TAKEN as a whole, the criticisms upon Hearn's work are complimentary. He
has his warm admirers, and some who are not so enthusiastic; but those
who criticize adversely do so with a gentleness,--I may say, almost a
reluctance that is perhaps the reflection of the spirit of his work. And
whatever else these may offer, all agree that his writings have a unique
charm.
Following are a few excerpts which should give an average of opinions:--
"One great secret of his success in interpreting the Japanese mind and
temperament lay in his patience in seeking out and studying minutely the
little things of a people said to be great in such. As Amenomori says of
Hearn's mind, it 'called forth life and poetry out of dust.'" (327.)[20]
[20] The numbers refer to the corresponding items in the
Bibliography.
"As an interpreter of the Japanese heart, mind, hand and soul, Mr. Hearn
has no superior. But he will not convert those who in health of body and
mind love the landmarks of the best faith of the race. It is very hard
to make fog and miasmatic exhalations, even when made partly luminous
with rhetoric, attractive to the intellect that loves headlands and
mountain-tops. The product of despair can never compete in robust minds
with the product of faith." (357.)
"Sympathy and exquisiteness of touch are the characteristics of Mr.
Hearn's genius. He is a chameleon, glowing with the hue of outer objects
or of inward moods, or altogether iridescent. He becomes translucent and
veined like a moth on a twig, or mottled as if with the protective
golden browns of fallen leaves. We may not look for architectonic or
even plastic powers. His is not the mind which constructs of inner
necessity, which weaves plots and schemes, or thinks of its frame as it
paints. He attempts no epic of history. The delver for sociologic or
theologic spoil must seek deeper waters....
"In his later books the all-potent influence of Japanese restraint seems
to have refined and subdued his wonderful style to more perfect
harmonies....
"His chapters are long or short as are his moods. There is little
organic unity in them; no scientific aim or philosophic grasp rounds
them into form. Even his paragraphs have little cohesion. Speaking of
the forming of his sentences, he himself has compared it to the
focussing of an image, each added word being like the turn of a delicate
screw." (306.)
"The secret of the charm that we feel to such a marked degree in Mr.
Lafcadio Hearn's volumes is that, in contrast to other writers, he does
take the Japanese very seriously indeed." (316.)
"To the details of life and thought in Japan Mr. Hearn's soul seems
everywhere and at all times responsive. He catches in his eye and on his
pen minute motes scarcely noticeable by the keen natives themselves."
(367.)
"He has written nothing on Japan equal in length to his tales of West
Indian life. But while we deplore this reserve of a writer who possesses
every quality of style, except humour, we have reason to be grateful for
whatever he gives us." (307.)
"The matchless prose and the sympathy of Mr. Hearn." (324.)
"Mr. Hearn has the sympathetic temperament, the minute mental vision,
the subdued style peculiar to all that is good in Japanese art and
literature, needed for the accomplishment of a labour which to him has
been a labour of love indeed. Here we have no mawkish sentimentality, no
excessive laudation, on the one hand; on the other, no Occidental
harshness, no Occidental ignorance of the sweet mystery of Eastern ways
of life and modes of thought. What this most charming of writers on Far
Eastern subjects has seen all may see, but only those can understand who
are endowed with a like faculty of perception of unobtrusive beauty, and
a like power, it must be added, of patient and prolonged study of common
appearances and everyday events." (295.)
"A man has just died, intelligent and generous, who had succeeded in
reconciling in his heart, the clear, rational ideas of the West together
with the obscure deep sense of Extreme--Asia: Lafcadio Hearn. In the
hospitality of his recipient soul, high European civilization and high
Japanese civilization found a meeting-place; harmonized; completed, one
in the other....
"In English-speaking countries, especially in the United States,
Lafcadio Hearn already enjoys a just reputation. The lovers of the
exotic, esteem him as equal to Kipling or Stevenson. In France, the
_Revue de Paris_ has begun to make him known, by publishing some of his
best articles, elegantly and faithfully translated. His budding fame is
destined to increase, as Europe takes a greater interest in the arts and
the thoughts of the Extreme-Orient. His prose, exact and harmonious,
will be admired as one of the finest since Ruskin wrote: his very
personal style, at the same time subtle and powerful, will be noted: he
will be especially admired for his delicate and profound intelligence of
that Japanese civilization which, to us, remains so mysterious. What
characterizes the talent of Lafcadio Hearn, that which gives it its
precious originality, is the rare mixture of scientific precision and
idealistic enthusiasm: his work might justly be entitled Truth and
Poesy: 'In reading these essays,' says one of our best existing Japanese
scholars, Professor Chamberlain, 'one feels the truth of Richard
Wagner's statement: "_Alles verstaendniss kommt uns nur durch die
Liebe._" (All understanding comes to us only through Love.) If Lafcadio
Hearn understands Japan best, and makes it better understood than any
other writer, it is because he loves it best.'
"Lafcadio Hearn describes with intelligence, with love all aspects of
Japanese life: Nature and inhabitants; landscapes, animals and flowers;
material life and life moral; classic Art and popular literature;
philosophies, religions and superstitions. He awakens in us an exquisite
feeling of old aristocratic and feudal Japan: he explains to us the
prodigious revolution that modern Japan has created in thirty years....
"Hearn has consecrated to the study of Japanese art some of his most
curious psychological analyses.
"Lafcadio Hearn takes a deep interest in the religious life of the
Japanese. He studies with the minutest exactness the ancient customs of
Shintoism, high moral precepts of Buddhism, and also the popular
superstitions that hold on, for instance, to the worship of foxes, and
to the idea of pre-existence." (393.)
"To a certain large class of his adopted countrymen, his hatred of
Christianity, which was pronounced long before he went to Japan, and his
fondness for Oriental cults of all kinds, was recommendation. But it is
still an open question whether he did harm or good to the Japanese by
his advocacy of their superstitions....
"Hearn's books are little known to the multitude. But they are familiar
to an influential class the world over. In him Japan has lost a powerful
and flattering advocate, and the English world one of its masters in
style." (332.)
"Mr. Hearn was not a philosopher or a judicial student of life. He was a
gifted, born impressionist, with a style resembling that of the French
Pierre Loti. His stories and descriptions are delicate or gorgeous word
pictures of the subtler and more elusive qualities of Oriental life."
(293.)
"His art is the power of suggestion through perfect restraint.... He
stands and proclaims his mysteries at the meeting of three ways. To the
religious instinct of India,--Buddhism in particular,--which history has
engrafted on the aesthetic sense of Japan, Mr. Hearn brings the
interpreting spirit of Occidental science; and these three traditions
are fused by the peculiar sympathies of his mind into one rich and novel
compound.... In these essays and tales, whose substance is so strangely
mingled together out of the austere dreams of India and the subtle
beauty of Japan and the relentless science of Europe, I read vaguely of
many things which hitherto were quite dark." (308.)
"He brings to the study of all aspects of Japanese life, intelligence,
and love; he also sets sail in his descriptions and analyses towards a
general theory on life; he is a Japanizing psychologist: he is also a
philosopher....
"At all events, Lafcadio Hearn has the merit of recalling powerfully to
the Europeans of Europe the importance, often misunderstood, of Eastern
civilization. No one better than this Japanizing enthusiast to make us
feel what there is of narrowness in our habitual conception of the
world, in our individualistic literature, misunderstanding too much the
influence of the Past in our anthropocentric art, neglecting Nature too
often, penetrated too 'singly' in our classic philosophy with
Greco-Latin and Christian influences. 'Till now,' says Lafcadio Hearn
very forcibly, 'having lived only in one hemisphere, we have thought but
half thoughts.' We should enlarge our hearts and our minds by taking
into our circle of culture, all the art and all the thought of the
extreme East.
"From the philosophical view-point, Lafcadio Hearn has the merit of
calling attention to the high value of Shintoism, and above all of
Buddhism. His work deserves to exercise an influence on the religious
ideas of the West. If religion can no longer occupy any place in the
intellectual life of humanity, more and more invaded by science, she can
subsist a long time yet, perhaps always, in her sentimental life."
(392.)
"For that role [as interpreter of Japan] he was eminently unfitted both
by temperament and training. Indeed he was not slow to recognize his
lack of the judicial faculty, and on one occasion acknowledged that he
is a 'creature of extremes.' ... But Hearn often succeeds in reaching
the heart of things by his faculty of sympathy, in virtue of which alone
his books deserve perusal; when he fails it is because of a lack of the
unimpassioned judicial faculty, a tendency to subordinate reason to
feeling, an inclination to place sympathy in the position of judge
rather than guide." (359.)
"Lafcadio Hearn not only buried himself in the Japanese world, but gave
his ashes to the soil so often devastated by earthquake, typhoon, tidal
wave and famine, but ever fertile in blooms of fancy which lies under
the River of Heaven. The air of Nippon, poor in ozone, is overpopulated
by goblins. No writer has ever excelled this child of Greece and Ireland
in interpreting the weird fancies of peasant and poet in the land of
bamboo and cherry flowers.... Hearn's life seemed crushed under 'the
horror of infinite Possibility.' Hence perhaps the weird fascination of
his work and style." (348.)
EPITOMES
AVATAR (281).--It was during the Cincinnati period that Hearn made
this--his first translation from the French. Writing of it in 1886, he
says:--
I have a project on foot--to issue a series of translations of
archaeological and artistic French romance--Flaubert's "Tentation
de Saint-Antoine"; De Nerval's "Voyage en Orient"; Gautier's
"Avatar"; Loti's most extraordinary African and Polynesian
novels; and Beaudelaire's "Petits Poemes en Prose."
But three years later, he writes:--
The work of Gautier cited by you--"Avatar"--was my first
translation from the French. I never could find a publisher for
it, however, and threw the MS. away at last in disgust. It is
certainly a wonderful story; but the self-styled Anglo-Saxon has
so much--prudery that even this innocent phantasy seems to shock
his sense of the "proper."
LA TENTATION DE SAINT-ANTOINE (282) was probably translated at about the
same time. Hearn failed to find a publisher who would take it, but the
manuscript is still in my possession. Hearn's own complete _scenario_,
together with a description of the manuscript, is given on another page.
I quote from Hearn about this work:--
The original is certainly one of the most exotically strange
pieces of writing in any language, and weird beyond description.
Of his own translation, he writes:--
The work is audacious in parts; but I think nothing ought to be
suppressed. That serpent-scene, the crucified lions, the
breaking of the chair of gold, the hideous battles about
Carthage,--these pages contain pictures that ought not to remain
entombed in a foreign museum.
The winter of 1877, the year Hearn arrived in New Orleans, he
corresponded with the Cincinnati _Commercial_ under the name of "Ozias
Midwinter" (219). Excerpts from this series of letters are given in the
chapter, "The New Orleans Period."
ONE OF CLEOPATRA'S NIGHTS (20) was the first book to be published. The
translations were made during the latter part of the Cincinnati period,
but the volume did not appear until some years later, while Hearn was in
New Orleans. It was prepared at the hour when his craving for the exotic
and weird was at its height. From the opening word to the last the six
stories are one long Dionysian revel of an Arabian Night's Dream, and
within their pages it is not difficult to feel that "one is truly dead
only when one is no longer loved." What an exotic group of names it
is:--Cleopatra, "she that made the whole world's bale and bliss;"
Clarimonde,
"Who was famed in her lifetime
As the fairest of women;"
Arria Marcella; the Princess Hermonthis; Omphale; and the one "fairer
than all daughters of men, lovelier than all fantasies realized in
stone"--Nyssia. It is a tapestry woven of the lights and jewels and
passion of an antique world. "You will find in Gautier," Hearn writes,
"a perfection of melody, a warmth of word colouring, a voluptuous
delicacy;" "Gautier could create mosaics of word jewellery without
equals." Hearn's "pet stories" are "Clarimonde" and "Arria Marcella." Is
it strange that he should delight in these beautiful vampires?
In this work, and in the tales to follow, we already perceive that
colour is to become a sort of a fetich to be worshipped. Here in the
studio of another artist, he serves his first apprenticeship, and from
the highly toned palette of Gautier he learns how to mix and lay on the
colours that he himself is later to use so richly.
In speaking of this book, a critic says:--
"His learning and his inspiration were wholly French in these
productions, as also in what was his first and in some ways his best
book, "One of Cleopatra's Nights," and other tales translated from
Theophile Gautier. While Hearn was faithful to his original, he also
improved upon it, and many a scholar who knows both French and English
has confessed under the rose that Gautier is outdone." (332.)
Of his work, Hearn writes:--
You asked me about Gautier. I have read and possess nearly
all his works; and before I was really mature enough for
such an undertaking I translated his six most remarkable
short stories. The work contains, I regret to say, several
shocking errors, and the publishers refused me the right to
correct the plates. The book remains one of the sins of my
literary youth, but I am sure my judgment of the value of
the stories was correct.
While preparing his next book, Hearn published in the _Century_, "The
Scenes of Cable's Romances" (220). In this article he vivifies the
quarters and dwellings that Mr. Cable in his delightful stories had
already made famous.
THE FIRST MUEZZIN, BILAL (405), was written in the fall of 1883, during
the New Orleans period. It is a beautiful, serious piece of work, and is
written with the fine, sonorous quality that such a theme should
inspire. That it was a labour of love is shown in Hearn's letters
written at its inception to Mr. Krehbiel, who was an invaluable aid to
him in compiling its musical part. "Bilal" was probably published
finally in the _Times-Democrat_, after being refused by _Harper's_, the
_Century_, and some others.
The traveller slumbering for the first time within the walls of
an Oriental city, and in the vicinity of a minaret, can scarcely
fail to be impressed by the solemn beauty of the Mohammedan Call
to Prayer. If he have worthily prepared himself, by the study of
book and of languages, for the experiences of Eastern travel, he
will probably have learned by heart the words of the sacred
summons, and will recognize their syllables in the sonorous
chant of the Muezzin,--while the rose-coloured light of an
Egyptian or Syrian dawn expands its flush to the stars. Four
times more will he hear that voice ere morning again illuminates
the east:--under the white blaze of noon; at the sunset hour,
when the west is fervid with incandescent gold and vermilion; in
the long after-glow of orange and emerald fires; and, still
later, when a million astral lamps have been lighted in the vast
and violet dome of God's everlasting mosque.
