TŌKYŌ, January, 1903.
DEAR MRS. WETMORE,--It was a shock to receive your beautiful letter,
because I had waited so long and anxiously,--fearing that the last gleam
of hope in my Eastern horizon had been extinguished. It would be of no
use whatever to tell you half my doubts and fears--they made the coming
of your letter an almost terrible event.
Well, what _you_ say about my work (always seizing upon the best in it,
and showing such penetrant sympathy with its effort or aim) counts for
more than a myriad printed criticisms.
My boy is accustomed to kissing--_from_ his father only, who always so
dismisses him at bed-time; and he understands very well the charm of
Lady Elizabeth's sweet message, after hearing from me what the privilege
signifies. But I have fairly given up the idea of taking him with me to
America for the present. The risk is too great. I must try to make a
nest for him first, and be sure of keeping alive myself.
In the mean time, I have been treated very cruelly by the Japanese
Government, and forced out of the service by intrigues,--in spite of
protests from the press, and from my students, who stood by me as long
as they dared. To make matters worse, I fell sick;--I have been sick
for months. About three weeks ago, I burst a blood-vessel, and I am
not allowed to talk. So I fear that the lecture-business is out of the
question; and I am not altogether sorry, because I do not know enough
about the subject. I would wish never again to write a line about any
Japanese subjects: all my work has only resulted in making for me
implacable enemies.
The problem with me now is simply how I shall be able to live, and
support my family. I must try to do something in America,--where the
winter will not kill me off in a hurry. Literary work is over. When one
has to meet the riddle of how to live there must be an end of revery and
dreaming and all literary "labour-of-love." It pays not at all. A book
brings me in about $300,--after two years' waiting. My last payment on
four books (for six months) was $44. Also, in my case, good work is a
matter of nervous condition. I can't find the conditions while having
to think about home--with that fear for others which is "the most
soul-satisfying" of fears, according to Rudyard Kipling. However, we are
all right for the time being; and I can provide for the home before I go.
Thank you for telling me the name of your book. I had hard work to get
your little volume of travel when it came out: ages pass here before an
"ordered" book comes. But in America I can keep track of you. I want
very much to see your book. It will either tell me very, very much about
you--or it will tell me nothing of you, and therefore have the charm of
the Unknowable. Oh! do read the divine Loti's "L'Inde sans les Anglais!"
No mortal critic--not even Jules Lemaître or Anatole France--can explain
that ineffable and superhuman charm. I hope you will have everything of
Loti's. Sometime ago, when I was afraid that I might die, one of my
prospective regrets was that I might not be able to read "L'Inde sans
les Anglais."
Much I should wish to see you in Japan--but human wishes!... Yet I think
I could make you feel pleased for a little while--though our cooking be
of the simplest. My little wife knows your face so well--your picture
hangs now in her room. We have a garden, and a bamboo grove.
Now you must be tired reading me. As soon as I can feel well, I shall
go to some fishing-village with my boy; and, if lucky, perhaps I shall
leave for America in the fall. But nothing is yet certain.