TŌKYŌ, January, 1896.
DEAR HENDRICK,--It is really queer, you know--this university. It is
imposing to look at,--with its relics of feudalism, to suggest the
picturesque past, surrounding a structure that might be in the city of
Boston, or in Philadelphia, or in London, without appearing at all out
of place. There is even a large, deserted, wood-shadowed Buddhist temple
in the grounds!
The students have uniforms and peculiar caps with Chinese letters on
them; but only a small percentage regularly wear the uniform. The old
discipline has been relaxed; and there is a general return to sandals
and robes and _hakama_,--the cap alone marking the university man.
About seventy-five per cent of the students ought not to be allowed in
the university at all for certain branches. Some who know no European
language but French attend German lectures on philosophy; some who
know nothing of any European language attend lectures on philology.
What is the university, then?--is it only a mask to impose upon the
intellectual West? No: it is the best Japan can do, but it has the
fault of being a gate to public office. Get through the university, and
you have a post--a start in life. Fancy the outside Oriental pressure
to force lads through--the influences intercrossing and fulminating!
Accordingly, the power within is little more than nominal. Who rules in
fact? Nobody exactly. Certainly the Directing President does not,--nor
do the heads of colleges, except in minor matters of discipline.
All, or nearly all, are graduates of German, English, or French or
American universities;--they know what ought to be--but they do only
what they can. Something nameless and invisible, much stronger than
they,--political perhaps, certainly social,--overawes the whole business.
[Illustration: MR. HEARN'S GARDEN IN TŌKYŌ]
I ought not to say anything, and won't _except to you_. No foreign
professor says much,--even after returning home. None have had just
cause to complain of treatment received. Besides, if things were as they
are in the West, I wouldn't be allowed to teach (there would be a demand
for a "Christian" _and_ gentleman). I lecture on subjects which I do not
understand; and yet without remorse, because I know just enough to steer
those who know much less. After a year or two I shall probably be more
fit for the position.
Studying in one class, for a university text, Tennyson's "Princess"
(my selection); in another, "Paradise Lost,"--the students wanted it,
because they heard it was difficult. They are beginning to perceive that
it is unspeakably difficult for them. (Remember, they know nothing of
Christian mythology or history.) I lecture on the Victorian poets, etc.,
and on special themes,--depending a good deal on dictation.
Only two and one half miles from the university. Seas of mud between.
One hour daily to go, and one to return by jinrikisha!--agony
unspeakable. But I have one joy. No one ever dreams of coming to see
me. To do so one should have webbed feet and be able to croak and to
spawn,--or else one should become a bird. It has rained for three months
almost steadily;--some of the city is under water: the rest is partly
under mud. And to increase the amphibious joy, half the streets are torn
open to put down Western water-mains. They will yawn thus, probably, for
years to come.
The professors I have seen few of. I send you two books; notice the
charming pictures to "Inoshima." Florenz is a Magister Artium Liberalium
of Heidelberg, I think,--fat and good-natured and a little--odd. There
is a Russian professor of philosophy, Von Koeber,--a charming man and a
divine pianist. There is a go-and-be-damned-to-you American professor
of law.... There is a Jesuit priest, Emile Heck,--professor of French
literature. There is a Buddhist priest, professor of Buddhism. There
is an anti-Christian thinker and really great philosopher, Inoue
Tetsujirō,--lectures against Western Christianity, and on Buddhism.
There is an infidel,--a renegade,--a man lost to all sense of shame
and decency, called Lafcadio Hearn, professing atheism and English
Literature and various villainous notions of his own.
The Jesuit I did not want to know. I am afraid of Jesuits. Out of the
corner of mine cyclops-eye I looked upon him. Elegantly dressed,--with a
beard enormous, bushy, majestic, black as hell,--and a small keen bright
black caressing demoniac eye. The Director, who knows not, introduced
me!--oh! ah! Embarrassed at the thought of my own thoughts contrasted
with the perfect courtesy of the man. Blundered;--spoke atrocious
French; gave myself away; got questioned without receiving any idea in
return except an idea of admiration for generous courtesy and very quick
piercing keenness. Felt uncomfortable all day after--talked to myself
as if I had still before me the half-shut Jesuit eye and the vast and
voluminous beard. _Et le fin au prochain numéro,--ou plus tard._