The old _Wanderl.u.s.t_, never wholly absent, returns strongly upon him; in less than a year he dreams of leaving j.a.pan and his wife, and of "wandering about awhile;" he projects "a syndicate" whereby he may go to Java (rather than Manila, where the Jesuits were), or, "a French colony,--Tonkin, Noumea, or Pondicherry." A tropical trip is planned for six months of every year. But the "b.u.t.terfly-lives" dependent upon him prevent, of course. He always spoke of returning often. At the last there is a savage growl that after thirteen years of work for j.a.pan, in which he had sacrificed everything for her, he was "driven out of the service and practically banished from the country."

Hearn's nostalgia for the nowhere or the anywhere was only conquered by death. In 1898 the logic of his life, of his misfortune, and character, begins to grow plainer, and he "fears being blinded or maimed so as to prove of no further use." It seems that if he had been able to do what he tried so often, and longed so fervently to do, he would have run away into the known or unknown, leaving children, wife, and all the ties that bound him to any orderly life. His vision had become almost useless; he had lost his lectureship; more and more it grew impossible to coax or force out of his mind such beautiful things as in younger days; the Furies of his atheism, pessimism, and lovelessness were close on his track; the hope of lectureships in the United States had failed,--nothing was left, nothing except one thing, which, chosen or not, came at the age of fifty-four.

Lessing has said that "Raphael would have been the great painter he was even if he had been born without arms," and Burke has told of a poet "blind from birth who nevertheless could describe visible objects with a spirit and justness excelled by few men blessed with sight." What irony of Fate it is that one almost blind should teach us non-users of our eyes the wonder and glory of colour; that the irreligious one should quicken our faith in the immaterial and unseen; that a sensualist should strengthen our trust in the supersensual; that one whose body and life were unbeautiful should sing such exquisite songs of silent beauty that our straining ears can hardly catch the subtle and unearthly harmonies!

For Hearn is another of many splendid ill.u.s.trations of the old truth that a man's spirit may be more philosophic than his philosophy, more scientific than his science, more religious than his creed, more divine than his divinity.

CHAPTER VIII.--AS A POET

THAT Hearn was a true poet none will deny, but it was one of the frequent seeming illogicalities of his character that he had no love of metric or rhymed poetry. I doubt if there is a single volume of such poetry in his library, and I never heard him repeat a line or stanza, and never knew him to read a page of what is called poetry. I suspect the simple reason was that his necessities compelled him rigidly to exclude everything from his world of thought which did not offer materials for the remunerating public. He had to make a living, and whence tomorrow's income should come was always a vital concern. Poetry of the metric and rhymed sort does not make bread and b.u.t.ter; hence there was no time to consider even the possibility of "cultivating the muses on a little oatmeal."

Of poetry he once wrote:--"The mere ideas and melody of a poem seem to me of small moment unless the complex laws of versification be strictly obeyed." The dictum, considering its source, is exquisitely ludicrous; for Hearn poetry could not be coined into dollars, even if he had had the mind and heart to learn anything of "the complex laws of versification." Elsewhere he excused his manifest utter ignorance of poetry and want of poetic appreciation by saying that there is so little really good poetry that it is easy to choose. He confessed his detestation of Wordsworth, Sh.e.l.ley, and Keats, preferring Dobson, Watson, and Lang. "Of Wordsworth--well, I should smile!" "Refined poetry" he held of little or no value, but he found the "vulgar" songs of coolies, fishermen, etc., very true and beautiful poetry. He vainly tried to translate some of Gautier's poems. He attempted original verse-making but a few times, and from my sc.r.a.p-book I reproduce one of the results, kindly furnished me by Mr. Alexander Hill, of Cincinnati, to whom it was given by Mr. Tunison. Perhaps it was printed in _Forest and Stream_.

A CREOLE BOAT SONG

Hot shines the sun o'er the quivering land, No wind comes up from the sea, Silent and stark the pine woods stand, And the mock-bird sleeps in the Mayhaw tree, Where, overhung with brier and vine, The placid waters slip and shine And dimple to thy lover's view-- La belle riviere de Calcasieu.

Under the bending cypress trees, Bedecked with pendulous cool grey moss That woos in vain the recreant breeze And silently mourns its loss.

With drowsy eye, in my little boat I dreamily lie, and lazily float Lulled by the thrush's soft Te-rue-- On La belle riviere de Calcasieu.

A heron stands, like a ghost in grey, Knee-deep 'mongst the bending water lilies, And yellow b.u.t.terflies lightly play 'Midst the blooms of fragrant amaryllis; The swift kingfisher winds his reel, Saying his grace for his noonday meal, And a hawk soars up to the welkin blue O'er La belle riviere de Calcasieu.

