will come when you will feel
quite glad that you did overwork yourself a little, because the result
turned the splendid stream of your mind into a broader channel of daily
action, not confined within boundaries of hewn stone, but shadowed by
odorous woods, and swept by free winds, and changing under the pressure
of the will-current.
I want you to feel full of cheer and faith in this dear Nature of ours,
who is certain to make you strong and lucky,--if you don't go back to
that horrid brain-mill in the Capital.
I will write you a little while I am gone,--if I can find a little
strange bit of tropical colour to spread on the paper,--like the fine
jewel-dust of scintillant moth-wings.
Believe me, with sincerest wishes and regards,
Affectionately,
LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, 1887.
DEAR KREHBIEL,--Your letter contained a cutting truth,--"This is not a
country to dream in; but to get rich or go to the poorhouse." Still, O
golden-haired musician, is it not a crime to stifle the aspirations
toward the beautiful which strive to burn upon the altar of every
generous heart? Why not aim to kindle the holy fire, in spite of harsh
realities and rains of Disappointment?
If you have written any pretty things recently let me see a copy soon as
possible.
Don't forget me altogether. It will be best to address me at
post-office.
A gentleman lent me a bundle of Creole music yesterday. I could not copy
it; the writing was too funny; but he is going to have it copied in
order to send it to you.
Very truly yours,
LAFCADIO HEARN.
_Afterthought!_--It has just occurred to me to ask if you are familiar
with Lissajous' experiments. I know nothing about them except what I
found in Flammarion's great "Astronomie Populaire." One extraordinary
chapter on numbers gives diagrams of the vibrations of
harmonics--showing their singular relation to the geometrical designs of
crystal-formation;--and the chapter is aptly closed by the Pythagorean
quotation: Ἀεὶ ὁ Θεὸς γεωμετρεί.--"God _geometrizes_ everywhere."... I
should imagine that the geometry of a fine opera would--were the
vibrations outlined in similar fashion--offer a network of designs which
for intricate beauty would double discount the arabesque of the
Alhambra. I was reading in an article on Bizet not long ago that music
has ceased to be an art and has become a _science_--in which event it
must have a _mathematical_ future!... Probably all this is old to you;
but it produced such an impression upon me when I first saw it, that I
believe its mention won't tire you anyhow. And then, between friends, it
is a pleasure to exchange thoughts even of the most hyperbolical, and,
perhaps, useless description.
L. H.
I send specimen music choral dance of Greek women in Megara. It is
called _La Trata_, and was first published in Bourgault-Ducoudray's
"Souvenirs d'une mission musicale en Grèce;"--I took mine from
_Mélusine_. The dance is very peculiar, and is supposed to have been
danced in antique times at the festival of Neptune or Poseidon. The
women form a chain, by so interlacing their hands that across each
woman's breast the hands of those on either side of her are clasped. The
dancers move forward and retreat in file,--as if pulling _nets_. Ancient
tomb-paintings show it was known in early Roman times also;--might not
the music be as old as the dance,--as old as Phidias anyhow?... I
suppose this is absurd, but wish it wasn't.
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
NEW ORLEANS, 1887.
DEAR KREHBIEL,--Excuses for silence between us are, I fancy, recognized
as unnecessary, since they always have a good cause. I read with
admiration and pleasure the fine critiques you were kind enough to send
me; and I verily believe that you will be recognized sooner or later, if
you are not already, as the best musical critic in the United States. Of
course, I'm talking now on a subject I know little about; yet, if there
be any superior to you, I am sure it is only that, being much older than
you, they may have had a generation longer of opportunities for study.
My little book is advancing; and I am now face to face with what I
recognize as one of the most awful situations in life, the criticism of
the proof-reader. I don't mean the commonplace proof-reader, who is a
mere printer; but the terrible scholar who supervises proofs for a
leading class of publishers, such as the man of the University or
Riverside Press, who knows all rules of grammar, all laws of form, all
the weaknesses of writers,--and whose frightful suggestions are often
simply crushing! What you have spent a month in making a beauty-blossom
of style, may suddenly fade into worthless dust at one touch of his
terrific pencil, making the simple hook-mark "?". I can imagine I hear a
voice asking: "Do you desire to make a fool of yourself by having this
line in print?" And then the after-thoughts, the premature hurrying away
of proofs, the frantic rush to the telegraph-office to have them
returned or corrected, the humble letters of apology for trouble given,
the yells of anguish in bed at night when I think to myself, "Oh! what a
d--d ass I have been!" I have been now three times in front of this
awful man, and like the angels he is without wrath and wholly without
pity.
Your query about an opera-subject which suggested my lines about Rabyah,
also inspired me to make the story a poetical sketch in my best style,
which I sent to _Harper's Bazar_; and perhaps, when you read it, you
will think again more favourably about the theme. I am going one of
these days to make a study on the romance of Rabyah's courtship and
marriage, which is very pretty in the rendering of the old Arabian
chronicles. I understand exactly what you want; but not having any
accurate idea of stage-necessities and theatrical exigencies, I fear
you must always remain the one to determine the worth of any operatic
suggestion possible to make. Now, for example, I can't understand why
Rabyah's death could not be _mounted_, etc. You will like the _colour_
of my sketch for the _Bazar_, to which I gave the title of "Rabyah's
Last Ride." I have adopted the Arabic names, in preference to Lyall's or
Muir's, unpronounceable at sight.--It seems to me that you can devise a
splendid piece of gloomy beauty from the "Kalewala."
I am going to the West Indies as soon as my book is out. It will be a
tiny 16mo, with Chinese figures.
Believe me always your warmest friend,
LAFCADIO.
