TŌKYŌ, November, 1896.
DEAR HENDRICK,--I fear--I suspect that this position has been given unto
me for a combination of reasons, among which the dominant is that I may
write at ease many books about Japan. This has two unfortunate aspects.
Firstly, the people who do not know what labour literary work is imagine
that books can be written by the page as quickly as letters, and keep
asking me why I don't get out another book--that means the Influence of
Hurry-Scurry. Secondly, I am plunged into a world of which the highest
possible effort in poetry seems to be this:--
"_Sometimes I hear your flute,
But I never can see your face,
O beautiful Oiterupé!_"
Who is Oiterupé? Euterpe, of course. And this represents, I do assure
you, the very highest possible result of a Western education at
Göttingen, etc., upon the mind of the modern Japanese poet. Formerly
he would have said something. Now he is struck dumb by--Heidelberg or
Göttingen.
I have only twelve hours a week in which to teach; but, as I told
you before, there are no text-books, and the university will not buy
any; and the general standard of English is so low that I am sure not
half of my classes understand what I say. Worst of all, there is no
discipline. The students are virtually the masters in certain matters:
the authorities fear their displeasure, and they do things extraordinary
which fill European professors with amazement and rage--such as
_ordering_ different hours for their lectures, and demanding after a
menacing fashion subscriptions for their various undertakings. Fancy the
following colloquy:--
Professor--"But this is not a case of distress: I don't think a
professor should be asked for money where money is not needed--and
then--"