In four parts Hearn tells the history of Bilal, who
was an African black, an Abyssinian,--famed for his fortitude as
a confessor, for his zeal in the faith of the Prophet, and for
the marvellous melody of his voice, whose echoes have been
caught up and prolonged and multiplied by all the muezzins of
Islam, through the passing of more than twelve hundred years....
And the words chanted by all the muezzins of the Moslem
world,--whether from the barbaric brick structures which rise
above "The Tunis of the Desert," or from the fairy minarets of
the exquisite mosque at Agra,--are the words first sung by the
mighty voice of Bilal.
Bilal was the son of an Abyssinian slave-girl, and himself began life as
a slave. The first preaching of Mahomet had deep effect upon the slaves
of Mecca, and Bilal was perhaps the earliest of these to become a
convert. Even under the tortures of the persecutors, he could not be
made to apostatize--always he would answer, "_Ahad! Ahad_:" "_One_, one
only God!" Abu Bekr, the bosom friend of the great Prophet, observing
Bilal, bought him, and set him free. Then Bilal became the devoted
servant of Mahomet; and, in fulfilment of a dream, he was made the First
Muezzin to sound the _Adzan_, the Call to Prayer.
God is Great!
God is Great!
I bear witness there is no other God but God!
I bear witness that Mahomet is the Prophet of God!
Come unto Prayer!
Come unto Salvation!
God is Great!
There is no other God but God!
* * * * *
After the death of Mahomet, Bilal ceased to sing the
_Adzan_:--the voice that had summoned the Prophet of God to
the house of prayer ought not, he piously fancied, to be
heard after the departure of his master. Yet, in his Syrian
home, how often must he have prayed to chant the words as he
first chanted them from the starlit housetop in the Holy
City, and how often compelled to deny the petitions of those
who revered him as a saint and would perhaps have sacrificed
all their goods to have heard him but once lift up his voice
in musical prayer!... But when Omar visited Damascus the
chiefs of the people besought him that, as Commander of the
Faithful, he should ask Bilal to sing the Call in honour of
the event; and the old man consented to do so for the last
time....
To hear Bilal must have seemed to many as sacred a privilege
as to have heard the voice of the Prophet himself,--the
proudest episode of a lifetime,--the one incident of all
others to be related in long afteryears to children and to
grandchildren. Some there may have been whom the occasion
inspired with feelings no loftier than curiosity; but the
large majority of those who thronged to listen in silent
expectancy for the _Allah-hu-akbar!_ must have experienced
emotions too deep to be ever forgotten. The records of the
event, at least, fully justify this belief;--for when, after
moments of tremulous waiting, the grand voice of the aged
African rolled out amid the hush,--with the old beloved
words,--the old familiar tones, still deep and clean,--Omar
and all those about him wept aloud, and tears streamed down
every warrior-face, and the last long notes of the chant
were lost in a tempest of sobbing.
STRAY LEAVES FROM STRANGE LITERATURE[21] (I) is the second book. It was
written also during the period in New Orleans, many of the stories first
appearing in the _Times-Democrat_, and the little volume is dedicated to
its editor--Mr. Page M. Baker.
[21] Copyright, 1884, by James R. Osgood and Company.
These tales, as Hearn tells us in his Preface, are "reconstructions of
what impressed me as most fantastically beautiful in the most exotic
literature which I was able to obtain." In a letter he writes, "The
language of 'Stray Leaves' is all my own, with the exception of the
Italic texts and a few pages translated from the 'Kalewala.'"
The tapestry he is weaving is of the same crimson threads as that of the
earlier tales, but the colours of sunset are softening to the gentler
hues of the after-glow, and interwoven sometimes are strands of pure
moonlight.
We read of the great Book of Thoth which contains a formula whosoever
could recite might never know death, and we learn how the cunning
magician Noferkephtah obtained the book, which caused the wrath of the
gods to fall upon him; later, how Satni, of whom "there was not in all
Egypt so wise a scribe," yearned for the book, and took it from the tomb
of Noferkephtah, and of the magic wrought and the penance done.
There is the exquisite tale of the Fountain Maiden, whom Aki caught in
his own fish-net, and whom he grew to love more than his own life.
The story lingers of the sea-bird which fell into the hunter's hand, and
when he looked more closely he found it had become transformed into a
beautiful girl, "slender ... like a young moon," and pity rose in the
hunter's heart, and then love. One day, when their children had become
strong and swift, and while they were all hunting together, the
Bird-Wife called to the little ones to gather feathers: then she covered
their arms and her own shoulders with the feathers, and far away they
flew.
Passing onward, we read of Tilottama, and that by reason of her beauty
"the great gods once became multiple-faced and myriad-eyed"; and that
this beauty brought punishment to the wicked Sounda and Oupasounda.
There is Bakawali, for "whose history of love, human and superhuman, a
parallel may not be found." For her great love of the mortal youth
Taj-ulmuluk each night she sacrificed herself to the fiercest
purification of fire. And then to appease the gods, she suffered herself
to be turned for ten long years into marble from her waist to her feet.
Her lover ministered to her and watched by her side through the terrible
years until she was reincarnated for him.
Then we see the statue of Natalika, who avenged the death of her people.
And who shall answer the riddle of the Corpse Demon? And which one may
not profit by the wisdom of the youth who knew nothing of science?
Perhaps our hearts stir with a soft regret for the atonement of Pundari.
And so we wander through a maze of colour and of magic, tarrying to
listen to the voice of Kalewala, for--
As he sang the fair Sun paused in her course to hear him; the
golden Moon stopped in her path to listen; the awful billows of
the sea stood still; the icy rivers that devour the pines, that
swallow up the firs, ceased to rage; the mighty cataracts hung
motionless above their abysses; the waves of Juortana lifted
high their heads to hear.
"Slender she was as the tulip upon its stalk, and in walking her feet
seemed kisses pressed upon the ground. But hadst thou beheld her face
unveiled, and the whiteness of her teeth between her brown lips when she
smiled!" Alas, she was a good Christian maiden and he a good Mussulman,
and so in this Legend of Love each loyal heart dies pronouncing the
faith of the other, lest they should not meet at the Day of Judgment.
As we draw near the last figures on the tapestry, we find those two
tender pictures of which Hearn himself speaks: "Your preference for
Boutimar pleases me: Boutimar was my pet. There is a little Jewish
legend in the collection--Esther--somewhat resembling it in pathos."
These stories afford a glimpse into that gentle heart, which was later
to respond to the exquisite faiths and loyalties of the Japanese.
Now the Creator sent unto Solomon a cup which contained some of the
waters of youth and of life without end. And Solomon was asked: "Wilt
thou drink hereof and live divinely immortal through ages everlasting,
or wilt thou rather remain within the prison of humanity?" And Solomon
dreamed upon these words; and he assembled in council a representative
of all those over whom he held dominion. Then Solomon asked Boutimar,
the wild dove, most loving of all living creatures, whether he should
drink of the magic waters, and thus learn the bliss of earthly
immortality. When Boutimar, the wild dove, learned that the cup held
only enough water for one person, he made answer in the language of
birds:--
"O prophet of God! how couldst thou desire to be living alone,
when each of thy friends and of thy counsellors and of thy
children and of thy servants and of all who loved thee were
counted with the dead? For all of these must surely drink the
bitter waters of death, though thou shouldst drink the Water of
Life. Wherefore desire everlasting youth, when the face of the
world itself shall be wrinkled with age, and the eyes of the
stars shall be closed by the black fingers of Azrael? When the
love thou hast sung of shall have passed away like a smoke of
frankincense, when the dust of the heart that beat against thine
own shall have long been scattered by the four winds of heaven,
when the eyes that looked for thy coming shall have become a
memory, when the voices grateful to thine ear shall have been
eternally stilled, when thy life shall be one oasis in a
universal waste of death, and thine eternal existence but a
recognition of eternal absence,--wilt thou indeed care to live,
though the wild dove perish when its mate cometh not?"
And Solomon, without reply, silently put out his arm and gave
back the cup.... But upon the prophet-king's rich beard,
besprinkled with powder of gold, there appeared another glitter
as of clear dew,--the diamond dew of the heart, which is tears.
Esther, whose comeliness surpassed even that of Sarah, and her rich
husband had lived together ten years, but there was no happiness in the
soul of the good man, for "the sound of a child's voice had never made
sunshine within his heart." So Esther and her husband sorrowed bitterly.
And they brought the burden of their grief to Rabbi Simon ben Yochai,
and when they had told him, a silence as of the Shechinah came upon the
three, only the eyes of the Rabbi seemed to smile. And it was agreed
that the twain should part; thus the Israelite could be known as a
father in Israel.
A feast then was laid at the house, and before all the guests her
husband spoke lovingly to Esther, and in token of his affection and his
grief bade her to take from the house "whatever thou desirest, whether
it be gold or jewels beyond price." And the wine was passed, and the
people made merry, and finally a deep sleep fell upon them all. Then
Esther gave command that her husband sleeping should be carried to her
father's house. In the morning her husband awakened, and confused he
cried out, "Woman, what hast thou done?"
Then, sweeter than the voice of doves among the fig-trees, came
the voice of Esther: "Didst thou not bid me, husband, that I
should choose and take away from thy house whatsoever I most
desired? And I have chosen thee, and have brought thee hither,
to my father's home ... loving thee more than all else in the
world. Wilt thou drive me from thee now?" And he could not see
her face for tears of love; yet he heard her voice speaking
on,--speaking the golden words of Ruth, which are so old yet so
young to the hearts of all that love: "Whithersoever thou shalt
go, I will also go; and whithersoever thou shalt dwell, I also
will dwell. And the Angel of Death only may part us; for thou
art all in all to me." ...
And in the golden sunlight at the doorway suddenly stood, like a
statue of Babylonian silver, the grand grey figure of Rabbi
Simon ben Yochai, lifting his hands in benediction.
"_Schmah Israel!_--the Lord our God, who is One, bless ye with
everlasting benediction! May your hearts be welded by love, as
gold with gold by the cunning of goldsmiths! May the Lord, who
coupleth and setteth thee single in families, watch over ye! The
Lord make this valiant woman even as Rachel and as Lia, who
built up the house of Israel! And ye shall behold your children
and your children's children in the House of the Lord!"
Even so the Lord blessed them; and Esther became as the fruitful
vine, and they saw their children's children in Israel.
Forasmuch as it is written: "He will regard the prayer of the
destitute."
GOMBO ZHEBES[22](2) followed in the New Orleans period. It is a
compilation of 352 proverbs selected from six dialects. According to the
indexes, there are 6 in the Creole of French Guyana; 28 in the Creole of
Hayti; 51 in the Creole of New Orleans, Louisiana; 101 in the Creole of
Martinique; 110 in the Creole of Mauritius; 52 in the Creole of
Trinidad. Most of the proverbs are similar to our own, but are
translated into the simple homely language of the Creole, reflecting its
mode of thought. The same proverb often appears in the different
dialects. Although a proverb is of European origin, "the character of
Creole folk-lore is very different from European folk-lore in the matter
of superstition." Many proverbs are direct from the African. Those in
the Creole of Hayti are generally rough and coarse. The most popular
subjects are, pot or kettle, rain, serpent or snake, of which there are
six of each; devil, eggs, belly, horse, mothers, tail, of these there
are seven of each; chicken, children, ox have eight of each; cat has
nine; goat has eleven; talking has sixteen; monkey has seventeen; fine
clothes has only four, idleness has five, and marriage has six.
[22] Copyright, 1885, by Will H. Coleman.
Hearn speaks of this book as a Dictionary of Proverbs. He made an
extensive study of the subject and in later researches found it most
helpful. "I have," he says, "quite a Creole library embracing the Creole
dialects of both hemispheres."
Following are a selection of the proverbs chosen from the different
dialects:--
No. 23. _Bel tignon pas fait bel negresse. (Le beau tignon ne
fait pas la belle negresse.)_ "It isn't the fine head-dress that
makes the fine negress." (_Louisiana._)
_Tignon_ or _tiyon_, the true Creole word, "is the famously
picturesque handkerchief which in old days all slave-women
twisted about their heads."
No. 44. _Ca qui boude manze boudin. (Celui qui boude mange du
boudin.)_ "He who sulks eats his own belly." That is to say,
spites himself. The pun is untranslatable. (_Mauritius_.)
_Boudin_ in French signifies a pudding, in Creole it also
signifies the belly. Thus there is a double pun in the patois.
No. 256. _Quand diabe alle lamesse li caciette so laquee. (Quand
le diable va a la messe, il cache sa queue.)_ "When the Devil
goes to mass he hides his tail." (_Mauritius._)
No. 352. _Zozo paillenqui crie la-haut, coudevent vini. (Le
paille-en-cul crie la-haut, le coup de vent vient.)_ "When the
tropic-bird screams overhead, a storm-wind is coming."
(_Mauritius._)
No. 267. _Quand milatt tini yon vie chouvral yo dit negress pas
manman yo. (Quand les mulatres ont un vieux cheval ils disent
que les negresses ne sont pas leur meres.)_ "As soon as a
mulatto is able to own an old horse, he will tell you that his
mother wasn't a nigger." (_Martinique._)
No. 324. _Toutt milett ni grand zaureilles. (Tout les mulets ont
des grandes oreilles.)_ "All mules have big ears." Equivalent to
our proverb: "Birds of a feather flock together."
(_Martinique._)
No. 291. _Si coulev oule viv, li pas pronminee grand-chemin. (Si
la couleuvre veut vivre, elle ne se promene pas dans le grand
chemin.)_ "If the snake cares to live, it doesn't journey upon
the high-road." (_Guyana._)
No. 292. _Si couleve pas te fonte, femmes se pouend li fair
ribans jipes. (Si la couleuvre n'etait pas effrontee les femmes
la prendraient pour en faire des rubans de jupes.)_ "If the
snake wasn't spunky, women would use it for petticoat strings."