Across the point, where the ferry plies, I hear the click of the boatman's oar, And his Creole song, with its quavering rise Re-echoes soft from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e; And this is the rhyme that he idly sings As his boat at anchor lazily swings, For the day is hot, and pa.s.sers few On La belle riviere de Calcasieu.

"I ain't got time for make merry, me I ain't got time for make merry; My lill' gall waitin' at de River of Death To meet her ole dad at de ferry.

She gwine be dere wid de smile on her face, Like the night she died, when all de place Was lit by the moonbeams shiverin' troo La belle riviere de Calcasieu.

"O sing dat song! O sing dat song!

I ain't got time for make merry!

De angel come 'fore berry long, And carr' me o'er de ferry!

He come wid de whirlwind in de night-- He come wid de streak of de morning light-- He find me ready--ya.s.s, da.s.s true-- By La belle riviere de Calcasieu.

"Den who got time for make merry, eh?

Den who got time for make merry?

De fire burn up de light 'ood tree, De bird eat up de berry.

Long time ago I make Voudoo, An' I dance Calinda strong and true, But de Lord he pierce me troo and troo On La belle riviere de Calcasieu."

In the Watkin letters, Hearn transcribes a poem of six stanzas written by himself for the decoration of the soldiers' graves at Chalmette Cemetery in 1878.

Far more successful, for obvious reasons, was an attempt at echoing a bit of Eastern fancy. A strange, gruesome, Oriental being had caught his eye at New Orleans, who translated for him some characteristic Eastern verses. Hearn thus rendered them in English:[16]

[16] From Hearn's ma.n.u.script copy through the kindness again of Mr. Tunison and Mr. Hill.

THE RUSE

From _Amaron Satac.u.m_

Late at night the lover returns unlooked-for, Full of longing, after that cruel absence;-- Finds his darling by her women surrounded; Enters among them:--

Only sees his beautiful one, his idol, Speaks no word, but watches her face in silence, Looks with eyes of thirst and with lips of fever Burning for kisses.

Late it is; and, nevertheless, the women, Still remaining, weary his ears with laughter, Prattling folly, tantalizing his longing-- Teasing his patience.

Love weaves ruse in answer to gaze beseeching;-- Shrill she screams: "O heaven!--What insect stings so!"

And with sudden waft of her robe outshaken, Blows the vile light out.

I find the following verses in his sc.r.a.p-book of the New Orleans period:[17]

[17] Dated July 11, 1885.

THE MUMMY

(After the French of Louis Bouilhet)

Startled,--as by some far faint din Of azure-lighted worlds, from sleep, The Mummy, trembling, wakes within The hypogeum's blackest deep,--

And murmurs low, with slow sad voice: "Oh! to be dead and still endure!-- Well may the quivering flesh rejoice That feels the vulture's gripe impure!

"Seeking to enter this night of death, Each element knocks at my granite door:-- 'We are Earth and Fire and Air,--the breath Of Winds,--the Spirits of sea and sh.o.r.e.

"'Into the azure, out of the gloom, Rise!--let thine atoms in light disperse!-- Blend with the date-palm's emerald plume!-- Scatter thyself through the universe!

"'We shall bear thee far over waste and wold: Thou shalt be lulled to joyous sleep By leaves that whisper in light of gold, By murmur of fountains cool and deep.

"'Come!--perchance from thy dungeon dark Infinite Nature may wish to gain For the G.o.dlike Sun another spark, Another drop for the diamond rain.'

"Woe! mine is death eternal! ... and I feel Them come, as I lie alone,-- The Centuries, heavy as drifted sand Heaping above my bed of stone!

"O be accursed, ye impious race!-- Caging the creature that seeks to soar; Preserving agony's weird grimace, In hideous vanity, evermore!"

Aux bruits lointains ouvrant l'oreille, Jalouse encor du ciel d'azur, La momie en tremblant s'eveille Au fond de l'hypogee obscur.

Oh, dit-elle, de sa voix lente, Etre mort, et durer toujours.

Heureuse la chaire pantelante Sous l'ongle courbe des vautours.

Pour plonger dans ma nuit profonde Chaque element frappe en ce lieu.

--Nous sommes L'air! nous sommes l'onde!

Nous sommes la terre et le feu!

Viens avec nous, le steppe aride Veut son panache d'arbres verts, Viens sous l'azur du ciel splendide, T'eparpiller dans l'univers.