JAPAN
"... Yes--for no little time these fairy-folk can give you
all the soft bliss of sleep. But sooner or later, if you
dwell long with them, your contentment will prove to have
much in common with the happiness of dreams. You will never
forget the dream,--never; but it will lift at last, like
those vapours of spring which lend preternatural loveliness
to a Japanese landscape in the forenoon of radiant days.
Really you are happy because you have entered bodily into
Fairyland, into a world that is not and never could be your
own. You have been transported out of your own century, over
spaces enormous of perished time, into an era forgotten, into
a vanished age,--back to something ancient as Egypt or
Nineveh. That is the secret of the strangeness and beauty of
things, the secret of the thrill they give, the secret of the
elfish charm of the people and their ways. Fortunate mortal!
the tide of Time has turned for you! But remember that all
here is enchantment, that you have fallen under the spell of
the dead, that the lights and the colours and the voices must
fade away at last into emptiness and silence."
Mrs. Wetmore is inaccurate in stating that Lafcadio Hearn started for
Japan on May 8th, 1890. She must mean March, for he landed in Yokohama
on Good Friday, April 13th, after a six weeks' journey. His paper,
entitled "A Winter Journey to Japan," contributed to _Harper's_,
describes a journey made in the depth of winter.
He stepped from the railway depot, "not upon Canadian soil, but upon
Canadian ice. Ice, many inches thick, sheeted the pavement, and lines of
sleighs, instead of lines of hacks, waited before the station for
passengers.... A pale-blue sky arched cloudlessly overhead; and grey
Montreal lay angled very sharply in the keen air over the frozen miles
of the St. Lawrence; sleighs were moving,--so far away that it looked
like a crawling of beetles; and beyond the farther bank where ice-cakes
made a high, white ridge, a line of purplish hills arose into the
horizon...."
Hearn's account of his journey through wastes of snow, up mountain
sides, through long chasms, passing continually from sun to shadow, and
from shadow to sun, the mountains interposing their white heads, and
ever heaping themselves in a huge maze behind, are above the average of
ordinary traveller's prose, but there is no page that can be called
arresting or original. The impressions seem to be written to order,
written, in fact, as subordinate to the artist's illustrations. So
irksome did this necessity of writing a text to Weldon's illustrations
become, that it is said to have been one of the reasons for the rupture
of his contract with Harpers almost immediately after his arrival in
Japan.
The seventeen days that he passed on the northern Pacific, with their
memories of heavy green seas and ghostly suns, the roaring of the
rigging and spars against the gale, the steamer rocking like a cradle as
she forced her way through the billowing waves, are well described.
There is a weird touch, too, in his description of the Chinese steerage
passengers, playing the game of "fan-tan" by the light of three candles
at a low table covered with a bamboo mat.
Deep in the hold below he imagines the sixty square boxes resembling
tea-chests, covered with Chinese lettering, each containing the bones of
a dead man, bones being sent back to melt into that Chinese soil from
whence, by nature's vital chemistry, they were shapen ... and he
imagines those labelled bones once crossing the same ocean on just such
a ship, and smoking or dreaming their time away in just such berths, and
playing the same strange play by such a yellow light, in even just such
an atmosphere, heavy with vaporised opium.
"Meanwhile, something has dropped out of the lives of some of us, as
lives are reckoned by Occidental time,--a day. A day that will never
come back again, unless we return by this same route,--over this same
iron-grey waste, in the midst of which our lost day will wait for
us,--perhaps in vain."
Not from the stormy waters of the Pacific, however, not from gleaming
Canadian pinnacles, or virgin forests, or dim canyons, was this child of
the South and the Orient, this interpreter of mankind in all his exotic
and strange manifestations to draw his inspiration, but from the valleys
and hill-sides of that immemorial East that stretched in front of him,
manured and fructified by untold centuries of thought and valour and
belief.
The spell fell on him from the moment that, through the transparent
darkness of the cloudless April morning, he caught sight of the divine
mountain. The first sight of Fuji, hanging above Yokohama Bay like a
snowy ghost in the arch of the infinite day, is a sight never to be
forgotten, a vision that, for the years Hearn was yet to traverse before
the heavy, folded curtain fell on his stage of life, was destined to
form the background of his poetic dreams and imaginings.
