YAIDZU, August, 1902.
DEAR MRS. WETMORE,--Your kindest letter of July 23d reached me
on the 15th of August,--at this little fishing-village of Yaidzu, where
I am staying with my boy.
What you say about my finding you a "grey-haired woman of forty" is,
of course, impossible. Even if my eyes said so, I should say that they
were telling untruth. It is quite certain that you are a fairy,--capable
of assuming myriad shapes,--but I know the shapes to be each and
all--_Maya_! I never really saw any of the magical forms but two--no,
three--in photograph; and they were all different persons, belonging to
different centuries, and containing different souls. About you I should
not even trust the eyes of the X-rays. My memory is of a Voice and a
Thought,--multiple, both, exceedingly,--but justifying the imagination
of _une jeune fille un peu farouche_ (there is no English word that
gives the same sense of shyness _and_ force) who came into New Orleans
from the country, and wrote nice things for a paper there, and was so
kind to a particular variety of savage that he could not understand--and
was afraid.
I am half-sorry already for not having written you more fully. I fear
you think that I am in a very _immediate_ hurry. No: if a fair chance
can come to me in the course of a year, or even fifteen months, I can
easily wait. My people have their own homes now, and I have some little
means; and nothing presses. Even if the ----s should find ways and means
to poke me out of the Government service (they have tried it--in oh! so
many ways--for four years past), I should feel quite easy about matters
for a twelvemonth. Please do not think that I would dream of giving you
any hurry-scurry trouble. But, perhaps in a year's time, something might
offer itself.
I am _afraid_ of New York City for my boy's sake. I should not like
to let him risk one New York winter. Besides, what exercise can a boy
have in New York--no trees, fields, streams. Awful place--New York. If
anything were to happen to _him_, the sun would go out. I can't take
risks--must be sure what I am doing.... Oh, if I were by myself--yes:
twenty dollars a month in America would suit me anywhere. I have no
longer any wants personal.
Every year there are born some millions of boys cleverer, stronger,
handsomer than mine. I may be quite a fool in my estimate of him. I
do not find him very clever, quick, or anything of that sort. Perhaps
there will prove to be "nothing in him." I cannot tell. All that I
am quite sure of is that he naturally likes what is delicate, clean,
refined, and kindly,--and that he naturally shrinks from whatever is
coarse or selfish. So that he _might_ learn easily "the things that are
most excellent"--and most useless--in the schooling of civilization.
Anyhow, I must do all I can to feed the tiny light, and give it a chance
to prove what it is worth. It is ME, in another birth--with
renewed forces given by a strange and charming blood from the Period of
the Gods. I must not risk the blowing out of the little lamp.
[Illustration: KAZUO AND IWAO, MR. HEARN'S OLDER CHILDREN]
I heard that in the Stanford University in California, there are
somewhat romantic conditions,--"no ceremonies," no humbug,--estimates
only of "efficiency." Long ago I wrote the letter of application,
and--like many a letter to you--posted the same in the ravening
stove. "Too idyllic,"--I thought to myself,--"in the present state of
evolution, no human institution could be suffered to realize the ideals
of that university!" If I were wrong or right--I should like to know.
But sufficient for this writing is the perfect selfishness thereof. My
dear fairy god-sister, please do not take any painful trouble for me,
_but_--if you can hit something with your moonshiny wand, during the
next year or so, I shall be so glad! Even though I be not glad, I shall
always be grateful for the last kind letter.
My best wishes to you in everything that you can imagine, you will be
always sure of. "If wishes"--but, after all, there _is_ some human
sweetness in these conventional phrases. They help one to utter a mood,
or a sense of gratefulness for pleasure given.