(_Trinidad._)
No. 100. _Complot plis fort passe ouanga.[23] (Le complot est
plus fort que l'ouanga.)_ "Conspiracy is stronger than
witchcraft." (_Hayti._)
[23] _Di moin si to gagnin homme!
Mo va fe ouanga pouli;
Mo fe li tourne fantome
Si to vle mo to mari...._
"Tell me if thou hast a man (a lover) I will make a
_ouanga_ for him--I will change him into a ghost if thou
wilt have me for thy husband."
This word, of African origin, is applied to all things
connected with the Voudooism of the negroes.
In the song, "_Dipi mo voue, toue Adele_," from which the
above lines are taken, the wooer threatens to get rid of a
rival by _ouanga_--to "turn him into a ghost." The victims
of Voudooism are said to have gradually withered away,
probably through the influence of secret poison. The word
_grigri_, also of African origin, simply refers to a
charm, which may be used for an innocent or innocuous
purpose. Thus, in a Louisiana Creole song, we find a
quadroon mother promising her daughter a charm to prevent
the white lover from forsaking her:
"_Pou tchombe li na fe grigri._" "We shall make a _grigri_
to keep him."
Simultaneously with the publication of "Gombo Zhebes," Hearn contributed
a series of articles[24] to _Harper's Weekly._ (221-227, 230, 232.)
These papers, which are commonplace newspaper work, tell of New Orleans,
its Expositions, its Superstitions, Voudooism, and the Creole Patois. He
feels that the Creole tongue must go, but while there is still time, he
hopes that some one will rescue its dying legends and curious lyrics.
[24] Copyright, 1884, 1885, 1886, by Harper and Brothers.
The unedited Creole literature comprises songs, satires in
rhymes, proverbs, fairy-tales--almost everything commonly
included under the term folk-lore. The lyrical portion of
it is opulent in oddities, in melancholy beauties.
There are few of the younger generation of Creoles who do not converse
in the French and English languages. Creole is the speech of motherhood,
and "there is a strange naive sorrow in their burdens as of children
sobbing for lonesomeness in the night."
There is an interesting account of Jean Montanet, "Voudoo John"--The
Last of the Voudoos. He was said to be a son of a prince of Senegal.
From a ship's cook he rose to own large estates. While he was a
cotton-roller, it was noticed that he seemed to have some peculiar
occult influence over the negroes under him. Voudoo John had the
mysterious _obi_ power. Soon realizing his power, he commenced to tell
fortunes, and thousands and thousands of people, white and black,
flocked to him. Then he bought a house and began as well to practise
Creole medicine. He could give receipts for everything and anything, and
many a veiled lady stopped at his door.
Once Jean received a fee of $50 for a potion. "It was
water," he said to a Creole confidant, "with some common
herbs boiled in it. I hurt nobody, but if folks want to
give me fifty dollars, I take the fifty dollars every
time!"
It is said that Jean became worth at least $50,000. He had his horses
and carriages, his fifteen wives, whom he considered, one and all,
legitimate spouses. He was charitable too. But he did not know what to
do with his money. Gradually, in one way or another, it was stolen from
him, until at the last, with nothing left but his African shells, his
elephant's tusk, and the sewing-machine upon which he used to tell
fortunes even in his days of riches, he had to seek hospitality of his
children.
Hearn devotes several columns to Voudooism, telling of its witchcrafts
and charms and fetiches which work for evil, and also of the
superstitions regarding the common occurrences of daily life.
In a paper on Mexican feather-work at the New Orleans Exposition, there
is this paragraph which presages his later descriptions:--
As I write, the memory of a Mexican landscape scene in
feather-work is especially vivid--a vast expanse of opulent
wheat-fields, whereof the blonde immensity brightens or
deepens its tint with the tremor of summer winds; distance
makes violet the hills; a steel-bright river serpentines
through the plain, reflecting the feminine grace of palms
tossing their plumes against an azure sky. I remember also
a vision of marshes--infinite stretches of reed-grown ooze,
shuddering in gusts of sea-wind, and paling away into
bluish vagueness as through a miasmatic haze.
In conjunction with these articles, Hearn published in _Harper's Bazaar_
(228-229) two papers on the Curiosities to be found at the New Orleans
Exposition.
SOME CHINESE GHOSTS[25] (3) was the next book of the New Orleans period.
The first publisher to whom it was submitted did not accept it, but
Roberts Brothers finally brought it out. "There are only six little
stories," writes Hearn, "but each of them cost months of hard work and
study, and represents a much higher attempt than anything in the 'Stray
Leaves.'" The book is dedicated to his friend Mr. Krehbiel, and the
Dedication, which is given in the Bibliography, is as unique as the
tales themselves.
[25] Copyright, 1887, by Roberts Brothers.
In the Preface Hearn says that while preparing these legends he sought
for "weird beauty." The era of fierce passions and horror is waning, and
in these six perfect tales there is a new-found restraint, a firmer
handling of the brush in more normal colours.
One of the earliest reviews of his work remarks:--
"In his treatment of the legend lore of the Celestial Empire, Mr. Hearn
has, if possible, been even more delicate and charming than in the
stories which go to make the previous volume, so much so, indeed, that
one is persuaded to full belief in the beauty and witchery of the
almond-eyed heroines of his pages." (322.)
The opening story is of the beautiful Ko-Ngai, daughter of Kouan-Yu,
whose divine loyalty to her father never faltered even at a hideous
death. He was a great bellmaker, and the Mandarin ordered that he should
make a bell of such size that it would be heard for one hundred _li_,
and further that the bell "should be strengthened with brass, and
deepened with gold, and sweetened with silver." But the metals refused
to mingle. Again the bell was cast, but the result was even worse, and
the Son of Heaven was very angry; and this word was sent to Kouan-Yu:--
"If thou fail a third time in fulfilling our command, thy head
shall be severed from thy neck."
When the lovely Ko-Ngai heard this, she sold her jewels, and paid a
great price to an astrologer, and it was told to her:--
Gold and brass will never meet in wedlock, silver and iron never
will embrace, until the flesh of a maiden be melted in the
crucible; until the blood of a virgin be mingled with the metals
in their fusion.
Ko-Ngai told no one what she had heard. The awful hour for the heroic
effort of the final casting arrived.
All the workmen wrought their tasks in silence; there was no
sound heard but the muttering of the fires. And the muttering
deepened into a roar of typhoons approaching, and the blood-red
lake of metal slowly brightened like the vermilion of a sunrise,
and the vermilion was transmuted into a radiant glow of gold,
and the gold whitened blindingly, like the silver face of a full
moon. Then the workers ceased to feed the raving flame, and all
fixed their eyes upon the eyes of Kouan-Yu; and Kouan-Yu
prepared to give the signal to cast.
But ere ever he lifted his finger, a cry caused him to turn his
head; and all heard the voice of Ko-Ngai sounding sharply sweet
as a bird's song above the great thunder of the fires,--"For thy
sake, O my Father!" And even as she cried, she leaped into the
white flood of metal; and the lava of the furnace roared to
receive her, and spattered monstrous flakes of flame to the
roof, and burst over the verge of the earthen crater, and cast
up a whirling fountain of many-coloured fires, and subsided
quakingly, with lightnings and with thunders and with mutterings.
Of the lovely Ko-Ngai no trace remained save a little shoe, which was
left in the hand of the faithful serving-woman who had striven to catch
her as she leaped into the flame.
And ever does the bell, whose tones are deeper and mellower and mightier
than the tones of any other bell, utter the name of Ko-Ngai; and ever
between the mighty strokes there is a low moaning heard, a sobbing of
"_Hiai!_" and that they say is Ko-Ngai crying for her little shoe.
The next tale tells of Ming-Y and how it was that he did not heed the
counsel of the words of Lao-Tseu, and so it befell that he was loved by
the beautiful Sie-Thao, whose tomb had many years ago crumbled to ruins.
The Legend of Tchi-Niu is the queen flower of the nosegay of six. Tong's
father died, and as they were very poor, the only way that Tong could
obtain money to pay for the funeral expenses was to sell himself as a
slave. The years passed, and he worked without rest or pay, but never a
complaint did he utter. At length the fever of the ricefields seized
him, and he was left alone in his sickness, for there was no one to wait
on him. One noon he dreamed that a beautiful woman bent over him and
touched his forehead with her hand. And Tong opened his eyes, and he saw
the lovely person of whom he had dreamed. "I have come to restore thy
strength and to be thy wife. Arise and worship with me." And reading his
thoughts she said, "I will provide."
"And together they worshipped Heaven and Earth. Thus she became his
wife."
But all that Tong knew of his wife was that her name was Tchi. And the
fame of the weaving of Tchi spread far, and people came to see her
beautiful work. One morning Tchi gave to her husband a document. It was
his freedom that she had bought.
Later the silk-loom remained untouched, for Tchi gave birth to a son.
And the boy was not less wonderful than his mother.
Now it came to the Period of the Eleventh Moon. Suddenly one night, Tchi
led Tong to the cradle where their son slumbered, and as she did so a
great fear and awe came over Tong, and the sweet tender voice breathed
to him:--
"Lo! my beloved, the moment has come in which I must forsake
thee; for I was never of mortal born, and the Invisible may
incarnate themselves for a time only. Yet I leave with thee the
pledge of our love,--this fair son, who shall ever be to thee as
faithful and as fond as thou thyself hast been. Know, my
beloved, that I was sent to thee even by the Master of Heaven,
in reward of thy filial piety, and that I must now return to the
glory of His house: I AM THE GODDESS TCHI-NIU."
Even as she ceased to speak, the great glow faded, and Tong,
reopening his eyes, knew that she had passed away for
ever,--mysteriously as pass the winds of heaven, irrevocably as
the light of a flame blown out. Yet all the doors were barred,
all the windows unopened. Still the child slept, smiling in his
sleep. Outside, the darkness was breaking; the sky was
brightening swiftly; the night was past. With splendid majesty
the East threw open high gates of gold for the coming of the
sun; and, illuminated by the glory of his coming, the vapours of
morning wrought themselves into marvellous shapes of shifting
colour,--into forms weirdly beautiful as the silken dreams woven
in the loom of Tchi-Niu.
Another tale is that of Mara, who tempted in vain, for the Indian
pilgrim conquered.
And still, as a mist of incense, as a smoke of universal
sacrifice, perpetually ascends to heaven from all the lands of
earth the pleasant vapour TE, created for the refreshment of
mankind by the power of a holy vow, the virtue of a pious
atonement.
Like unto the Tale of the Great Bell, Pu, convinced that a soul cannot
be divided,
entered the flame, and yielded up his ghost in the embrace of
the Spirit of the Furnace, giving his life for the life of his
work,--his soul for the soul of his Vase.
And when the workmen came upon the tenth morning to take forth
the porcelain marvel, even the bones of Pu had ceased to be; but
lo! the Vase lived as they looked upon it: seeming to be flesh
moved by the utterance of a Word, creeping to the titillation of
a Thought. And whenever tapped by the finger, it uttered a voice
and a name,--the voice of its maker, the name of its creator: PU.
This same year, Hearn contributed to _Harpers Bazaar_ the valiant legend
of "Rabyah's Last Ride"(234)--Rabyah upon whom no woman had ever called
in vain, and who defended his women even after he was dead. This tale
was copied in the _Times-Democrat_.
CHITA[26] (4), although published after Hearn left New Orleans, properly
belongs to that period. It first appeared in much shorter form in the
_Times-Democrat_ under the title of "Torn Letters." This version met
with many warm friends, and the author was urged to enlarge it. He did
so, and Harpers accepted the story, publishing it first as a serial in
their magazine. With this book came Hearn's first recognition, and
because of its success, he was given a commission by Harpers for further
studies in the tropics, which eventuated in the volume, "Two Years in
the French West Indies."
[26] Copyright, 1889, by Harper and Brothers.
"Chita" is the first glimpse of what Mr. Hearn could write from out
himself; for whereas, as always, the plot must be given to him, the
thread here is so frail that what we admire and remember is the fabric
itself which only Hearn could have woven. In "Chita" he recreates
elemental nature. In "Karma" he becomes the conscience of a human being.
Then, for the first time he realizes the spiritual forces which are
stronger than life or death, and without which no beauty exists.
A criticism of "Chita" at the time of its publication says:--
"By right of this single but profoundly remarkable book, Mr. Hearn may
lay good claim to the title of the American Victor Hugo ... so living a
book has scarcely been given to our generation." (342.)
Concerning the story, Hearn himself writes as follows:--
"Chita" was founded on the fact of a child saved from the Lost
Island disaster by some Louisiana fishing-folk, and brought up
by them. Years after a Creole hunter recognized her, and
reported her whereabouts to relatives. These, who were rich,
determined to bring her up as young ladies are brought up in the
South, and had her sent to a convent. But she had lived the free
healthy life of the coast, and could not bear the convent; she
ran away from it, married a fisherman, and lives somewhere down
there now,--the mother of multitudinous children.
This slight structure of plot gave Hearn the opportunity to paint a
marvellous picture. Hundreds of quotations could be given. He is
delighted with the rich glory of the tropics, and by his power of word
imagery he so reproduces it that with him we too can see and feel it. In
this glowing Nature the poisoned beauty of the Orient is forgotten. Take
this description:--
The charm of a single summer day on these island shores is
something impossible to express, never to be forgotten. Rarely,
in the paler zones, do earth and heaven take such luminosity:
those will best understand me who have seen the splendour of a
West Indian sky. And yet there is a tenderness of tint, a caress
of colour, in these Gulf-days which is not of the Antilles,--a
spirituality, as of eternal tropical spring. It must have been
to even such a sky that Xenophanes lifted up his eyes of old
when he vowed the Infinite Blue was God;--it was indeed under
such a sky that De Soto named the vastest and grandest of
Southern havens Espiritu Santo,--the Bay of the Holy Ghost.
There is a something unutterable in this bright Gulf-air that
compels awe,--something vital, something holy, something
pantheistic and reverentially the mind asks itself if what the
eye beholds is not the [Greek: pneuma] indeed, the Infinite
Breath, the Divine Ghost, the Great Blue Soul of the Unknown.
