DEAR MRS. WETMORE,--Your letter from Virginia came, and made fires of
hope burn up again, with changing vague colours,--like the tints of a
fire of wreck-drift remembrance from the snowy winter of 1889. It has
given me a great deal to think about--not merely as regards myself, but
also as regards another and very dear person....
I am delighted to read President Jordan's kind words. I shall write him
a letter to-day, or to-morrow, enclosing it to you. From Johns Hopkins I
have a reply, enclosed,--which does not promise much. I shall see what
can be done there. But the Lowell Institute affair promises better.
As for President Jordan, I should be glad to speak at Leland Stanford
independently of salary, on the way going or coming--could no other
arrangement be made. It strikes me, however, that there is danger of any
and every arrangement being broken up. The power of certain religious
bodies is colossal.
Spring would be the best time for me to go to America, if I can get
through the spider-web now spun all around me. It would be the best
time, because those lectures are taking handsome shape, towards a volume
of 500 to 600 pp.; and it were a pity to leave anything unfinished
before I go. Spring again would be the best time, because I am not yet
so strong that I can face a down-East winter without some preparation.
Spring would be the best time, because my fourth child is coming into
the world. Spring would be the best time, because I am getting out a
new book of ghost-stories, and would like to read the proofs here, in
Japan. I think it were imprudent to go before spring.
I have to think seriously about the money-question--at 53, with a
large family. To go to America alone means $500 U.S., and as much to
return--that signifies 2000 yen; with which I can live in Japan for two
years. Then there are the necessary expenses of living. To take my boy
were a great risk. Had the Japanese Government been willing to pay me
the vacation money they morally owed me (about 5600 yen), I could have
done it. (They told me that I ought to be satisfied to live on rice,
like a Japanese.) Then I must be sure of being able to send money home.
At present there is no money _certainly_ in sight. But here I can live
by my pen. Since I was driven out of the university, I have not been
obliged to drop even one sen of my little hoard. The danger is the risk
to sight of incessant work; but that danger would exist anywhere, except
perhaps in a very hot country. And sooner or later the Government must
wake up to the fact that it was wicked to me.
To go to America with some sense of security would be mental medicine;
and any success that I could achieve there would make a good impression
here with friends. It would mean larger experience. It would mean
also an opportunity to enter some society that would protect liberal
opinions. I have not said much as to the pleasure I could look
forward to--that goes without saying. But I cannot be rash on the
money-question, or trust to my luck as in old days. To use a Japanese
expression, "my body no longer belongs to me,"--and I have had one
physical warning.
Anxiety is a poison; and I do not know how much more of it I could
stand. It was a friend's treachery that broke me up recently: I worked
hard against the pain--only to find my mouth full of blood. With a boy
on my hands, in a far-away city, and no certainties, I don't know that
being brave would serve me much--the bodily machine has been so much
strained here.
With a clear certainty ahead of being able to make some money, I could
go, do good things, and return to Japan to write more books,--perhaps to
receive justice also. In a few years more my boy will be strong enough
to study abroad.
Very true what you say--no one can save him but himself, and
unfortunately, though the oldest, he is my Benjamin. My second boy is
at school, captain of his class, trusted to protect smaller boys. My
eldest, taught only at home, between his father's knees, is everything
that a girl might be, that a man should not be,--except as to bodily
strength,--sensitive, loving pretty things, hurt by a word, always
meditating about something--yet not showing any great capacity. I taught
him to swim, and make him practise gymnastics every day; but the spirit
of him is altogether too gentle. A being entirely innocent of evil--what
chance for him in such a world as Japan? Do you know that terribly
pathetic poem of Robert Bridges'--"Pater Filio"?
That reminds me to tell you of some obligations. You are never tired of
telling me that I have been able to give you some literary pleasure.
How many things did you not teach me during those evening chats in New
York? It was you that first introduced me to the genius of Rudyard
Kipling; and I have ever since remained a fervent worshipper. It was
you who taught me to see the beauty of FitzGerald's translation, by
quoting for me the stanza about the Moving Finger. And it was you who
made me understand the extraordinary quaint charm of Ingelow's "High
Tide"--since expounded to many a Japanese literary class....