KŌBE, January, 1895.
DEAR HENDRICK:--Three books and a catalogue reached me--Mallock,
Kipling, and a volume by Morris--for which more than thanks the value
much exceeding, I fear, the slight difference between us.
It now seems to me that time is the most precious of all things
conceivable. I can't waste it by going out to hear people talk
nonsense,--or by going to see pretty girls whom I can't marry, being
married already,--or by playing games of cards, etc., to kill time,--or
by answering letters written me by people who have neither real fine
feeling nor real things to say. Of course I might on occasion do some
one of these things,--but, having done it, I feel that so much of my
life has been wasted--sinfully wasted. There are rich natures who can
afford the waste; but I can't, because the best part of my life has been
wasted in wrong directions and I shall have to work like thunder till I
die to make up for it. I shall never do anything remarkable; but I think
I have caught sight of a few truths on the way.
I might say that I have become indifferent to personal pleasures of
any sort,--except sympathy and sympathetic converse; but this might
represent a somewhat morbid state. What is more significant, I think, is
the feeling that the greatest pleasure is to work for others,--for those
who take it as a matter of course that I should do so, and would be as
much amazed to find me selfish about it as if an earthquake had shaken
the house down. Really I am not affecting to think this; I feel it so
much that it has become a part of me.
Then of course, I like a little success and praise,--though a big
success and big praise would scare me; but I find that even the little
praise I have been getting has occasionally unhinged my judgement. And I
have to be very careful.
Next, I have to acknowledge to feeling a sort of resentment against
certain things in which I used to take pleasure. I can't look at a
number of the _Petit Journal pour Rire_ or the _Charivari_ without
vexation, almost anger. I can't find pleasure in a French novel written
for the obvious purpose of appealing to instincts that interfere with
perception of higher things than instincts. I would not go to see the
Paris opera if it were next door and I had a free ticket--or, if I did
go, it would be for the sake of observing the pleasure given to somebody
else. I should not like to visit the most beautiful lady and be received
in evening dress. You see how absurd I have become--and this without any
idea of principle about the matter, except the knowledge that I ought to
avoid everything which does not help the best of myself--small as it may
be. Whenever by chance I happen to make a deviation from this general
rule, work suffers in consequence.
I think that on the whole I am gaining a little in the path; but I
have regular fits of despondency and disgust about my work, of course.
One day I think I have done well; the next that I am a hideous ass and
fool. Much is a question of nervous condition. But I feel sure that a
long-continued period of self-contentment would be extremely injurious
to me; and that checks and failures and mockeries are indispensable
medicine.
I read the books you sent me--Mallock only because _you_ wished me to
read it. I suppose it is the very best thing he ever did. How immensely
clever and keen and--immoral! It is a wonderful thing.
"The Wood beyond the World" astounded me. Its value is in the study of
the quaint English; but you know that such a thing could not be written
in modern English prose very well; and I must say that I feel like
disputing the _raison d'être_ thereof. It is simply a very naughty story.
Kipling is priceless,--the single story of Purim Bagat is worth a
kingdom; and the suggestive moral of human life is such a miracle! I
can't tell you what pleasure it gave me. Indeed the three books--as
representing three totally distinct fields of literary work--were a
great treat.
My boy is quite well again, though we were very frightened about him.
He suffers from the cold every winter (you know the Japanese never have
fire in winter), but he is getting hardier, I trust. He is very fond of
pictures and says funny things about the pictures in the "Jungle Book."
I am off to the Southern Islands shortly,--so you may not hear from me
for some weeks.
Ever affectionately,
LAFCADIO HEARN.