All, all is blue in the calm,--save the low land under your
feet, which you almost forget, since it seems only as a tiny
green flake afloat in the liquid eternity of day. Then slowly,
caressingly, irresistibly, the witchery of the Infinite grows
upon you: out of Time and Space you begin to dream with open
eyes,--to drift into delicious oblivion of facts,--to forget the
past, the present, the substantial,--to comprehend nothing but
the existence of that infinite Blue Ghost as something into
which you would wish to melt utterly away for ever.
So it is told that into this perfect peace one August day in 1856, a
scarlet sun sank in a green sky, and a moonless night came.
Then the Wind grew weird. It ceased being a breath; it became a
Voice moaning across the world hooting,--uttering nightmare
sounds,--_Whoo!_--_whoo!_--_whoo!_--and with each stupendous
owl-cry the mooing of the waters seemed to deepen, more and more
abysmally, through all the hours of darkness.
Morning dawned with great rain: the steamer _Star_ was due that day. No
one dared to think of it. "Great God!" some one shrieked,--"She is
coming!"
On she came, swaying, rocking, plunging,--with a great whiteness
wrapping her about like a cloud, and moving with her moving,--a
tempest-whirl of spray;--ghost-white and like a ghost she came,
for her smoke-stacks exhaled no visible smoke--the wind devoured
it.
And still the storm grew fiercer. On shore the guests at the hotel
danced with a feverish reckless gaiety.
Again the _Star_ reeled, and shuddered, and turned, and began to
drag away from the great building and its lights,--away from the
voluptuous thunder of the grand piano,--even at that moment
outpouring the great joy of Weber's melody orchestrated by
Berlioz: _l'Invitation a la Valse_,--with its marvellous musical
swing.
--"Waltzing!" cried the captain. "God help them!--God help us
all now!... The Wind waltzes to-night, with the Sea for his
partner." ...
O the stupendous Valse-Tourbillon! O the mighty Dancer!
One-two--three! From north-east to east, from east to
south-east, from south-east to south: then from the south he
came, whirling the Sea in his arms....
And so the hurricane passed, and the day reveals utter wreck and
desolation. "There is plunder for all--birds and men."
At a fishing village on the coast on this same night of the storm
Carmen, the good wife of Feliu, dreamed--above the terrors of the
tempest which shattered her sleep--once again the dream that kept
returning of her little Concha, her first-born who slept far away in the
old churchyard at Barcelona. And this night she dreamed that her waxen
Virgin came and placed in her arms the little brown child with the
Indian face, and the face became that of her dead Conchita.
And Carmen wished to thank the Virgin for that priceless bliss,
and lifted up her eyes; but the sickness of ghostly fear
returned upon her when she looked; for now the Mother seemed as
a woman long dead, and the smile was the smile of fleshlessness,
and the places of the eyes were voids and darknesses.... And the
sea sent up so vast a roar that the dwelling rocked.
* * * * *
Feliu and his men find the tide heavy with human dead and the sea filled
with wreckage. Through this floatage Feliu detects a stir of life ... he
swims to rescue a little baby fast in the clutch of her dead mother.
To Carmen it is the meaning of her dream. The child has been sent by the
Virgin. The tale leads on through the growing life of Chita. Finally one
day Dr. La Brierre, whose wife and child had been lost in the famous
storm, is summoned to Viosca's Point to the deathbed of his father's old
friend, who is dying of the fever. It is Feliu who brings him. But
before they can reach the Point the man has already died. The Doctor
remains at Feliu's fishing smack. He feels the sickness of the fever
coming over him. Then he sees Chita.... Hers is the face of his dead
Adele. Through the fury of the fever, which has now seized him, the past
is mingled with the present. He re-lives the agony of that death-storm,
re-lives all the horror of that scene, when all that he held dear was
swept away--until his own soul passes out into the night.
The description of Dr. La Brierre in the throes of the fever is
terrible. It is so realistic that one shudders.
TWO YEARS IN THE FRENCH WEST INDIES[27] (6) was the _piece de
resistance_ of the sojourn in the tropics. Some of the papers appeared
first in _Harper's Magazine_. They are marvellous colour-pictures of the
country, its people, its life, its customs, with many of the picturesque
legends and the quaintnesses that creep into the heart.
[27] Copyright, 1890, by Harper and Brothers.
"There is not a writer who could have so steeped himself in this
languorous Creole life and then tell so well about it. Trollope and
Froude give you the hard, gritty facts, and Lafcadio Hearn the sentiment
and poetry of this beautiful island." (387.)
More and more is Hearn realizing the necessity of finding new colour. "I
hope to be able to take a trip to New Mexico in the summer just to
obtain literary material, sun-paint, tropical colour, etc." It is always
the intense that his fancy craves, and indeed _must_ have in order to
work. "There are tropical lilies which are venomous, but they are more
beautiful than the frail and icy white lilies of the North." "Whenever I
receive a new and strong impression, even in a dream, I write it down,
and afterwards develop it at leisure.... There are impressions of blue
light and gold and green, correlated to old Spanish legend, which can be
found only south of this line." "I will write you a little while I am
gone,--if I can find a little strange bit of tropical colour to spread
on the paper,--like the fine jewel-dust of scintillant moth-wings."
"Next week I go away to hunt up some tropical or semi-tropical
impressions."
He is bewitched by St. Pierre--"I love this quaint, whimsical,
wonderfully coloured little town." On opening the present volume we at
once feel how thoroughly sympathetic this whole Nature is to him, how
ravished his senses are with all that she portrays.
From Pier 49, East River, New York, we travel with Hearn through days of
colour and beauty to the glorious Caribbean Sea, where we sail on to
Roseau and St. Pierre. Here the colour is becoming so intense that the
eyes are blinded.
The luminosities of tropic foliage could only be imitated in
fire. He who desires to paint a West Indian forest,--a West
Indian landscape,--must take his view from some great height,
through which the colours come to his eye softened and subdued
by distance,--toned with blues or purples by the astonishing
atmosphere.
... It is sunset as I write these lines, and there are
witchcrafts of colour. Looking down the narrow, steep street
opening to the bay, I see the motionless silhouette of the
steamer on a perfectly green sea,--under a lilac sky,--against a
prodigious orange light.
Over her memoried paths we wander with Josephine, and then we pause
before the lovely statue which seems a living presence.
She is standing just in the centre of the Savane, robed in the
fashion of the First Empire, with gracious arms and shoulders
bare: one hand leans upon a medallion bearing the eagle profile
of Napoleon.... Seven tall palms stand in a circle around her,
lifting their comely heads into the blue glory of the tropic
day. Within their enchanted circle you feel that you tread holy
ground,--the sacred soil of artist and poet;--here the
recollections of memoir-writers vanish away; the gossip of
history is hushed for you; you no longer care to know how rumour
has it that she spoke or smiled or wept: only the bewitchment of
her lives under the thin, soft, swaying shadows of those
feminine palms.... Over violet space of summer sea, through the
vast splendour of azure light, she is looking back to the place
of her birth, back to beautiful drowsy Trois-Islets,--and always
with the same half-dreaming, half-plaintive smile,--unutterably
touching....
"Under a sky always deepening in beauty" we steam on to the level,
burning, coral coast of Barbadoes. Then on past to Demerara.
We pass through all the quaint beautiful old towns and islands. We see
their wonders of sky and sea and flowers. We see their people and all
that great race of the mixed blood.
With dear old Jean-Marie we wait for the return of Les Porteuses, and we
hear his call:--
"_Coument ou ye, che? coument ou kalle?_" ... (How art thou,
dear?--how goes it with thee?)
And they mostly make answer, "_Toutt douce, che,--et ou?_" (All
sweetly, dear,--and thou?) But some, over-weary, cry to him,
"_Ah! decharge moin vite, che! moin lasse, lasse!_" (Unload me
quickly, dear; for I am very, very weary.) Then he takes off
their burdens, and fetches bread for them, and says foolish
little things to make them laugh. And they are pleased and
laugh, just like children, as they sit right down on the road
there to munch their dry bread.
Again we follow on: this time to La Grande Anse, where we see the
powerful surf-swimmers. With the population we turn out to witness the
procession of young girls to be confirmed; we see the dances and games;
we hear the chants, and the strange music on strange instruments.
At St. Pierre once more we listen to the history of Pere Labat, who in
twelve years made his order the richest and most powerful in the West
Indies.
"Eh, Pere Labat!--what changes there have been since thy day!...
And all that ephemeral man has had power to change has been
changed,--ideas, morals, beliefs, the whole social fabric. But
the eternal summer remains,--and the Hesperian magnificence of
azure sky and violet sea,--and the jewel-colours of the
perpetual hills; the same tepid winds that rippled thy
cane-fields two hundred years ago still blow over Sainte-Marie;
the same purple shadows lengthen and dwindle and turn with the
wheeling of the sun. God's witchery still fills this land; and
the heart of the stranger is even yet snared by the beauty of
it; and the dreams of him that forsakes it will surely be
haunted--even as were thine own, Pere Labat--by memories of its
Eden-summer: the sudden leap of the light over a thousand peaks
in the glory of a tropic dawn,--the perfumed peace of enormous
azure noons,--and shapes of palm, wind-rocked in the burning of
colossal sunsets,--and the silent flickering of the great
fire-flies, through the lukewarm darkness, when mothers call
their children home.... '_Mi fanal Pe Labatt!--mi Pe Labatt ka
vini pouend ou!_'"
Then we see the lights of the shrines that will protect us from the
Zombi and the Moun-Mo, and all the terrible beings who are filled with
witchcraft; and we listen to the tale of that Zombi who likes to take
the shape of a lissome young negress.
By this time it is Carnival Week with its dances and games and maskers.
But a little later we are shuddering at the horrible pestilence Verette
that has seized the city. A gleam of the old love of horror is caught in
the following quotation:--
She was the prettiest, assuredly, among the pretty shop-girls of
the Grande Rue,--a rare type of _sang-melee_. So oddly pleasing,
the young face, that once seen, you could never again dissociate
the recollection of it from the memory of the street. But one
who saw it last night before they poured quick-lime upon it
could discern no features,--only a dark brown mass, like a
fungus, too frightful to think about.
At the beautiful Savane du Fort our eyes and hearts are gladdened by the
quaint sight of the Blanchisseuses with their snowy linen spread out for
miles along the river's bank. Their laughter echoes in our ears, and we
try to catch the words of their little songs.
One warm and starry, and to us unforgettable, September morning we make
the ascent of Mt. Pelee by the way of Morne St. Martin, and on our way
we come to know the country that lies all around. Let me quote our
sensation as we reach the summit:--
At the beginning, while gazing south, east, west, to the rim of
the world, all laughed, shouted, interchanged the quick delight
of new impressions: every face was radiant.... Now all look
serious; none speaks.... Dominating all, I think, is the
consciousness of the awful antiquity of what one is looking
upon,--such a sensation, perhaps, as of old found utterance in
that tremendous question of the Book of Job: "_Wast thou brought
forth before the hills?_"
And the blue multitudes of the peaks, the perpetual congregation
of the mornes, seem to chorus in the vast resplendence,--telling
of Nature's eternal youth, and the passionless permanence of
that about us and beyond us and beneath,--until something like
the fulness of a grief begins to weigh at the heart.... For all
this astonishment of beauty, all this majesty of light and form
and colour, will surely endure,--marvellous as now,--after we
shall have lain down to sleep where no dreams come, and may
never arise from the dust of our rest to look upon it.
Another day we are laughing at the little _ti canotie_ who in the
queerest tiny boats surround a steamer as soon as she drops anchor.
These are the boys who dive for coins. A sad tale is told of Maximilien
and Strephane. Again our hearts are moved by the pathos and the tragedy
of La Fille de Couleur; and in this chapter we find that characteristic
description:--
I refer to the celebrated attire of the pet slaves and _belles
affranchies_ of the old colonial days. A full
costume,--including violet or crimson "petticoat" of silk or
satin; chemise with half-sleeves, and much embroidery and lace;
"trembling-pins" of gold (_zepingue tremblant_) to attach the
folds of the brilliant Madras turban; the great necklace of
three or four strings of gold beads bigger than peas
(_collier-choux_); the ear-rings, immense but light as
egg-shells (_zanneaux-a-clous_ or _zanneaux-chenilles_); the
bracelets (_portes-bonheur_); the studs (_boutons-a-clous_); the
brooches, not only for the turban, but for the chemise, below
the folds of the showy silken foulard or shoulder-scarf,--would
sometimes represent over five thousand francs' expenditure. This
gorgeous attire is becoming less visible every year: it is now
rarely worn except on very solemn occasions,--weddings,
baptisms, first communions, confirmations. The _da_ (nurse) or
"_porteuse-de-bapteme_" who bears the baby to church, holds it
at the baptismal font, and afterwards carries it from house to
house in order that all the friends of the family may kiss it,
is thus attired: but now-a-days, unless she be a professional
(for there are professional _das_, hired only for such
occasions), she usually borrows the jewellery. If tall, young,
graceful, with a rich gold tone of skin, the effect of her
costume is dazzling as that of a Byzantine Virgin. I saw one
young _da_ who, thus garbed, scarcely seemed of the earth and
earthly;--there was an Oriental something in her appearance
difficult to describe,--something that made you think of the
Queen at Sheba going to visit Solomon. She had brought a
merchant's baby, just christened, to receive the caresses of the
family at whose house I was visiting; and when it came to my
turn to kiss it, I confess I could not notice the child: I saw
only the beautiful dark face, coiffed with orange and purple,
bending over it, in an illumination of antique gold. What a
_da_!... She represented really the type of that _belle
affranchie_ of other days, against whose fascination special
sumptuary laws were made: romantically she imaged for me the
supernatural godmothers and Cinderellas of the Creole
fairy-tales.
Still we have much to learn about the little creatures in the shapes of
ants and scorpions and lizards. They form no small part of the
population of Martinique. And still more about the fruits and the
vegetables do we learn from good Cyrillia, Ma Bonne. One longs to have a
housekeeper as loving and child-like and solicitous. We leave her gazing
with love unutterable at the new photograph of her daughter, and
wondering the while why they do not make a portrait talk so that she can
talk to her beautiful daughter.
