TŌKYŌ, May, 1896.
DEAR HENDRICK,-- ... Somebody (who, I do not know) has been sending me
books. Did you send me a book by Richard LeGallienne? I thought Mrs.
Rollins had sent it, and I wrote to her nice things about it, which
vexed her into sending me a very sharp criticism of it (she _is_ a
critic), and proving me to have praised a worthless book out of liking
for the sender! Where am I? I am certainly wrong. I did think the
book nice because of my belief that she sent it; and I am now equally
convinced that it isn't nice at all, because she proved that it was
not. I should certainly make a bad critic if I were acquainted with
authors and their friends. One sees what does not exist wherever one
loves or hates. As I am rather a creature of extremes, I should be an
extremely crooked-visioned judge of work. I have not tried to answer
Mrs. Rollins's letter--fact is, I _can't_.
No: the head on the title-page of "Kokoro" is not Kazuo, but the head
of a little boy called Takaki. The photograph was soft and beautiful,
and showed an uncommonly intellectual type of Japanese head. The
woodcut is rather coarse and hard.--But I enclose a third edition of
Kazuo: he is growing a little better-looking, but is not so strong
as I could wish; and he is so sensitive that I am very much worried
about his future. Physical pain he bears well enough; but a mere look,
a careless word, a moment of unconscious indifference is fire to his
little soul. I don't know what to do with him. If he shows the artistic
temperament I shall try to educate him in Italy or France. With an
emotional nature one is happier among Latins. I confess that I can only
bear the uncommon types of Englishmen, Germans, and Americans,--the
conventional types simply drive me wild. On the other hand, I can feel
at home with even a villain, if he be Spaniard, Italian, or French.
According to evolutionary doctrine, however, it seems not unlikely
that the Latin races will be squeezed out of existence in the future
pressure of civilization. They cannot hold their own against the
superior massiveness of the Northern races,--who, unfortunately, have no
art-feeling at all. They will be absorbed, I suppose. In the industrial
invasion of the barbarians, the men will be quietly starved to death,
and the women taken by the conquerors. History will repeat itself
without blood and shrieks.
What is the present matter with American civilization? Nearly all the
clever American authors seem to be women, and most of them have to go
"out of town" for their studies of life. American city-life seems to
wither and burn up everything. There is something of the same sort
noticeable in England--the authors have to go out of England. Of
course, there are some great exceptions--like James and Mallock. But
how many great writers deal with civilized life as it is? They go to
the Highlands, like Black and Barrie,--or to Italy, like Crawford,--or
to strange countries, like Kipling;--but who to-day would write "A
London Romance"? This brings up another question. What is the meaning
of English literary superiority? It is all very well to howl about the
copyright question, and the shameful treatment of American authors; but
what American authors have we to compare with the English? Excepting
women like Mrs. Deland and Miss Jewett and Mrs. Phelps, etc.,--what
American writers can touch English methods? James is certainly our
best;--so London steals him; but he stands alone. America has no one
like a dozen,--nay, a score of English writers that might be named.
It certainly is not a question of remuneration; for real high ability
is always sooner or later able to get all it asks for. It must be an
effect of American city-life, and American training, and American
environment;--perhaps over-education has something to do with it.
Again--English work is so massive--even at its worst: the effort made is
always so much _larger_. Perhaps we do things too _fast_. The English
are slow and exact. I am told that the other Northern races are still
somewhat behind--always excepting great Russia. But in the France of
1896, what is doing? The greatest writers of the age are dead or silent.
Is not our horrible competitive civilization at last going to choke all
aspirational life into silence? After the Du Maurier school, what will
even England be able to do? Alfred Austin after Alfred Tennyson!
These are my thoughts sometimes;--then, again, I think of a possible
new idealism,--a new prodigious burst of faith and passion and song
greater than anything Victorian;--and I remember that all progress is
rhythmical. But if this comes, it will be only, I fear, after we have
been dust for a century.
I feel this is an awfully stupid letter. But I'll write a better one
soon. My best wishes for your big, big, _big_ success. They will be
realized, I think.
Ever affectionately,
LAFCADIO HEARN.