Letters From The Raven E-Book

Lafcadio Hearn

• Herausgeber: Charles Fred
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Patrick Lafcadio Hearn ( 27 June 1850 – 26 September 1904) in Greek ?at , known also by the Japanese name Koizumi Yakumo, was an international writer, known best for his books about Japan, especially his collections of Japanese legends and ghost stories, such as Kwaidan Stories and Studies of Strange Things. In the United States, Hearn is also known for his writings about the city of New Orleans based on his ten-year stay in that city.

Leseprobe

Letters from The Raven

Lafcadio Hearn

 

 

Take up any book written by Lafcadio Hearn concerning Japan, and you

will find the most delicate interpretation of the life of the people,

their religion, their folk-songs, their customs, expressed in English

that it is a delight to read. Upon further examination you will notice

the calm, the serenity, the self-poise of the writer. It is as though,

miraculously finding utterance, he were one of those stone Buddhas

erected along the Japanese highways. He seems to have every attribute

of a great writer save humor. There is hardly a smile in any of his

books on Japan. One would say that the author was a man who never knew

what gaiety was. One would judge that his life had lain in quiet places

always, without any singular sorrow or suffering, without any struggle

for existence. Judged by what Hearn told the world at large, the

impression would be a correct one.

He was shy by nature. He did not take the world into his confidence. He

was not one to harp on his own troubles and ask the world to sympathize

with him. The world had dealt him some very hard blows,--blows which

hurt sorely,--and so, while he gave the public his books, he kept

himself to himself. He transferred the aroma of Japan to his writings.

He did not sell the reader snap-shots of his own personality. To one

man only perhaps in the whole world did the little Greek-Irishman

reveal his inner thoughts, and he was one who thirty-eight years ago

opened his heart and his home to the travel-stained, poverty-burdened

lad of nineteen, who had run away from a monastery in Wales and who

still had part of his monk's garb for clothing when he reached America.

Hearn never discussed his family affairs very extensively, but made

it clear that his father was a surgeon in the crack Seventy-sixth

Regiment of British Infantry, and his mother a Greek woman of Cherigo

in the Ionian Islands. The social circle to which his father belonged

frowned on the _mesalliance_, and when the wife and children arrived in

England, after the father's death, the aristocratic relatives soon made

the strangers feel that they were anything but welcome.

The young Lafcadio was chosen for the priesthood, and after receiving

his education partly in France and partly in England, he was sent to

a monastery in Wales. As he related afterwards, he was in bad odor

there from the first. Even as a boy he had the skeptical notions

about things religious that were to abide with him for long years

after and change him to an ardent materialist until he fell under the

influence of Buddhism. One day, after a dispute with the priests, and

in disgust with the course in life that had been mapped out for him,

the boy took what money he could get and made off to America. After

sundry adventures, concerning which he was always silent, he arrived

in Cincinnati in 1869, hungry, tired, unkempt,--a boy without a trade,

without friends, without money. In some way he made the acquaintance

of a Scotch printer, and this man in turn introduced him to Henry

Watkin, an Englishman, largely self-educated, of broad culture and wide

reading, of singular liberality of views, and a lover of his kind.

Watkin at this time ran a printing shop.

Left alone with the lad, who had come across the seas to be as far away

as possible from his father's people, the man of forty-five surveyed

the boy of nineteen and said, "Well, my young man, how do you expect to

earn a living?"

"I don't know."

"Have you any trade?"

"No, sir."

"Can you do anything at all?"

"Yes, sir; I might write," was the eager reply.

"Umph!" said Watkin; "better learn some bread-winning trade and put off

writing until later."

After this Hearn was installed as errand boy and helper. He was not

goodly to look upon. His body was unusually puny and under-sized.

The softness of his tread had something feline and feminine in it.

His head, covered with long black hair, was full and intellectual,

save for two defects, a weak chin and an eye of the variety known as

"pearl,"--large and white and bulbous, so that it repelled people upon

a first acquaintance.

Hearn felt deeply the effect his shyness, his puny body, and his

unsightly eye had upon people, and this feeling served to make him even

more diffident and more melancholy than he was by nature. However, as

with many melancholy-natured souls, he had an element of fun in him,

which came out afterwards upon his longer acquaintance with the first

man who had given him a helping hand.