And day by day the artlessness of this exotic humanity touches
you more;--day by day this savage, somnolent, splendid
Nature--delighting in furious colour--bewitches you more.
Already the anticipated necessity of having to leave it all some
day--the far-seen pain of bidding it farewell weighs upon you,
even in dreams.
But before we go, we must learn how Nature must treat those who are not
born under her suns.
Then at last reluctantly we board the _Guadeloupe_, and with
Mademoiselle Violet-Eyes, who is leaving her country, perhaps for a very
long time, to become a governess in New York, we realize that nowhere on
this earth may there be brighter skies.
Farewell, fair city,--sun-kissed city,--many-fountained
city!--dear yellow-glimmering streets,--white pavements learned
by heart,--and faces ever looked for,--and voices ever loved!
Farewell, white towers with your golden-throated
bells!--farewell, green steeps, bathed in the light of summer
everlasting!--craters with your coronets of forests!--bright
mountain paths upwinding 'neath pomp of fern and angelin and
feathery bamboo!--and gracious palms that drowse above the dead!
Farewell, soft-shadowing majesty of valleys unfolding to the
sun,--green golden cane-fields ripening to the sea!...
Dominica, Guadeloupe, Martinique, Pelee--so they vanish behind us. Shall
not we too become _Les Revenants_?
YOUMA[28] (5) was written in Martinique, and also belongs to the New
Orleans period. "I think you will like it better than 'Chita.' It is
more mature and exotic by far,"--so Hearn wrote of the story in one of
his letters. Later on, when living in Japan, he wrote:--
[28] Copyright, 1890, by Harper and Brothers.
It gave me no small pleasure to find that you like "Youma": you
will not like it less knowing that the story is substantially
true. You can see the ruins of the old house in the Quartier du
Fort if you ever visit Saint-Pierre, and perhaps meet my old
friend Arnoux, a survivor of the time. The girl really died
under the heroic conditions described--refusing the help of the
blacks and the ladder. Of course I may have idealized her, but
not her act. The incident of the serpent occurred also; but the
heroine was a different person,--a plantation girl, celebrated
by the historian Rufz de Lavison. I wrote the story under
wretched circumstances in Martinique, near the scenes described,
and under the cross with the black Christ.
An English notice says:--
"It is an admirable little tale, full of local characteristics with
curious fragments of Creole French from Martinique, and abundance of
wide human sympathy. It deserves reprinting for English readers more
than three-fourths of the fiction which is wont to cross the Atlantic
under similar circumstances." (294.)
"Youma" is the tale of the exquisite devotion and loyalty of a _da_. (A
_da_ is the foster-mother and nurse of a Creole child.) At the death of
Aimee, Youma's playmate and rich foster-sister, little Mayotte, her
child, becomes Youma's charge. An intimate description is given us of
the Creole life of Mayotte and Youma. The love of this _da_ is very
beautiful. Once with an extraordinary heroism Youma saves Mayotte from a
serpent which has slipped into their room. With a still greater heroism
she refuses to run away with Gabriel, who has opened the world to
her,--Gabriel who has brought her love, and whom she can marry in no
other way. No, above the pleadings of her lover, comes the voice of her
dying mistress, begging, with such trust,--
"Youma, O Youma! you will love my child?--Youma, you will never
leave her, whatever happens, while she is little? promise, dear
Youma!"
And she had--promised....
Then comes the final test of Youma's strength of devotion. There is an
outbreak among the blacks, who have become inflamed by the dreams of
coming freedom. The Desrivieres with many other families are forced to
flee for refuge in safer quarters. Under one roof all these people
gather. Youma is urged to leave and save herself. But she will not
forsake Mayotte or her master. The infuriated blacks surround the house,
and horror follows. Presently the house is set on fire. Youma, with
Mayotte in her arms, appears at an upper window. Gabriel, "daring the
hell about him for her sake," puts up a ladder. Youma hands him Mayotte.
"Can you save her?" she asks.
"Gabriel could only shake his head;--the street sent up so
frightful a cry....
"_Non!--non!--non!--pa le yche-beke--janmain yche-beke!_"
"Then you cannot save me!" cried Youma, clasping the child to
her bosom,--"_janmain! janmain, mon ami._"
"Youma, in the name of God...."
"In the name of God, you ask me to be a coward!... Are you vile,
Gabriel?--are you base?... Save myself and leave the child to
burn?... Go!"
"Leave the _beke's yche_!--leave it!--leave it, girl!" shouted a
hundred voices.
"_Moin!_" cried Youma, retreating beyond the reach of Gabriel's
hand,--"_moin!_ ... Never shall I leave it, never! I shall go to
God with it."
"Burn with it, then!" howled the negroes ... "down with that
ladder! down with it, down with it!"
The ladder catches fire and burns. The walls quiver, and there are
shrieks from the back of the house. Unmoved, with a perfect calm, Youma
remains at the window. "There is now neither hate nor fear on her fine
face." Softly she whispers to Mayotte, and caresses her with an infinite
tenderness. Never to Gabriel had she seemed so beautiful.
Another minute--and he saw her no more. The figure and the light
vanished together, as beams and floor and roof all quaked down
at once into darkness.... Only the skeleton of stone
remained,--black-smoking to the stars.
A stillness follows. The murderers are appalled by their crime.
Then, from below, the flames wrestled out again,--crimsoning the
smoke whirls, the naked masonry, the wreck of timbers. They
wriggled upward, lengthening, lapping together,--lifted
themselves erect,--grew taller, fiercer,--twined into one huge
fluid spire of tongues that flapped and shivered high into the
night....
The yellowing light swelled,--expanded from promontory to
promontory,--palpitated over the harbour,--climbed the broken
slopes of the dead volcano leagues through the gloom. The wooded
mornes towered about the city in weird illumination,--seeming
loftier than by day,--blanching and shadowing alternately with
the soaring and sinking of the fire;--and at each huge pulsing
of the glow, the white cross of their central summit stood
revealed, with the strange passion of its black Christ.
... And at the same hour, from the other side of the world,--a
ship was running before the sun, bearing the Republican gift of
liberty and promise of universal suffrage to the slaves of
Martinique.
There are two little bits of description which are so characteristic
that I quote them:--
Then she became aware of a face ... lighted by a light that came
from nowhere,--that was only a memory of some long-dead morning.
And through the dimness round about it a soft blue radiance
grew,--the ghost of a day.
Sunset yellowed the sky,--filled the horizon with flare of
gold;--the sea changed its blue to lilac;--the mornes brightened
their vivid green to a tone so luminous that they seemed turning
phosphorescent. Rapidly the glow crimsoned,--shadows purpled;
and night spread swiftly from the east,--black-violet and full
of stars.
KARMA[29] (242) was written during the Philadelphia period, but was not
published in _Lippincott's Magazine_ until after Hearn had sailed for
Japan. The story is concentrated, with its every word a shaft of light,
and it seems a wrong to attempt to epitomize it. Except in its entirety
no adequate conception can be formed of this marvellous revelation of
the anguish that a human soul may suffer; nor of the artistic power with
which Hearn has developed and perfected his study. Many quotations could
be gleaned from his subsequent books which reflect the inspiration of
"Karma."
[29] Copyright, 1889, by Lafcadio Hearn; and, copyright, 1890
by J. B. Lippincott Company.
Despite her unusual intellect, the heroine had a childlike simplicity
and frankness which invited her lover's confidence, but he had never
told her his admiration, for a dormant power beneath her girlishness
made a compliment seem a rudeness. He was often alone with her, which is
helpful to lovers, but her charm always confused him, and his
embarrassment only deepened. One day she archly asked him to tell her
about it.
Is there one who does not know that moment when the woman beloved
becomes the ideal, and the lover feels his utter unworthiness? Yet, if
she is one of those rare souls, the illusion, however divine, is less
perfect than is her worth. Do you know what she truly is--how she
signifies "the whole history of love striving against hate, aspiration
against pain, truth against ignorance, sympathy against pitilessness?
She,--the soul of her! is the ripened passion-flower of the triumph. All
the heroisms, the martyrdoms, the immolations of self,--all strong
soarings of will through fire and blood to God since humanity
began,--conspired to kindle the flame of her higher life."
And then you question yourself with a thousand questions, and then there
are as many more of your duty to her, to the future, and to the Supreme
Father.
She was not surprised when he told her his wish, but she was not
confident that he really loved her, nor whether she should permit
herself to like him. Finally she bade him go home and "as soon as you
feel able to do it properly,--write out for me a short history of your
life;--just write down everything you feel that you would not like me to
know. Write it,--and send it.... And then I shall tell you whether I
will marry you."
How easy the task seemed, and his whole being was joyous; but the
lightness lasted for only a moment, and gradually all that her command
meant crept over him.... "_Everything you feel you would not like me to
know._" Surely she had no realization of what she had asked. Did she
imagine that men were good like women--how cruel to hurt her.
Then for a period he was uplifted with the desire to meet her
truthfulness, but his courage failed again after he had written down the
record of his childhood and youth. It was no slight task to make this
confession of his sins. And how pale and trivial they had seemed before.
Was it possible that he had never before rightly looked at them? Yet why
should he so falter? Surely she meant to pardon him. He must put
everything down truthfully, and then recolour the whole for her gaze.
But his face grew hot at the thought of certain passages.
Hour after hour he sat at his desk until it was past midnight, but no
skill could soften the stony facts. Finally he lay down to rest: his
fevered brain tried to find excuses for his faults. He could forgive
himself everything ... except--ah, how unutterably wicked he had been
there. No, he could not tell her _that_: instead he must lose her for
ever. And in losing her he would lose all the higher self which she had
awakened. To lose her--when he of all men had found his ideal.
"_Everything you feel you would not like me to know._" Perhaps when she
had put this ban upon him, she suspected that there were incidents in
his life which he dared not tell her. Could he not deceive her? No, he
might write a lie, but he could never meet her fine sweet eyes with a
lie. What was he to do? And why had he always been so humble before that
slight girl? "Assuredly those fine grey eyes were never lowered before
living gaze: she seemed as one who might look God in the face."
Slowly his senses became more confused, and a darkness came, and a light
in the darkness that shone on her; and he saw her bathed in a soft
radiance, that seemed of some substance like ivory. And he knew that she
was robing for her bridal with him.
He was at her side: all around them was a gentle whispering of many
friends, who were dead. Would they smile thus--_if they knew_?
Then there arose something within him, and he knew that he must tell her
all. He commenced to speak, and she became transfigured, and smiled at
him with the tenderness of an angel; and the more he told the greater
was her forgiveness. And he heard the voices of the others lauding him
for his self-sacrifice and his sincerity. Yet as they praised a fear
clutched him for one last avowal that he must make. And with the growing
of this doubt all seemed maliciously to change, and even she no longer
smiled. He then would have told her alone, but even as he tried to hush
his voice, it seemed to pierce the quietude "with frightful audibility,
like the sibilation of a possessing spirit." Then with a reckless
despair he shouted it aloud, and everything vanished, and the darkness
of night was about him.
For many restless days and nights he harried himself with bitter
self-analysis; and day by day he tore up a certain page; yet without
that page his manuscript was worthless. As the days grew into weeks a
new fear seized him that his silence had betrayed him, and that already
she had decided against him. In the face of this danger he became
terrified, and one morning he feverishly copied the memorable page, and,
addressing the whole, dropped it in the first letter-box, before he
might change his mind.
Then an awful revelation of his act overcame him. Should he telegraph
her to return the manuscript unopened. No, it was already too late. What
was done--was done for ever. He now vaguely realized what he feared in
her--"a penetrating dynamic moral power that he felt without
comprehending." He tried to steel himself for the worst, but he knew
with a premonition that behind his imagined worst there were depths
beyond depths of worse.
The single word "Come" which he received two days later confirmed his
fears. When he reached the door of her apartment, she had already risen
to take from a locked drawer an envelope which he knew was his. She
proffered him no greeting, but asked in a cold voice if he wished her to
burn the document. At his whispered _yes_, he met her eyes, and they
seemed to strip him of the last remnant of his pride. "He stood before
her as before God,--morally naked as a soul in painted dreams of the
Judgment Day."
The fire caught the paper, and he stood near, in fear of her next word,
while she watched the flame.
At last she asked if the woman was dead. He well knew to what she
referred, and replied that almost five years had passed since her death.
To the penetrating questions which followed he answered that the
child--a boy--was well, and that his friend was still there--in the same
place. She turned to him abruptly and coldly, angered that he could have
believed that she would pardon such a crime.
He must have had some hope, or he would not have sent the letter. Had he
measured her by his own moral standard? Certainly he had placed her
below the level of honest people. Would he dare to ask their judgment of
his sin?
Speechless, he writhed under the scorn of her words, and a knowledge of
shame to which his former agony was as nothing burned within him. That
in him which her inborn goodness had taught her, was now laid bare to
himself.
Again she spoke after a silence--perhaps he would think she was cruel;
but she was not, nor was she unjust, for transcendent sin that denies
"all the social wisdom gained by human experience" cannot be pardoned,
it can only be atoned. And that sin was his; and God would exact his
expiation. And that expiation she now demanded in God's name, and as her
right. He must go to the friend whom he had wronged, and tell him the
whole truth. He must ask for the child, and fulfil his whole duty; also
he must place even his life at the man's will. And she would rather see
him dead than believe that he could be a coward as well as a criminal.
This she requested not as a favour, but as her right.
At her words he grew pale as if to death, and for a moment she feared
that he might refuse, and that she must despise him. No! his colour
rushed back, and her heart leaped, as with a calm resolve he answered,
"I will do it."
"Then go!" she replied, betraying no gladness.
A year went by. She knew that he had kept his promise. He wrote to her
often, and passionately, but the letters were never answered. Did she
doubt him still?--or was she afraid of her own heart? He could not know
the truth, so he waited with hopes and fears, and the seasons passed.
Then one day she was startled to receive a letter which told her that he
was passing through her suburb, and he begged only to be permitted to
see her. To his surprise the answer brought the happy words, "You may."