Mr. Henry Watkin appears to have been the first person to whom Hearn
wrote from Japan. So great was the charm of this new country that he
seemed irresistibly called to impart some of the delight to those he had
left behind in America. He told him that he passed much of his time in
the temples, trying to see into the heart of the strange people
surrounding him. He hoped to learn the language, he said, and become a
part of the very soul of the people. He rhapsodised on the subject of
the simple humanity of Japan and the Japanese.... He loved their gods,
their customs, their dress, their bird-like, quavering songs, their
houses, their superstitions, their faults. He was as sure as he was of
death that their art was as far in advance of our art, as old Greek art
was superior to that of the earliest art groupings. There was more art
in a print by Hokusai, or those who came after him, than in a $100,000
painting. Occidentals were the barbarians.
Most travellers when first visiting Japan see only its atmosphere of
elfishness, of delicate fantasticality. The queer little streets, the
quaint shops where people seem to be playing at buying and selling, the
smiling, small people in "geta" and "kimono," the mouldering shrines
with their odd images and gardens; but to Hearn a transfiguring light
cast a ghostly radiance on ordinary sights and scenes, opening a world
of suggestion, and inspiring him with an eloquent power of impressing
upon others not only the visible picturesqueness and oddity of Japanese
life, but that dim surmise of another and inscrutable humanity, that
atmosphere of spirituality so inseparably a part of the religion Buddha
preached to man. With almost sacramental solemnity, he gazed at the
strange ideographs, wandered about the temple gardens, ascended the
stairways leading to ancient shrines. What these experiences did for his
genius is to be read in the first book inspired by the Orient while he
was still under the glamour of enchantment. Amidst the turmoil, the
rush, the struggle of our monster City of the West, if you open his
"Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan," and read his description of his first
visit to a Buddhist temple, you will find the silence of centuries
descending upon your soul, the thrill of something above and beyond the
commonplace of this everyday world. The bygone spirit of the race, with
its hidden meanings and allegories, its myths and legends, the very
essence of the heart of the people, that has lain sleeping in the temple
gloom, will reveal itself; the faint odour of incense will float to your
nostrils; the shuffling of pilgrim feet to your ear; you will see the
priests sliding back screen after screen, pouring in light on the gilded
bronzes and inscriptions; involuntarily you will look for the image of
the Deity, of the presiding spirit between the altar groups of
convoluted candelabra, and you will see "only a mirror! Symbolising
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 hearts?"
A storm soon passed across the heaven of his dreams. He suddenly
terminated his contract with Harpers. "I am starved out," he wrote to
Miss Bisland. "Do you think well enough of me to try to get me
employment at a regular salary, somewhere in the United States?"...
It is said that his reason for breaking with Harpers was a difference of
opinion as to the relative position of himself and their artist, Mr.
Charles D. Weldon. Hearn was expected to write up to the illustrations
of the articles sent to the magazine, instead of the illustrations being
done for Hearn's letterpress. Besides which, the fact transpired that
the artist was receiving double Hearn's salary.
The little Irishman was a mixture of exaggerated humility and sensitive
pride on the score of his literary work; always in extremes in this, as
in all else. He was also, as we have seen, extremely unbusinesslike; he
never attempted to enter into an agreement of any kind. It seems
difficult to accept his statement that his publishers, having made a
success with "Chita" and "Youma" and "Two Years in the French West
Indies," paid him only at the rate of five hundred dollars a year. No
doubt Harpers might have been able to put a very different complexion on
the matter. As a proof of the difficulty in conducting affairs with him,
when he threw up his Japanese engagement he declined to accept royalties
on books already in print. Harpers were obliged to make arrangements to
transmit the money through a friend in Japan, and it was only after
considerable persuasion and a lapse of several years that he was induced
to accept it. So often in his career through life Hearn proved an
exemplification of his own statement. Those who are checked by emotional
feeling, where no check is placed on competition, must fail.
Uncontrolled emotional feeling was the rock on which he split, at this
and many other critical moments in his career.
He had brought a letter of introduction, presumably from Harpers, the
publishers, to Professor Basil Hall Chamberlain, professor, of English
literature at the Tokyo University, the well-known author of "Things
Japanese." On his arrival, Hearn thought of obtaining a position as
teacher in a Japanese family, so as to master the spoken language.
Simply to have a small room where he could write would satisfy him, he
told Professor Chamberlain, and so long as he was boarded he would not
ask for remuneration. He knew, also, that he could not carry out his
fixed determination of writing a comprehensive book on Japan, without
passing several years exclusively amongst the Japanese people.