Hearn swept the floor of the printing shop and tried to learn the

printer's craft, but failed, He slept in a little room back of the

shop and ate his meals in the place with Mr. Watkin. He availed

himself of his benefactor's library, and read Poe and volumes on free

thought, delighted to find a kindred spirit in the older man. Together

they often crossed the Ohio River into Kentucky to hear lectures on

spiritualism and laugh about them. Their companionship was not broken

when Mr. Watkin secured for the boy a position with a Captain Barney,

who edited and published a commercial, paper, for which Hearn solicited

advertisements and to which he began also to contribute articles. One

of these--a singular composition for such a paper--was a proposal to

cross the Atlantic in a balloon anchored to a floating buoy. It was

later in the year that he secured a position as a reporter on the

_Enquirer_, through some "feature" articles he shyly deposited upon the

editor's desk, making his escape before the great man had caught him in

the act. It was not long before the latent talent in the youth began to

make itself manifest. He was not a rapid writer. On the contrary, he

was exceedingly slow, but his product was written in English that no

reporter then working in Cincinnati approached. His fellow reporters

soon became jealous of him. They were, moreover, repelled by his

personal appearance and chilled by his steady refusal to see the fun of

getting drunk. Finding lack of congeniality among the young men of his

own age and occupation, among whom he was to work for seven more years,

his friendship with Mr. Watkin became all the stronger, so that he came

to look upon the latter as the one person in Cincinnati upon whom he

could count for unselfish companionship and sincere advice. Hearn's

Cincinnati experiences ended with his service on the _Enquirer._ Before

that he had been proofreader to a publishing house and secretary to

Cincinnati's public librarian. He was also for a time on the staff of

the _Commercial._ It was while on the _Enquirer_ that he accomplished

several journalistic feats that are still referred to in gatherings

of oldtime newspaper men of Cincinnati. One was a grisly description

of the charred body of a murdered man, the screed being evidently

inspired by recollections of Poe. The other was an article describing

Cincinnati as seen from the top of a high church steeple, the joke

of it being that Hearn, by reason of his defective vision, could see

nothing even after he had made his perilous climb. It was in the last

days of his stay in Cincinnati that he, with H. F. Farny, the painter,

issued a short-lived weekly known as _Giglampz_. Farny, not yet famous

as an Indian painter, contributed the drawings, and Hearn the bulk of

the letter press for the journal, which modestly announced that it

was going to eclipse _Punch_ and all the other famous comic weeklies.

Hearn, always sensitive, practically withdrew from the magazine when

Farny took the very excusable liberty of changing the title of one

of the essays of the former. Farny thought the title offensive to

people of good taste, and said so. Hearn apparently acquiesced, but

brooded over the "slight," and never again contributed to the weekly.

Shortly afterwards it died. It is doubtful whether there are any copies

in existence. Many Cincinnati collectors have made rounds of the

second-hand book-shops in a vain search for stray numbers.

Early in their acquaintance Watkin and Hearn called each other by

endearing names which were adhered to throughout the long years of

their correspondence. Mr. Watkin, with his leonine head, was familiarly

addressed as "Old Man" or "Dad;" while the boy, by virtue of his dark

hair and coloring, the gloomy cast of his thoughts, and his deep love

for Poe, was known as "The Raven," a name which caught his fancy.

Indeed, a simple little drawing of the bird stood for many years in

place of a signature to anything he chanced to write to Mr. Watkin. In

spite of their varying lines of work, the two were often together. When

"The Raven" was prowling the city for news, he was often accompanied by

his "Dad." Not infrequently, when the younger man had no especial task,

he would come to Mr. Watkin's office and read some books there. One of

these, whose title and author Mr. Watkin has forgotten, fascinated at

the same time that it repelled Hearn by its grim and ghastly stories of

battle, murder, and sudden death. One night Mr. Watkin left him reading

in the office. When he opened the place the next morning he found this

note from Hearn:

"10 P.M. These stories are positively so horrible that even a

materialist feels rather unpleasantly situated when left alone with

the thoughts conjured up by this dreamer of fantastic dreams. The

brain-chambers of fancy become thronged with goblins. I think I shall

go home."

For signature there was appended a very black and a very

thoughtful-looking raven.

It was also in these days that Hearn indulged in his little

pleasantries with Mr. Watkin. Hardly a day passed without a visit to

the printing office. When he did not find his friend, he usually left

a card for him, on which was some little drawing, Hearn having quite a

talent in this direction,-a talent that he never afterward developed.

Of course some of the cards were just as nonsensical as the nonsense

verses friends often write to each other. They are merely quoted to

show Hearn's fund of animal spirits at the time.

[Illustration: A PENCIL SKETCH BY HEARN LEFT AT MR. WATKIN's SHOP AT

THE BEGINNING OF THEIR FRIENDSHIP]

Mr. Watkin one day left a card for possible customers: "Gone to supper.

H. W." Hearn passed by and wrote on the opposite side of the card:

"Gone to get my sable plumage plucked." The inevitable raven followed

as signature. It was Hearn's way of saying he had come to see Mr.

Watkin and had then gone to a barber shop to have his hair cut. Once he

omitted the raven and signed his note, "Kaw."

[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF ONE OF THE CARDS HEARN LEFT AT MR. WATKIN'S

SHOP]

On another occasion when Mr. Watkin came to the office he found a

note informing him that he was "a flabbergasted ichthyosaurus and an

antediluvian alligator" for not being on hand.

The influence of Poe was strong upon him even in this nonsense. Hearn

waited for his friend one night until a late hour. The shop was quite

lonely, as it was the only open one in a big building on a more or less

deserted street. The quiet became oppressive, and the little man left

because "these chambers are cursed with the Curse of Silence. And the

night, which is the Shadow of God, waneth."