From the shy, beautiful eyes of the child, whom he brought, there seemed
to plead a woman's sorrow, until her own soul answered in forgiveness.
And the boy and the father marvelled at the tenderness that had come
upon her, and the father sobbed until her voice thrilled: that suffering
was strength and knowledge, that always he must suffer for the evil he
had wrought, but she would help him to bear the pain, and to endure his
atonement. She would shield his frailty--she would love his boy.
THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD (21) was translated in New York, while
Hearn was finishing the proofs of "Two Years in the French West Indies."
Of it he writes:--
As for the "Sylvestre Bonnard" I believe I told you that that
was translated in about ten days and published in two weeks from
the time of beginning it.... But the work suffers in consequence
of haste.
After his departure for the Orient, two articles on West Indian Society
appeared in the _Cosmopolitan_ (243-244). They give a sympathetic study
of the sad and pathetic tragedy of the race of the mixed blood. These
articles bear a similarity to the chapter upon and the references to
this subject, in "Two Years in the French West Indies."
GLIMPSES OF UNFAMILIAR JAPAN[30] (7) is the first of the series of
Japanese books. It was published after Hearn had been in Japan for four
years; since 1891 six of the articles had appeared in the _Atlantic
Monthly_ (246-251). Also in 1890, an article, "A Winter Journey to
Japan," was published in _Harper's Monthly_ (245). This was his initial
paper on Japan.
[30] Copyright, 1894, by Lafcadio Hearn; and published by
Houghton, Mifflin and Company.]
In many ways the present book on Japan is his happiest, for the charm
over everything is fresh and radiant. It is here that we learn the old
graceful customs, the touching child-like ways, and the sacred appealing
rites and beliefs that so endear to us the Japanese. Later we are to
have studies more philosophical, more erudite, but none more penetrating
in virtue of the very simplicity of subject.
It is difficult to believe that the writer, bewitched with the warmth
and colour of the tropics, giving his pen an unlicensed flow of word
colour and enthusiasm, in a few years could have matured into this
quiet, gentle thinker equally absorbed by the East. One finds scarcely a
trace of the Hearn of the tropics: therein lies his unique genius; just
so admirably as he reflected the West Indian life, does he now reflect
that of the Japanese.
It is the old Japan that Hearn loves, and the passing of which he mourns
even at the first. In his Preface, he says, "My own conviction, and that
of many impartial and more experienced observers of Japanese life, is
that Japan has nothing whatever to gain by conversion to Christianity,
either morally or otherwise, but very much to lose." Also in one of his
letters he writes, "I felt, as never before, how utterly dead old Japan
is, and how ugly New Japan is becoming." It is old Japan that we find in
the present volume. It is much as if we looked into a diary of his first
days in the Orient, giving his impressions and conclusions, as well as
portraying the pictures themselves.
One of the reviews of the book contains the following:--
"If Japan is all that he says; if the Japanese are so compounded of all
the virtues, and so innocent of the ugly failings that mar our Western
civilization, then the poet's dream of a Golden Age has actually been
realized in the remote East. Much as we should like to believe that such
a land and such a people actually exist, we cannot altogether conquer
our doubts, or avoid the suspicion that the author's feeling sometimes
gets the better of his judgment." (379.)
And another says:--
"In volume one he is still the outside observer, remote enough to be
amused with the little pretty, bird-like glances of the Orient towards
the Occident, pleased at the happy chance which makes a blind
shampooer's cry musical as she taps her way down the street, instead of
giving her a voice raucous as that which hurts and haunts the unwilling
ears of wayfarers down Newgate Street and on Ludgate-Hill; or
complimentary to the cunning fancy which paints a branch of flowering
cherry in a cleft bamboo on a square of faintly-coloured paper and calls
the cherry blossom 'beauty' and the bamboo 'long life.' He notices the
shapely feet of the people: 'bare brown feet of peasants, or beautiful
feet of children wearing tiny, tiny _geta_, or feet of young girls in
snowy _tabi_. The _tabi_, the white digitated stocking, gives to a small
light foot a mythological aspect--the white cleft grace of the foot of a
fauness.'
"A little further on the leaven of witchcraft is working, and he cannot
write so airily. It is not as a mere spectator that he talks of his
visit to the Buddhist cemetery, where the rotting wooden laths stand
huddled about the graves, and one tomb bears an English name and a cross
chiselled upon it. Here he made acquaintance with the god, who is the
lover of little children, Jizo-Sama, about whose feet are little
piles of stones heaped there by the hands of mothers of dead children.
He is not quite as much in earnest as volume two will find him, or he
could not call the gentle god 'that charming divinity'; but the
sight-seer is dying in him nevertheless. It was with a friend's hand
that he struck the great bell at Enoshima." (286.)
But even here with a new world unfolding to his delighted eyes, it was
colour that Hearn really wanted.
I am not easy about my book, of which I now await the proofs. It
lacks colour--it isn't like the West Indian book. But the world
here is not forceful: it is all washed in faint blues and greys
and greens. There are really _gamboge_, or saffron-coloured
valleys,--and lilac fields; but these exist only in the early
summer and the rape-plant season, and ordinarily Japan is
chromatically spectral.
The opening chapter is his first day in the Orient, "the first charm of
Japan is intangible and volatile as a perfume." Everything seems to him
elfish and diminutive. "Cha," his Kurumaya, takes him past the shops
where it appears to him "that everything Japanese is delicate,
exquisite, admirable--even a pair of common wooden chop-sticks in a
paper bag with a little drawing upon it." The money itself is a thing of
beauty. But one must not dare to look, for there is enchantment in these
wares, and having looked, one must buy. In truth one wishes to buy
everything, even to the whole land, "with its magical trees and luminous
atmosphere, with all its cities and towns and temples, and forty
millions of the most lovable people."
Before the steps leading to a temple he stops.
I turn a moment to look back through the glorious light. Sea and
sky mingle in the same beautiful pale clear blue. Below me the
billowing of bluish roofs reaches to the verge of the unruffled
bay on the right, and to the feet of the green wooded hills
flanking the city on two sides. Beyond that semi-circle of green
hills rises a lofty range of serrated mountains, indigo
silhouettes. And enormously high above the line of them towers
an apparition indescribably lovely,--one solitary snowy cone, so
filmly exquisite, so spiritually white, that but for its
immemorially familiar outline, one would surely deem it a shape
of cloud. Invisible its base remains, being the same delicious
tint as the sky: only above the eternal snow-line its dreamy
cone appears, seeming to hang, the ghost of a peak, between the
luminous land and the luminous heaven,--the sacred and matchless
mountain, Fujiyama.
Passing to the temple garden he wonders why the trees are so lovely in
Japan.
Is it that the trees have been so long domesticated and caressed
by man in this land of the gods, that they have acquired souls,
and strive to show their gratitude, like women loved, by making
themselves more beautiful for man's sake? Assuredly they have
mastered men's hearts by their loveliness, like beautiful
slaves. That is to say, Japanese hearts. Apparently there have
been some foreign tourists of the brutal class in this place,
since it has been deemed necessary to set up inscriptions in
English announcing that "it is forbidden to injure the trees."
Of Hearn's first visit to a Buddhist temple, I quote what one of his
critics has to say:--
"The silence of centuries seems to descend upon your soul, you feel the
thrill of something above and beyond the commonplace of this every-day
world, even here, amidst the turmoil, the rush, the struggle of this
monster city of the West, if you take up his 'Glimpses of Unfamiliar
Japan,' and turn to his description of his first visit to a Buddhist
temple. Marvellous is his power of imparting the mystery of that strange
land, of hidden meanings and allegories, of mists and legends. The
bygone spirit of the race, the very essence of the heart of the people,
that has lain sleeping in the temple gloom, in the shadows of the temple
shrines, awakes and whispers in your ears. You feel the soft, cushioned
matting beneath your feet, you smell the faint odour of the incense, you
hear the shuffling of pilgrim feet, the priest sliding back screen after
screen, pouring in light upon the gilded bronzes and inscriptions; and
you look for the image of the Deity, of the presiding Spirit, between
the altar groups of convoluted candelabra. And you see:
Only a mirror, a round, pale disc of polished metal, and my own
face therein, and behind this mockery of me a phantom of the far
sea.
Only a mirror! Symbolizing what? Illusion? Or that the Universe
exists for us solely as the reflection of our own souls? Or the
old Chinese teaching that we must seek the Buddha only in our
own hearts? Perhaps some day I shall be able to find out. (350.)
Many more temples are visited in the following chapter. What impresses
him the most is the joyousness of the people's faith: everything is
bright and cheerful, and the air is filled with the sound of children's
voices as they play in the courts. He sees the many representations of
Jizo, the loving divinity who cares for the souls of little children,
who comforts them, and saves them from the demons. The face of Jizo
is like that of a beautiful boy, and the countenance is made "heavenly
by such a smile as only Buddhist art could have imagined, the smile of
infinite lovingness and supremest gentleness." There is also Kwannon,
"the goddess of mercy, the gentle divinity who refused the rest of
Nirvana to save the souls of men." Her face is golden, smiling with
eternal youth and infinite tenderness. And he sees Emma Dai-O, the
unpitying, tremendous one. He learns many things of many gods and
goddesses. There is the temple of Kishibojin--the mother of Demons. For
some former sin she was born a demon and devoured her own children. But
through the teaching of Buddha she became a divine being, loving and
protecting the little ones, and Japanese mothers pray to her, and wives
pray for beautiful boys. At her shrine what impresses the visitor are
hundreds of tiny dresses, mostly of poor material, stretched between
tall poles of bamboos. These are the thank-offerings of poor simple
country mothers whose prayers to her have been answered.
In another chapter Hearn writes of the Festival of the Dead, for between
the 13th and the 15th day of July the dead may come back again. Every
small and great shrine is made beautiful with new mats of purest rice
straw, and is decorated with lotus flowers, _shikimi_ (anise) and
_misohagi_ (lespedeza). Food offerings, served on a tiny lacquered
table--a _zen_--are placed before the altars. Every hour, tea daintily
served in little cups is offered to the viewless visitors. At night
beautiful special lanterns are hung at the entrances of homes. Those who
have dead friends visit the cemeteries and make offerings there with
prayers, and the sprinkling of water, and the burning of incense. On the
evening of the 15th the ghosts of those, who in expiation of faults
committed in a previous life are doomed to hunger, are fed. And also are
fed the ghosts of those who have no friends.
For three days everything is done to feast the dead, and on the last
night there comes the touching ceremony of farewell, for the dead must
then return.
Everything has been prepared for them. In each home small boats
made of barley straw closely woven have been freighted with
supplies of choice food, with tiny lanterns, and written
messages of faith and love. Seldom more than two feet in length
are these boats; but the dead require little room. And the frail
craft are launched on canal, lake, sea, or river,--each with a
miniature lantern glowing at the prow, and incense burning at
the stern. And if the night be fair, they voyage long. Down all
the creeks and rivers and canals the phantom fleets go
glimmering to the sea; and all the sea sparkles to the horizon
with the lights of the dead, and the sea wind is fragrant with
incense.
But alas! it is now forbidden in the great seaports to launch
the _shoryobune_, "the boats of the blessed ghosts."
In Kami-Ichi, in the land of Hoki, there is a glimpse into ancient
Japan, for there the Bon-odori, the Dance of the Festival of the Dead,
is still maintained. No longer is it danced in the cities. In the temple
court, in the shadow of the tomb, with the moonlight as a guide, long
processions of young girls dance a slow ghostly dance while the vast
audience of spectators keeps a perfect stillness. A deep male chant is
heard, and the women respond. Many songs follow, until the night is
waning. Then this seeming witchcraft ends, and with merry laughter and
soft chatting all disperse.
Hearn spends a long happy day at Matsue, the chief city of the Province
of the Gods, where he gathers legends and impressions. Of course it has
its temples. The temple is the best place to see the life of the people.
There it is that the children play all day long. In the summer evening,
the young artisans and labourers prove their strength in
wrestling-matches. The sacred dances are held there; and on holidays it
is also the place where toys are sold.
Often at night your attention will be drawn to a large, silent, admiring
group of people standing before some little booth. They will be looking
at a few vases of sprays of flowers--an exhibition of skill in their
arrangement.
Returning homeward, there is seen a poor woman scattering some white
papers into a stream of water, and, as she throws each one in, murmuring
something sweet in a low voice. She is praying for her little dead
child, and these are little prayers that she has written to Jizo.
Kitzuki is the most ancient shrine in Japan, and it is the living centre
of Shinto. There the ancient faith burns as brightly as ever it did
in the unknown past. Buddhism may be doomed to pass away, but Shinto
"unchanging and vitally unchanged remains dominant, and appears but to
gain in power and dignity." Many of the wisest scholars have tried to
define Shinto.
But the reality of Shinto lives not in books, nor in rites,
nor in commandments, but in the national heart, of which it is
the highest emotional religious expression, immortal and ever
young. Far underlying all the surface crop of quaint
superstitions and artless myths and fantastic magic, there
thrills a mighty spiritual force, the whole soul of a race with
all its impulses and powers and intuitions. He who would know
what Shinto is must learn to know that mysterious soul in
which the sense of beauty and the power of art and the fire of
heroism and magnetism of loyalty and the emotion of faith have
become inherent, immanent, unconscious, instinctive.
At Kaka is the Cave of the Children's Ghosts. No evil person may enter
the Shin-Kukedo, for if he does, a large stone will detach itself and
fall down upon him. Here in this great vault, lifting forty feet above
the water, and with walls thirty feet apart, is a white rock out of
which drips a water apparently as white as the rock itself. This is the
Fountain of Jizo, which gives milk to the souls of little dead
children.
And mothers suffering from want of milk come hither to pray that
milk may be given unto them; and their prayer is heard. And
mothers having more milk than their infants need come hither
also, and pray to Jizo that so much as they can give may be
taken for the dead children; and their prayer is heard and their
milk diminishes.
At least thus the peasants of Izumo say.
