KŌBE, February, 1897.
DEAR HENDRICK,-- ... Oh! have you read those two marvellous things of
Kipling's last--"McAndrews' Hymn," and "The Mary Gloster"? Especially
the "Mary Gloster." I have no more qualified ideas about Kipling. He is
to my fixed conviction the greatest of living English poets, and greater
than all before him in the line he has taken. As for England, he is her
modern Saga-man,--skald, scôp, whatever you like: lineal descendants of
those fellows to whom the Berserker used to say: "Now you just stand
right here, and see us fight so that you can make a song about it."
Meanwhile the Holy Ghost has become temporarily (perhaps) disgusted
with me; and I am doing nothing for three days past. Simply can't--no
feelings. I can _grind_; but what's the use? I want to do something
remarkable, unique, extraordinary, audacious; and I haven't the
qualifications. I want sensations--dreams--glimpses. Nothing! Will I
ever get another good idea? Don't know. Will I ever have any literary
success?--So swings the pendulum! I fear my next book won't be as good
as it ought to be....
After all, the Jesuit _is_ really the most interesting person. We are
close to each other because we are so enormously far away,--just as in
Wundt's colour-theory the red and violet ends of the spectrum overlap
after a fashion....
Ever faithfully,
LAFCADIO HEARN.
(Y. KOIZUMI.)