TŌKYŌ, May, 1898.
DEAR PROFESSOR,--It is too bad that I should twice have missed the
pleasure of seeing you,--and still worse that Mrs. Fenollosa should
have come into my wretched little street to find me absent. But it were
better always when possible to let me know in advance of any chances
for a visit--otherwise I can seldom be relied upon; especially in these
months, for I am over head and ears in work,--with the dreadful prospect
of examinations and the agonies of proof-reading to be rolled upon me at
the same moment. You are so far happy to be able to command your time: I
cannot often manage it.
Well, even if I had been free, I do not think I should have cared
to go to the Ukioy-e exhibition again--except, of course, to hear
you talk about it. I am inclined to agree with one who said that
the catalogue was worth more than the view. It (not the catalogue)
left me cold--partly, perhaps, because I had just been looking at a
set of embroidered screens that almost made me scream with regret
at my inability to purchase them. I remember only three or four at
Ukioy-e,--the interesting Kappa; Shōki diverting himself; a Listening
Girl--something of that sort: nothing excited in me any desire to
possess it, even as a gift, except the Kappa and the Shōki. (I know
I am hopeless--but it were hopeless to try to be otherwise.) Verily
I prefer the modern colour-prints, which I can afford sometimes to
buy. What is more, I do not wish to learn better. While I know nothing
I can always follow the Shintō code and consult my heart about
buying things. Were I to know more, I should be less happy in buying
cheap things. It is like the Chinese characters on the shop-fronts.
Once you begin to know the meaning of a few, the magical charm---
the charm of mystery--evaporates. There's heresy for you! As for the
catalogues --especially the glorious New York catalogue--I think them
precious things. If they do me no other good, they serve the purpose of
suggesting the range and unfathomability of my ignorance. I only regret
that you do not use legends,--do not tell stories. If you did, Andersen
would be quickly superseded. We buy him only for the folk-lore and the
references.
Now I must thank Mrs. Fenollosa for the exceeding kindness of bringing
those books so far for me. I fear I shall have little chance to read
within the next couple of weeks; but if I get the least opportunity,
I must try to read the "Cardinal" anyhow. I shall, whatever happens,
return the volumes safely before very long. As for the Stevenson, it was
not worth while thanking me for; besides, I do not candidly think it an
example of the writer at his highest. But one reads these things because
the times force you to.
As for the Mountain of Skulls--yes: I have written it,--about seven or
eight times over; but it still refuses to give the impression I feel,
and can't define,--the impression that floated into my brain with the
soft-flowing voice of the teller. I shall try again later; but, although
I feel tolerably sure about the result, nothing but very hard work will
develop the thing. Had I only eleven more stories of such quality, what
a book could be made out of them! Still, it is quite impossible that a
dozen such tales could exist. I read all the Jatakas to no purpose: one
makes such a find only by the rarest and most unexpected chance.
By the way, it puzzled me to imagine how the professor knew of my
insignificance having visited the exhibition! But a charming professor
who made three long visits there wants very much to make Professor
Fenollosa's acquaintance,--E. Foxwell, a fellow of Cambridge, and an
authority on economics. Quite a rare fine type of Englishman,--at once
sympathetic and severely scientific,--a fine companion and a broad
strong thinker.
Faithfully, with best regards and thanks,