TŌKYŌ, April, 1898.
DEAR FRIEND,--Your kindest letter is with me. I cannot quite understand
your faith in my work: it is a veritable Roman Catholic faith,--for it
refuses to hear adverse arguments. I only say that I can see no reason
to suppose or even hope that I can ever be worth to publishers nearly as
much as the author of a blood-and-thunder detective story contributed to
a popular weekly.
About getting killed:--I should like nothing so much if I had no one but
myself in the world to take care of--which is just why I would not get
killed. You never get what you want in this world. I used to feel that
way in tight places, and say to myself: "Well, I don't care: _therefore_
it can't happen." It is only what a man cares about that happens. "That
which ye fear exceedingly shall come upon you." I fear exceedingly
being burned alive slowly, in an earthquake fire,--being eaten by
sharks,--being blinded or maimed so as to prove of no further use;--but
dying is probably a very good thing indeed, and as much to be desired
for one's self as dreaded for one's friends.
But my work is not done yet: I can't afford luxuries till it is done, I
suppose--at least so the gods think.
No: I shall not burn the MS. yet; but if I decided, after deliberation,
to burn it, I think I should be right. How much I now wish I had burned
things which I printed ten or twelve years ago!
I think with you that the U.S.N. will sweep the Spaniards off the sea;
but still I feel slightly uneasy.
I have met a most extraordinary man to whom I gave your address,--in
case he should need advice, or wish to see Amenomori. He is going to the
hotel, but is now at Nikko. His name is E. T. Sturdy. He has lived in
India,--up in the Himalayas for years,--studying Eastern philosophy; and
the hotel delicacies will do him no good, because he is a vegetarian.
He is a friend of Professor Rhys-Davids, who gave him a letter of
introduction to me; and has paid for the publication of several Eastern
texts--Pali, etc. Beyond any question, he is the most _remarkable_
person I have met in Japan. Fancy a man independent, strong, cultivated,
with property in New Zealand and elsewhere, voluntarily haunting the
Himalayas in the company of Hindoo pilgrims and ascetics,--in search of
the Nameless and the Eternal. Yet he is not a Theosophist exactly, nor a
Spiritualist. I did not get very near him--he has that extreme English
reserve which deludes under the appearance of almost boyish frankness;
but I think we might become fast friends did we live in the same city.
He told me some things that I shall never forget,--very strange things.
I envy, not him, but his independence. Think of being able to live
where one pleases, nobody's servant,--able to choose one's own studies
and friends and books. On the other hand, most authors write because
they are compelled to find occupation for their minds. Would I, being
independent, become idle? I don't think so; but I know that some of my
work has been done just to keep the mind from eating itself,--as does
the stomach without food. _Ergo_, perhaps, I ought to be maintained in a
condition of "eternal torment"?
Well, it is not impossible that you may eventually suggest to me
something of the great story that is eventually to be written--let
us hope. Assuredly if I once start in upon it, I shall be asking you
questions, and you will be able to help me very much.
Ever affectionately,
LAFCADIO.