In another cavern are countless little piles of stones and pebbles,
which must have been made by long and patient labour. It is the work of
the dead children. One must step carefully, for the sake of these little
ones, for if any work is spoiled, they will cry. In the sand are prints
of little naked feet, "_the footprints of the infant ghosts_." Strewn
here and there on the rocks are tiny straw sandals, pilgrims' offerings
to keep the baby feet from being bruised by the stones.
In the temple of Hojinji of the Zen sect at Mionoseki, there is an altar
which bears many images of Kwannon, the Goddess of Mercy. Before the
altar, and hung from the carven ceiling, is a bright coloured mass of
embroidered purses, patterns of silk-weaving and of cotton-weaving, also
balls of threads and worsted and silk. These are the first offerings of
little girls. As soon as a baby girl learns how to sew or knit or
embroider, she brings to the Maid-Mother of all grace and sweetness and
pity, the first piece that she has made successfully.
Even the infants of the Japanese kindergarten bring their first
work here,--pretty paper-cuttings, scissored out and plaited
into divers patterns by their own tiny flower-soft hands.
Among the many Notes on Kitzuki which interest, is the annual festival
of the Divine Scribe, the Tenjin-Matsuri, to which every school-boy
sends a specimen of his best writing. The texts are in Chinese
characters, and are generally drawn from the works of Confucius or
Mencius. And Hearn remarks that the children of other countries can
never excel in the art of Japanese writing. The inner ancestral
tendencies will not let them catch the secret of the stroke with the
brush. It is the fingers of the dead that move the brush of the Japanese
boy.
At every temple festival in Japan there is a sale of toys. And every
mother, however poor, buys her child a toy. They are not costly, and are
charming. Many of these toys would seem odd to a little English child.
There is a tiny drum, a model of the drum used in the temples; or a
miniature sambo table, upon which offerings are presented to the gods.
There is a bunch of bells fastened to a wooden handle. It resembles a
rattle, but it is a model of the sacred _suzu_ which the virgin
priestess uses in her dance before the gods. Then there are tiny images
of priests and gods and goddesses. There is little of grimness in the
faiths of the Far East; their gods smile. "Why religion should be
considered too awful a subject for children to amuse themselves decently
with never occurs to the common Japanese mind."
Besides these, there are pretty toys illustrating some fairy-tale or
superstition and many other playthings of clever devices, and the little
doll, O-Hina-San (Honourable Miss Hina), which is a type of Japanese
girl beauty. The doll in Japan is a sacred part of the household. There
is a belief that if it is treasured long enough it becomes alive. Such a
doll is treated like a real child: it is supposed to possess
supernatural powers. One had such rare powers that childless couples
used to borrow it. They would minister to it, and would give it a new
outfit of clothes before returning it to its owners. All who did this
became parents. To the Japanese a new doll is only a doll; but a doll
that has received the love of many generations acquires a soul. A little
Japanese girl was asked, "How can a doll live?" "Why," was the lovely
answer, "_if you love it enough_, it will live!"
Never is the corpse of a doll thrown away. When it has become so worn
out that it must be considered quite dead, it is either burned or cast
in running water, or it is dedicated to the God Kojin. In almost
every temple ground there is planted a tree called _enoki_, which is
sacred to Kojin. Before the tree will be a little shrine, and either
there or at the foot of the sacred tree, the sad little remains will be
laid. Seldom during the lifetime of its owner is a doll given to
Kojin.
When you see one thus exposed, you may be almost certain that it
was found among the effects of some poor dead woman--the
innocent memento of her girlhood, perhaps even also of the
girlhood of her mother and of her mother's mother.
There is a sad and awful tradition in the history of the Kengyos, the
oldest of the noble families of Izumo. Seven generations ago the
Daimyo of Izumo made his first official visit to the temples of
Hinomisaki, and was entertained royally by the Kengyo. As was the
custom, the young wife served the royal visitor. Her simple beauty
unfortunately enchanted him, and he demanded that she leave her husband
and go with him. Terrified, but like a brave loving wife and mother, she
answered that sooner than desert her husband and child she would kill
herself.
The Lord of Izumo went away, but the little household well knew the evil
that now shadowed it. And shortly the Kengyo was suddenly taken from
his family; tried at once for some unknown offence, and banished to the
islands of Oki, where he died. The Daimyo was exultant, for no
obstacle was in the way of his desire. The wife of the dead Kengyo
was the daughter of his own minister, whose name was Kamiya. Kamiya was
summoned before the Daimyo, who told him that there was no longer any
reason why Kamiya's daughter should not enter his household, and bade
Kamiya bring her to him.
The next day Kamiya returned, and with the utmost ceremony announced
that the command had been fulfilled--the victim had arrived.
Smiling for pleasure, the Matsudaira ordered that she should be
brought at once into his presence. The Karo prostrated
himself, retired, and presently returned, placed before his
master a _kubi-oke_ upon which lay the freshly-severed head of a
beautiful woman,--the head of the young wife of the dead
Kengyo,--with the simple utterance:
"This is my daughter."
Dead by her own brave will,--but never dishonoured.
"None love life more than the Japanese; none fear death less." So it is
that when two lovers find that they can never wed, they keep the love
death together, which is _joshi_ or _shinju_. By dying they
believe that they will at once be united in another world. They always
pray that they may be buried together. (In other books are written
additional stories illustrating the touching custom.)
At the temple of Yaegaki at Sakusa, are the Deities of Wedlock and of
Love, and thither go all youths and maidens who are in love. Hundreds of
strips of soft white paper are knotted to the gratings of the doors of
the shrine. These are the prayers of love. Also there are tresses of
girls' hair, love-sacrifices, and offerings of sea-water and of
sea-weed. In the soil around the foundation of the shrine are planted
quantities of small paper flags.
All over Japan there are little Shinto shrines before which are
images in stone of foxes.
The rustic foxes of Izumo have no grace: they are uncouth; but
they betray in countless queer ways the personal fancies of
their makers. They are of many moods,--whimsical, apathetic,
inquisitive, saturnine, jocose, ironical; they watch and snooze
and squint and wink and sneer; they wait with lurking smiles;
they listen with cocked ears most stealthily, keeping their
mouths open or closed. There is an amusing individuality about
them all, and an air of knowing mockery about most of them, even
those whose noses have been broken off. Moreover, these ancient
foxes have certain natural beauties which their modern
Tokyo kindred cannot show. Time has bestowed upon them
divers speckled coats of beautiful colours while they have been
sitting on their pedestals, listening to the ebbing and flowing
of the centuries and snickering weirdly at mankind. Their backs
are clad with finest green velvet of old mosses; their limbs are
spotted and their tails are tipped with the dead gold or the
dead silver of delicate fungi. And the places they most haunt
are the loveliest,--high shadowy groves where the _uguisu_ sings
in green twilight, above some voiceless shrine with its lamps
and its lions of stone so mossed as to seem things born of the
soil--like mushrooms.
It is difficult to define the Fox superstition, chiefly because it has
sprung from so many elements. The origin is Chinese, and in Japan it has
become mixed with the worship of a Shinto deity, and further enlarged
by the Buddhist belief of thaumaturgy and magic. The peasants worship
foxes because they fear them. But there are good foxes and bad ones. The
country holds legend after legend of goblin foxes and ghost foxes, and
foxes that take the form of human beings. Every Japanese child knows
some of them.
Seldom is a Japanese garden a flower-garden: it may not contain a
flower. It is a landscape garden, and its artistic purpose is to give
the impression of a real scene. Besides, it is supposed to express "a
mood in the soul." Such abstract ideas as Chastity, Faith, Connubial
Bliss were expressed by the old Buddhist monks who first brought the art
into Japan. Little hills, and slopes of green, tiny river-banks, and
little islands, together with trees, and stones, and flowering shrubs
are combined by the artist. All these things have their poetry and
legend, and sometimes have a special name signifying their position and
rank in the whole design.
In the ponds little creatures such as the frog and water-beetle live,
and they too have their legends. The children make all of these
creatures and the insects their playmates. Then there are the _semi_,
which are musicians, and lovely dragon-flies which skim over the ponds;
and back on the hill above the garden are many birds. It is not
necessary to have a garden outdoors, for there are indoor gardens too
which can even be put into a _koniwa_, the size of a fruit-dish.
The dead are never dead with the Japanese; they become even more
important members of the family, for the spirits of the dead control the
lives of the living. Each day there is some ceremony in memory of these
blessed dead; and no home is so poor but it has its household shrine.
And Shinto, ancestor-worship,
signifies character in the higher sense,--courage, courtesy,
honour, and above all things loyalty. The spirit of Shinto is
the spirit of filial piety, the zest of duty, the readiness to
surrender life for a principle without a thought of wherefore.
It is the docility of the child; it is the sweetness of the
Japanese woman. It is conservatism likewise; the wholesome check
upon the national tendency to cast away the worth of the entire
past in rash eagerness to assimilate too much of the foreign
present. It is religion,--but religion transformed into
hereditary moral impulse,--religion transmuted into ethical
instinct. It is the whole emotional life of the race,--the Soul
of Japan.
Self-sacrifice, loyalty, the deepest spirit of Shinto, is born with
the child. If you ask any Japanese student what his dearest wish is he
will surely answer,--"To die for His Majesty, our Emperor." It is
impossible in this limited space to give an adequate idea of all that
Shintoism implies.
The dressing of the hair is a very important part of a Japanese woman's
toilet. It is dressed once in every three days, and the task takes
probably two hours. The elaborateness of the coiffure changes with the
growing age of the maiden. But when she is twenty-eight, she is no
longer young, and so thereafter only one style is left, that worn by old
women. Of course, there are many superstitions about women's hair. It is
the Japanese woman's dearest possession, and she will undergo any
suffering not to lose it. At one time it was considered a fitting
vengeance to shear the hair of an erring wife, and then turn her away.
Only the greatest faith or the deepest love can prompt a woman
to the voluntary sacrifice of her entire _chevelure_, though
partial sacrifices, offerings of one or two long thick cuttings,
may be seen suspended before many an Izumo shrine.
What faith can do in the way of such sacrifice, he best knows
who has seen the great cables, woven of women's hair, that hang
in the vast Hongwanji temple at Kyoto. And love is stronger
than faith, though much less demonstrative. According to an
ancient custom a wife bereaved sacrifices a portion of her hair
to be placed in the coffin of her husband, and buried with him.
The quantity is not fixed: in the majority of cases it is very
small, so that the appearance of the coiffure is thereby no wise
affected. But she who resolves to remain for ever faithful to
the memory of the lost yields up all. With her own hand she cuts
off her hair, and lays the whole glossy sacrifice--emblem of her
youth and beauty--upon the knees of the dead.
It is never suffered to grow again.
The "Diary of a Teacher" gives a careful picture of the school-life in
Japan as Hearn finds it. At the Normal School, which is a state
institute, the young man student has no expenses. In return for these
kindnesses, when he graduates he serves as a teacher for five years.
Discipline is severe, and deportment is a demand. "A spirit of manliness
is cultivated, which excludes roughness but develops self-reliance and
self-control."
The silence of study hours is perfect, and without permission no head is
ever raised from a book.
The female department is in a separate building. Girls are taught the
European sciences, and are trained in all the Japanese arts, such as
embroidery, decoration, painting; and of course that most delicate of
arts--the arranging of flowers. Drawing is taught in all the schools. By
fifty per cent. do Japanese students excel the English students in
drawing.
There is also a large elementary school for little boys and girls
connected with the Normal School. These are taught by the students in
the graduating classes. Noteworthy is the spirit of peace prevailing at
the recesses that occur for ten minutes between each lesson. The boys
romp and shout and race, but never quarrel. Hearn says that among the
800 scholars whom he has taught, he has never even heard of a fight, nor
of any serious quarrel. The girls sing or play some gentle game, and the
teachers are kind and watchful of the smaller scholars. If a dress is
torn or soiled the child is cared for as carefully as if she were a
younger sister.
No teacher would ever think of striking a scholar. If he did so he would
at once have to give up his position. In fact, punishments are unknown.
"The spirit is rather reversed. In the Occident the master expels the
pupil. In Japan it happens quite as often that the pupil expels the
master."
It takes the Japanese student seven years to acquire the triple system
of ideographs, which is the alphabet of his native literature. He must
also be versed in the written and the spoken literature. He must study
foreign history, geography, arithmetic, astronomy, physics, geometry,
natural history, agriculture, chemistry, drawing.
Worst of all he must learn English,--a language of which the
difficulty to the Japanese cannot be even faintly imagined by
any one unfamiliar with the construction of the native
tongue,--a language so different from his own that the very
simplest Japanese phrase cannot be intelligibly rendered into
English by a literal translation of the words or even the form
of the thought.
And he studies all this upon the slimmest of diets, clad in thin clothes
in cold rooms. No wonder many fall by the way.
The students have been trained to find a moral in all things. If the
theme given to them for a composition is a native one, they will never
fail to find it. For instance,--a peony is very beautiful, but it has a
disagreeable odour; hence we should remember that "To be attracted by
beauty only may lead us into fearful and fatal misfortune." The sting of
the mosquito is useful, for "then we shall be bringed back to study."
There is nothing distinctive about the Japanese countenance, but there
is an intangible pleasantness that is common to all. Contrasted with
Occidental faces they seem "half-sketched." The outlines are very soft,
there is "neither aggressiveness nor shyness, neither eccentricity nor
sympathy, neither curiosity nor indifference.... But all are equally
characterized by a singular placidity,--expressing neither love nor
hate, nor anything save perfect repose and gentleness,--like the dreamy
placidity of Buddhist images." Later, these faces become individualized.
In another chapter Hearn tells of Two Festivals: one the festival of the
New Year; and the other, the Festival of Setsubun, which is the time for
the casting out of devils. On the eve of this latter festival, the
Yaku-otoshi, who is the caster-out of the demons, goes around, to any
houses that may desire his services, and performs his exorcism, for
which he receives a little fee. The rites consist of the recitation of
certain prayers, and the rattling of a _shakujo_. The _shakujo_ is
an odd-shaped staff. There is a tradition that it was first used by
Buddhist pilgrims to warn little creatures and insects to get out of the
way.