Chamberlain, however, saw at once that Hearn's capacities were far
superior to those necessary for a private tutorship. Having been so long
resident in Japan, and written so much upon the country, as well as
occupying a professorship in Tokyo Imperial University, his influence in
Japanese official life was considerable; he now bestirred himself, and
succeeded in getting Hearn an appointment as English teacher in the
Jinjo Chugakko, or ordinary middle school, at Matsue, in the province of
Izumo, for the term of one year.
A week or two later Hearn was able to announce to his dear sister,
Elizabeth, that he was going to become a country schoolmaster in Japan.
On several occasions Professor Chamberlain held out the kindly hand of
comradeship to Lafcadio; to him Hearn owed his subsequent appointment at
the Tokyo University.
For five or six years the two men were bound together in a close
communion of intellectual enthusiasms and mutual interests, as is easy
to see by the wonderful correspondence recently published. To him and to
Paymaster Mitchell McDonald, Lafcadio dedicated his "Glimpses of
Unfamiliar Japan."
TO THE FRIENDS
WHOSE KINDNESS ALONE RENDERED POSSIBLE
MY SOJOURN IN THE ORIENT
PAYMASTER MITCHELL McDONALD, U.S.N.
AND
BASIL HALL CHAMBERLAIN, ESQ.
EMERITUS PROFESSOR OF PHILOLOGY AND
JAPANESE IN THE IMPERIAL UNIVERSITY
OF TOKYO
I DEDICATE THESE VOLUMES
IN TOKEN OF
AFFECTION AND GRATITUDE
Then came a sudden break.
After Hearn's death, Chamberlain, in discussing the subject, lamented
"the severance of a connection with one so gifted." He made one or two
attempts at renewal of intercourse, which were at first met with cold
politeness, afterwards with complete silence, causing him to desist from
further endeavours. The key, perhaps, to Hearn's course of action, is to
be found in some observations that he addresses to Professor Chamberlain
just before the close of their friendship. They had been in
correspondence on the subject of the connection of the tenets of
Buddhism and scientific expositions of evolutionary science in England.
"Dear Chamberlain: In writing to you, of course, I have not been writing
a book, but simply setting down the thoughts and feelings of the moment
as they come....
"I write a book exactly the same way; but all this has to be smoothed,
ordinated, corrected, toned over twenty times before a page is ready....
I cannot help fearing that what you mean by 'justice and temperateness'
means that you want me to write as if I were you, or at least to measure
sentence or thought by your standard.... If I write well of a thing one
day, and badly another, I expect my friend to discern that both
impressions are true, and solve the contradiction--that is, if my
letters are really wanted."
The fact is that, if Hearn took up a philosophic or scientific opinion,
he was determined to make all with whom he held converse share them, and
if they did not do so at once, like the despotic oriental monarch, he
would overturn the chessboard.
"The rigid character of his philosophical opinions," says Chamberlain,
"made him perforce despise as intellectual weaklings all those who did
not share them, or shared them in a lukewarm manner, and his
disillusionment with a series of friends in whom he had once thought to
find intellectual sympathy is seen to have been inevitable."
It was principally during the last fourteen years of his life that Hearn
acquired the unenviable name of being ungrateful, inconstant, and
capricious. To those friends made in his youthful days of struggle and
adversity he remained constant, but with the exception of Mitchell
McDonald, Nishida Sentaro, and Amenomori, it is the same story of
perversity and estrangement.
An unceremonious entry into his house, without deference to ancient
Japanese etiquette, which enjoined the taking off of boots and the
putting on of sandals, a sneer at Shinto ancestor worship, a difference
of opinion on Herbert Spencer, and Hearn would disappear actually and
metaphorically. This proves his want of heart, you say. But a careful
study of Hearn's "Wesen" will show that his apparent inconstancy did not
arise from a change of affection, but because his very affection for the
people he had turned from made the taut strands of friendship more
difficult to reunite, especially for a person of his shy temperament.
Which of us has not recognised the greater difficulty of making up a
"tiff" with a friend for whom one cares deeply than with a person to
whom one is indifferent? The tougher the stuff the more ravelled the
edges of the tear, and the more difficult to join together.