I made a mistake in writing you about Hindola and Kabit; they represent
poetical measures, or styles of chant, not instruments. See how my
memory failed me.
TO ELIZABETH BISLAND
NEW ORLEANS, 1887.
DEAR MISS BISLAND,--More than two weeks before receiving your most
welcome letter, I wrote to Messrs. Roberts Bros. of Boston to send you,
as soon as published, a copy of "Chinese Ghosts," which will appear in a
few weeks. It opens with the story of the Bell--the legend of the Great
Bell of Pekin, or Pe-King;--and you will also find in it the "Legend of
the Tea-Plant:" both in better form than that which you first saw....
If you watch the _Harper's Bazar_, you will find in it a little
pre-Islamic story--"Rabyah's Last Ride,"--which I expect will please
you.
I am under so many obligations to you that I can't attempt to thank you
_seriatim_; but I am especially grateful to you for the pleasure of
knowing something of Mrs. Alice W. Rollins. All the nice little things
you have written about me and said about me, I can only hope to thank
you for _as I should like_, when I am better able to prove what I feel.
As for your criticism of my queer ways, I can only say in explanation
that I suspected a slightly sarcastic tendency where I was no doubt
mistaken, and simply beat retreat from an imaginary fire.
Anyhow, let me assure you no one has ever had a sincerer belief in, or a
higher opinion of your abilities, or a profounder recognition of many
uncommon qualities discerned in you,--than myself. I trust you will soon
receive the visit of the Ghosts: there are only six of them.
Very truly and gratefully,
LAFCADIO HEARN.
TO ELIZABETH BISLAND
NEW ORLEANS, April 7 and 14, 1887.
DEAR MISS BISLAND,--Your delightful letter ought, I imagine, to have
been answered before; but among literary brothers and sisters a little
delay can always be comprehended and forgiven, even without explanation.
The explanation, however, might be interesting to one who feels so
generous a sympathy with my work. I am trying to find the Orient at
home,--to apply the same methods of poetical-prose treatment to modern
local and living themes. The second attempt, in form of a novelette, is
nearly ready. The subject of the whole is one which you love as much as
I,--Louisiana Gulf-life.
Yes, indeed, I remember the Baboo!--with his prognathic profile, and his
Yakshasa smile. I remember him especially, perhaps, because I first
learned in his presence that your eyes were grey, instead of black.... I
sent the Baboo to Krehbiel with a letter last summer;--taking care,
however, to warn my friend against the ways of the Phansigars. Really
the Baboo was an uncanny fellow; and the mysterious fact of his
discharge from the British Civil Service impressed me as suspicious.
I think you are really lucky to be able to see and hear a Brahmin, and
to find the East at your right hand. _Atmans_ and _mantras_, and the
_skandhas_, and the Days and Nights of Him with the unutterable name,
and the mystic syllable Aum! Enough to suggest all the rest,--light,
warmth, sounds, and the splendour of nights in which fountain-jets of
song do bubble up from the rich flood of flower-odours.... Perhaps I
shall be able to see the Brahmin;--I hope to be in New York early in
May. I do not know whether I shall behold _you_;--you will be there, as
here, a blossom dangerous to approach by reason of the unspeakable
multitude of bees!
I have always wondered at your pluck in going boldly into the mouth of
that most merciless of all monsters--a Metropolis of the first
dimension,--and at your success in the face of very serious difficulties
of the competitive sort. Let me hope you will feel always confident, as
I do, that you are going to do more. You have one very remarkable and
powerful faculty,--that of creating an impression, that remains, with a
very few words. It shows itself in little things--for example, your few
lines about the composite photos. Do you still write verse? A little
volume of poetry by you is something I hope to see one of these days.
The only thing I used to be afraid of regarding you was that you might
lack the rare yet terribly necessary gift of waiting. And yet, there is
something very unique in your literary temperament;--you are able to
reach an effect at once and directly which others would obtain only by
long effort. If you like anything I have done, it is because I have
taken horrible pains with it. Eight months' work on one sketch;--then
eight months on another--not yet finished; but happily 120 pages are
done; and the first was only 75. The attempt at romantic work on modern
themes taught me lots of things. One is, that the purpose, as well as
the thought, must evolve itself, but the thought must come first;--then
the thing begins to develop--and always in a different way from that at
first intended. Also I found that the importance of noting down
_impressions_, introspective or otherwise,--and expanding them at
leisure, is simply enormous. Perhaps you know all this already;--if not,
try it and get a pretty surprise.
I have one thing more to chat about;--I am trying to get all my friends
to read Herbert Spencer--beginning with "First Principles." Slow
reading, but invaluable; systematizes all one's knowledge and plans and
ideas. I've made three converts. The only way to read him is by
paragraphs--all of which are numbered. I am now wrestling with the two
big volumes of "Biology," and have digested one of the "Sociology." The
"Psychology" I will touch last, though it is his mightiest work. Four
years' study, at least, for me to complete the reading. But "First
Principles" contain the digest of all;--the other volumes are merely
corollaries. When one has read Spencer, one has digested the most
nutritious portion of all human knowledge. Also the style is worth the
labour,--puissant, compact, and melodious.
Believe me always with many thanks for kind letter,
Your friend and literary brother,
LAFCADIO HEARN.
Twice commenced, it is time this rambling document should finish. But I
forgot to tell you C. D. Warner is here--stops at No. 13 Rampart. He
called once at my rooms, seated himself among the papers, dust, bad
pictures, and general desolation; and went away, leaving his card upon
the valise (long-extemporized into a desk). I did not see him! He never
called again.
TO GEORGE M. GOULD
NEW ORLEANS, April, 1887.