I quote from a French review for the description of one of Hearn's
stories:--
"But the most beautiful of all, 'A Dancing Girl,' is drawn from the
chronicles of that far-off past, from which, say what one may, he is
certainly wise in drawing his inspirations. It is the story of a
courtesan in love.
"At the height of her celebrity, this idol of a capital disappears from
public life, and nobody knows why. Leaving fortune behind, she flies
with a poor youth who loves her. They build for themselves a little
house in the mountains, and there exist apart from the world, one for
the other. But the lover dies one cold winter, and she remains alone,
with no other consolation than to dance for him every evening in the
deserted house. For he loved to see her dance, and he must still take
pleasure in it. Therefore, daily, she places on the memorial altar the
accustomed offerings, and at night she dances decked out in the same
finery as when she was the delight of a large city. And the day comes,
when old, decrepit, dying, reduced to beggary, she carries her superb
costume faded with time, to a painter who had seen her in the days of
her beauty, that he may accept it in exchange for a portrait made from
memory, which shall be placed before the altar always bearing offerings,
that her beloved may ever see her young, the most beautiful of the
_shirabyashi_, and that he may forgive her for not being able to dance
any more.
"This _shirabyashi_, from the distance of time, appears to us here,
clothed with I know not what of hieratical dignity, such as the modern
_geisha_ could never possess. Lafcadio Hearn in no wise pretends in the
pages he devotes to these latter, to idealize them beyond measure. They
appear under his pen as pretty animals somewhat dangerous; but is it not
their calling to be so? Whatever be the rank of the Japanese woman, he
only speaks of her with an extreme discretion, and with a caution that
one would look for in vain in the portrait of _Mme. Chrysantheme_. The
subtle voluptuousness of his style is never extended to the scenes he
reproduces; it is a style immaterial to a rare degree; he knows how to
make us understand what he means, without one word to infringe those
proprieties that are dear to the Japanese, even more than virtue itself.
And to believe him, the young, well-brought-up girl, the honest wife,
are in Japan the most perfect types of femininity that he has ever met
in any part of the world;--he, who has travelled so much. Opinions
formed superficially by globe-trotters on this subject that he scarcely
glances at because of respect, arouse as much indignation in him as
could they in the Japanese themselves. Evidently he has penetrated into
their inner life, into the mystery of their thoughts, into their hidden
springs of action, to the point of participating in their feelings."
(390.)
From Hoki to Oki there is much to learn about the landscapes of
Western and Central Japan; and Hearn gives many legends, and many more
impressions and intimate glimpses.
As there are only walls of thin paper separating the lives of these
Japanese people, no privacy can exist. Really everything is done in
public, even your thoughts must be known. And it never occurs to a
Japanese that there should be any reason for living unobserved. This
must show a rare moral condition, and is understood only by those who
appreciate the charm of the Japanese character, its goodness, and its
politeness.
No one endeavours to expand his own individuality by belittling
his fellow; no one tries to make himself appear a superior
being: any such attempt would be vain in a community where the
weaknesses of each are known to all, where nothing can be
concealed or disguised, and where affectation could only be
regarded as a mild form of insanity.
Hearn speaks of the strange public curiosity which his presence aroused
at Urago. It was not a rude curiosity; in fact, one so gentle that he
could not wish the gazers rebuked. But so insistent did it become that
he had to close his doors and windows to prevent his being watched while
he was asleep.
Kinjuro, the ancient gardener, knows a great many things about souls.
"No one is by the gods permitted to have more souls than nine."
Kinjuro also knows legends about ghosts and goblins.
An essay penetrating the very heart of the Japanese, is the chapter on
the "Japanese Smile." It crowns Hearn's work as a superb interpretation
of Japanese soul-life. This smile is the outward and visible sign of the
inward and spiritual grace of self-sacrifice. It is metaphysically and
psychologically exquisite. It is an etiquette which for generations has
been cultivated. It was a smile, _in origin_, however, demanded by hard
heathen gods of the victims they sacrificed; and, in history, it was
demanded of the subject race by the early conquerors. If refused, then
off came their heads! The smile is born with the Japanese child, and is
nurtured through all the growing years.
The smile is taught like the bow; like the prostration; like
that little sibilant sucking-in of the breath which follows, as
a token of pleasure, the salutation to a superior; like all the
elaborate and beautiful etiquette of the old courtesy.
The Japanese believe that one should always turn one's happiest face to
people. It is a wrong to cause them to share your sorrow or misfortune,
and so hurt or sadden them. One should never look serious. It is not
only unkind but extremely rude to show one's personal griefs or anger:
these feelings should always be hidden. Even though it is death one must
face, it is a duty to smile bravely.
It was with such a smile that the dying boy Shida wrote and pasted upon
the wall over his bed:--
Thou, my Lord-Soul, dost govern me. Thou knowest that I cannot
now govern myself. Deign, I pray thee, to let me be cured
speedily. Do not suffer me to speak much. Make me to obey in all
things the command of the physician.
This ninth day of the eleventh month of the twenty-fourth year
of Meiji.
From the sick body of Shida to his Soul.
The key to the mystery of the most unaccountable smiles is
Japanese politeness. The servant sentenced to dismissal for a
fault prostrates himself, and asks for pardon with a smile. That
smile indicates the very reverse of callousness or insolence:
"Be assured that I am satisfied with the great justice of your
honourable sentence, and that I am aware of the gravity of my
fault. Yet my sorrow and my necessity have caused me to indulge
the unreasonable hope that I may be forgiven for my great
rudeness in asking pardon." The youth or girl beyond the age of
childish tears when punished for some error, receives the
punishment with a smile which means: "No evil feeling arises in
my heart; much worse than this my fault has deserved."
This quality, which has become as natural to the Japanese as the very
breath of his body, is the sweet tonic-note of his whole character.
_Sayonara!_ Across the waters echoes the cry, _Manzai, Manzai!_ (Ten
thousand years to you! ten thousand years!). Hearn is leaving. He is
going far away. His pupils write expressing their sorrow and regret. He
sends them a letter thanking them for their gift of a beautiful sword,
and in a loving farewell says:--
May you always keep fresh within your hearts those impulses of
generosity and kindliness and loyalty which I have learned to
know so well, and of which your gift will ever remain for me the
graceful symbol!
And a symbol not only of your affection and loyalty as students
to teachers, but of that other beautiful sense of duty
expressed, when so many of you wrote down for me, as your
dearest wish, the desire to die for His Imperial Majesty, your
Emperor. That wish is holy: it means perhaps more than you know,
or can know, until you shall have become much older and wiser.
This is an era of great and rapid change; and it is probable
that many of you, as you grow up, will not be able to believe
everything that your fathers believed before you, though I
sincerely trust you will at least continue always to respect the
faith, even as you still respect the memory, of your ancestors.
But however much the life of New Japan may change about you,
however much your own thoughts may change with the times, never
suffer that noble wish you expressed to me to pass away from
your souls. Keep it burning there, clear and pure as the flame
of the little lamp that glows before your household shrine.
OUT OF THE EAST[31] (8), followed "Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan." The
charm of the first impression is waning.
[31] Copyright, 1895, by Lafcadio Hearn; and published by
Houghton, Mifflin and Company.
In a letter Hearn writes:--
Every day, it strikes me more and more how little I shall ever
know of the Japanese. I have been working hard at a new book,
which is now half finished, and consists of philosophical
sketches chiefly. It will be a very different book from the
"Glimpses," and will show you how much the Japanese world has
changed for me. I imagine that sympathy and friendship are
almost impossible for any foreigner to obtain,--because of the
amazing difference in the psychology of the two races. We only
guess at each other without understanding.
In another letter, speaking of the title for this book, he continues:--
It was suggested only by the motto of the Oriental Society, "_Ex
Oriente lux._" ... The simpler the title, and the vaguer--in my
case--the better: the vagueness touches curiosity. Besides, the
book is a vague thing.
The _Academy_, writing of "Out of the East," says:--
"Each book marks a longer step towards the Buddhist mysticism, wherein
we have lost our poet. 'The Stone Buddha,' in the first mentioned book,
is a dreamy dialogue between the wisdom of the West; Science, with her
theories of evolution, revolution and dissolution; Buddhism, with its
re-birth on re-rebirth; and Nirvana at the end. This thing also is
vanity. As there can be no end, so there can be no beginning; even Time
is an illusion, and there is nothing new beneath a hundred million
suns." (286.)
The old charm of word colour sparkles in "The Dream of a Summer Day."
Mile after mile I rolled along that shore, looking into the
infinite light. All was steeped in blue,--a marvellous blue,
like that which comes and goes in the heart of a great shell.
Glowing blue sea met hollow blue sky in a brightness of electric
fusion; and vast blue apparitions--the mountains of Higo--angled
up through the blaze, like masses of amethyst. What a blue
transparency! The universal colour was broken only by the
dazzling white of a few high summer clouds, motionlessly curled
above one phantom peak in the offing. They threw down upon the
water snowy tremulous lights. Midges or ships creeping far away
seemed to pull long threads after them,--the only sharp lines in
all that hazy glory. But what divine clouds! White purified
spirits of clouds, resting on their way to the beatitude of
Nirvana? Or perhaps the mists escaped from Urashima's box a
thousand years ago?
The gnat of the soul of me flitted out into that dream of blue,
'twixt sea and sun,--hummed back to the shore of Suminoye
through the luminous ghosts of fourteen hundred summers.
And Hearn tells with charm why "the mists escaped from Urashima's box a
thousand years ago," and also of the old, old woman who drank too deeply
of the magical waters of youth.
Reviewing the present volume, the _Spectator_ remarks:--
"The main drift of his books, however, is to bring into view not so much
the glories of Japanese sunlight or the charms of animate or inanimate
Nature, on which it falls, as the prevalence, at any rate in extensive
sections of Japanese society, of modes of thought and standards of
conduct which, though often widely apart from our own, demand the
respect of every candid Englishman. And certainly in this endeavour he
meets with a large measure of success. His account of the essays written
and the questions asked by the members of his class in English language
and literature at the Government college, or Higher Middle School, of
Kyushu, discloses not only what must be regarded as a very good
development of general intelligence among those young men, but a moral
tone which in many respects is quite as high, though with interesting
differences in point of view, as would be expected among English boys or
young men in the upper forms of our great public-schools or at the
Universities. Of course, what boys or young men write for or say to
their masters and tutors cannot by any means always be taken as sure
evidence of their inner feelings or of the character of their daily
life. But, so far as one can judge, Hearn's pupils appear to have given
him their confidence, and what he tells us of them may therefore
reasonably be taken without much discount. It certainly illustrates an
attractive simplicity of character and thought, not untouched by poetic
imagination, together with a high development of family affection and
strong sense of family duty, and also a remarkably high level of
patriotic feeling. This spirit is apparently inherited from the old
military class of the island of Kyushu, and it is not surprising
to hear that rich men at a distance are keen to give their sons the
opportunity of acquiring the Kyushu 'tone.' Towards the close of
his book Mr. Hearn gives an extremely interesting account of a farewell
visit paid him in the autumn of 1894 by an old pupil who had entered the
army after leaving college, and had been placed, at his own request, in
one of the divisions ordered for service in Corea:--
"And now I am so glad," he exclaimed, his face radiant with a
soldier's joy, "we go to-morrow." Then he blushed again, as if
ashamed of having uttered his frank delight. I thought of
Carlyle's deep saying, that never pleasures, but only suffering;
and death are the lures that draw true hearts. I thought
also--what I could not say to any Japanese--that the joy in the
lad's eyes was like nothing I had ever seen before, except the
caress in the eyes of a lover on the morning of his bridal.
"A beautiful thought, the reader will agree; but why could it not be
uttered to a Japanese? A good deal will be found on this subject in Mr.
Hearn's book, and, as we have indicated, we do not think it all holds
together. His class of students, we learn, professed to think it 'very,
very strange' that there should be so much in English novels about love
and marrying; and then he tells us that--
Any social system of which filial piety is not the moral cement;
any social system in which children leave their parents in order
to establish families of their own; any social system in which
it is considered not only natural but right to love wife and
child more than the authors of one's being; any social system in
which marriage can be decided independently of the will of the
parents by the mutual inclination of the young people themselves
... appears, to the Japanese student of necessity a state of
life scarcely better than that of the birds of the air and the
beasts of the field, or at best a sort of moral chaos.
"Now, of course, it is known here that in Japan, as in other Oriental
countries, it is a rule for marriages to be family arrangements, as
regards which it is expected that the young persons will conform to the
wishes of their respective parents.
* * * * *
"But of course some inconsistencies are to be expected from an author
enamoured of the whole country. He is very Buddhist, and is anxious to
show that Buddhists have always held, in matters of faith, something
very like the doctrines of modern science with regard to the perpetual
sequence of evolution and dissolution. On this subject he argues
cleverly and effectively; but when, by implication or expressly, he
compares Buddhism with Christianity, it is evident that the latter faith
has not received any very close study from him. None the less is his
book, though dominated by a somewhat uncritical enthusiasm, full of
interest and instruction as to the difference between the gifts, the
motives, and the mental and moral attitude of the Japanese and the
peoples of the West, ourselves in particular. It is well worth while to
study that remarkable people as they are seen by one who is so much
captivated by them, and believes in them so strongly, as Mr. Lafcadio
Hearn." (380.)
The _Athenaeum_ does not speak so cordially, and a review in the
_Atlantic Monthly_ says:--
"Mr. Hearn is not at his best as a metaphysician.... But we can forgive
him in that he stands forth a staunch champion, defying the West from
the heart of the Japanese people. He does this most clearly in his
finest essay, 'Jiujutsu.' Here the very meaning of the martial exercise,
to 'conquer by yielding' is taken as text to explain the phenomena or
national awakening which foreign cities have denounced as a 'reversal.'
Japan has borrowed weapons of force from the West, in order successfully
to resist its insidious influence. True progress is from within. Mr.
Hearn writes:--
However psychologists may theorize on the absence or the
limitations of personal individuality among the Japanese, there
can be no question at all that, as a nation, Japan possesses an
individuality stronger than our own." (306.)