At Kobe, an incident was related to us by Mr. Young, his chief on the
_Kobe Chronicle_ and a person to whom Hearn owed much and was attached
by many ties of gratitude and friendship. A guest at dinner ventured to
dissent from Hearn's opinion that the reverential manner in which people
prostrated themselves before the mikado was in no way connected with
religious principles. Hearn shrugged his shoulders, rose, walked away
from the table, and nothing would induce him to return. He did not,
indeed, enter Mr. Young's house again for some days, though doing his
work at the office for the newspaper as usual.
When Hearn left Tokyo to take up his appointment at Matsue, he was
accompanied by his friend Akira, a young student and priest, who spoke
English and could, therefore, act as interpreter. At Kobe they left the
railway and continued their journey in jinrikishas, a journey of four
days with strong runners, from the Pacific to the Sea of Japan.
"Out of the city and over the hills to Izumo, the Land of the Ancient
Gods!" The incantation is spoken, we find ourselves in the region of
Horai--the fairyland of Japan--with its arch of liquid blue sky,
lukewarm, windless atmosphere, an atmosphere enormously old, but of
ghostly generations of souls blended into one immense translucency,
souls of people who thought in ways never resembling occidental ways.
Writing later to Chamberlain, Hearn acknowledged that what delighted him
those first days in Japan was the charm of nature in human nature, and
in human art, simplicity, mutual kindness, child-faith, gentleness,
politeness ... for in Japan even hate works with smiles and pretty
words.
For the first time Hearn was not merely describing a sensuous world of
sights and sounds, but a world of soft domesticity, where thatched
villages nestled in the folds of the hills, each with its Buddhist
temple, lifting a tilted roof of blue-grey tiles above a congregation of
thatched homesteads. Can anything be more delightful than his
description of one of the village inns, with its high-peaked roof of
thatch, and green-mossed eaves, like a coloured print out of Hiroshige's
picture-books, with its polished stairway and balconies, reflecting like
mirrored surfaces the bare feet of the maid-servants; its luminous rooms
fresh and sweet-smelling as when their soft mattings were first laid
down. The old gold-flowered lacquer ware, the diaphanous porcelain
wine-cups, the teacup holders, which are curled lotus leaves of bronze;
even the iron kettle with its figurings of dragons and clouds, and the
brazen hibachi whose handles are heads of Buddhist lions; distant as it
was from all art-centres, there was no object visible in the house which
did not reveal the Japanese sense of beauty and form. "Indeed, wherever
to-day in Japan one sees anything uninteresting in porcelain or metal,
something commonplace and ugly, one may be almost sure that detestable
something has been shaped under foreign influence. But here I am in
Ancient Japan, probably no European eyes ever looked upon these things
before."
After he had submitted to being bathed by his landlord, as if he had
been a little child, and eaten a repast of rice, eggs, vegetables and
sweetmeats, he sat smoking his kiseru until the moon arose, peeping
through the heart-shaped little window that looked out on the garden
behind, throwing down queer shadows of tilted eaves, and horned gables,
and delightful silhouettes. Suddenly a measured clapping of hands became
audible, and the echoing of _geta_, and the tramping of wooden sandals
filled the street. His companion, Akira, told him they were all going to
see the dance of the Bon-odori at the temple, the dance of the Festival
of the Dead, and that they had better go, too. This dance of the
Festival of the Dead he describes in his usual graphic way: the ghostly
weaving of hands, the rhythmic gliding of feet--above all, the flitting
of the marvellous sleeves, apparitional, soundless, velvety as the
flitting of great tropical bats. In the midst of the charmed circle
there crept upon him a nameless, tingling sense of being haunted, until,
recalled to reality by a song full of sweet, clear quavering, gushing
from some girlish mouth, and fifty other voices joined in the chant.
"Melodies of Europe," he ends, "awaken within us feelings we can utter,
sensations familiar as mother-speech, inherited from all the generations
behind us. But how explain the emotion evoked by a primitive chant,
totally unlike anything in western melody, impossible even to write in
those tones which are the ideographs of our music-tongue?
"And the emotion itself--what is it? I know not; yet I feel it to be
something infinitely more old than I, something not of only one place or
time, but vibrant to all common joy or pain of being, under the
universal sun. Then I wonder if the secret does not lie in some untaught
spontaneous harmony of that chant with Nature's most ancient song, in
some unconscious kinship to the music of solitudes,--all trillings of
summer life that blend to make the great sweet Cry of the Land."