Mr. Watkin had a dog. Hearn did not like the animal, and it seemed

to reciprocate the feeling. One of Hearn's notes was largely devoted

to the little beast. When he so chose Hearn could make a fairly good

drawing. This particular note was adorned with rude pictures of an

animal supposed to be a dog. The teeth were made the most prominent

feature. The pictures were purposely made in a childish style, and used

for the word "dog."

"DEAR NASTY CROSS OLD MAN!

"I tried to find you last night.

"You were not in apparently.

"I shook the door long and violently, and listened.

"I did not hear the [dog] bark.

"Perhaps you were not aware that the night you got so infernally mad I

slipped a cooked beefsteak strongly seasoned with Strychnine under the

door.

"I was glad that the [dog] did not bark.

"I suspect the [dog] will not bark ANY MORE!

"I think the [dog] must have gone to that Bourne from which NO

TRAVELLER RETURNETH.

"I hope the [dog] is DEAD."

The note is signed with the usual drawing of a raven. On still another

occasion he wrote the following farrago:

"I came to see you--to thank you--to remonstrate with you--to

demonstrate matters syllogistically and phlebotomically. GONE!!! Then

I departed, wandering among the tombs of Memory, where the Ghouls of

the Present gnaw the black bones of the Past. Then I returned and crept

to the door and listened to see if I could hear the beating of your

hideous heart."

These little notes are not presented here for any intrinsic merit; they

are given simply to show how different was the real Hearn from the shy,

silent, uncommunicative, grave, little reporter.

His notes were but precursors to the letters in which he was most

truly to reveal himself. Unlike the epistles of great writers that

so frequently find their way into print, Hearn's letters were not

written with an eye to publication. They were written solely for the

interest of their recipient. They were in the highest form of the true

letter,--written talks with the favorite friend, couched usually in

the best language the writer knew how to employ. They tell their own

story,--the only story of Hearn's life,--a story often of hopeless

search for bread-winning work; of bitter glooms and hysterical

pleasures; of deep enjoyment of Louisiana autumns and West Indian and

Japanese scenes; of savage hatred of Cincinnati and New Orleans, the

two American cities in which he had worked as a newspaper man and in

which he had been made to realize that he had many enemies and but few

friends. Everything is told in these letters to Mr. Watkin, to whom he

poured out his thoughts and feelings without reserve. Hearn's first

step towards bettering himself followed when he became weary of the

drudgery of work on the Cincinnati papers, and decided, after much

discussion with Mr. Watkin, to resign his position and go South, the

Crescent City being his objective point.

It was in October, 1877, that Hearn set out from Cincinnati on his way

to New Orleans, going by rail to Memphis, whence he took the steamboat

_Thompson Dean_ down the Mississippi River to his destination. While

in Memphis, impatiently waiting for his steamer to arrive, and

afterwards in New Orleans, Hearn kept himself in touch with his friend

in Cincinnati by means of a series of messages hastily scribbled on

postal cards. Many of these reflected the animal spirits of the young

man of twenty-seven, who had still preserved a goodly quantity of

his boyishness, though he felt, as he said, as old as the moon. But

not all of the little messages were gay. The tendency to despondency

and morbidity, which had partially led Mr. Watkin to dub Hearn "The

Raven," now showed itself. The first of these cards, which Mr. Watkin

has preserved, was sent from Memphis on October 28, 1877. It bears two

drawings of a raven. In one the eyes are very thoughtful. The raven

is scratching its head with its claws, and below is the legend, "In a

dilemma at Memphis." The other raven is merely labelled, "Remorseful."

The next was sent on October 29. Hearn had begun to worry. He wrote:

"DEAR O. M. [Old Man]: Did not stop at Louisville. Could n't find

out anything about train. Am stuck at Memphis for a week waiting for

a boat. Getting d--d poor. New Orleans far off. Five hundred miles

to Vicksburg. Board two dollars per day. Trouble and confusion.

Flabbergasted. Mixed up. Knocked into a cocked hat."

The raven, used as the signature, wears a troubled countenance. On the

same day, perhaps in the evening, Hearn sent still another card:

"DEAR O. M.: Have succeeded with enormous difficulty in securing

accommodations at one dollar per diem, including a bed in a haunted

room. Very blue. Here is the mosquito of these parts, natural size.

[Hearn gives a vivid pencil drawing of one, two thirds of an inch

long.] I spend my nights in making war upon him and my days in watching

the murmuring current of the Mississippi and the most wonderful sunsets

on the Arkansaw side that I ever saw. Don't think I should like to

swim the Mississippi at this point. Perhaps the _Dean_ may be here on

Wednesday. I don't like Memphis at all, but cannot express my opinion

in a postal card. They have a pretty fountain here--much better than

that old brass candlestick in Cincinnati."

The next postal card was mailed on October 30, and contains one of the

cleverest drawings of the series. Hearn says: "It has been raining all

day, and I have had nothing to do but look at it. Half wish was back in

Cincinnati."

Then follows a rude sketch of part of the Ohio River and its confluence

with the Mississippi. A huddle of buildings represents Cincinnati.

Another huddle represents Memphis. There stands the raven, his eyes

bulging out of his head, looking at some object in the distance. The

object is a huge snail which is leaving New Orleans and is labelled the

_Thompson Dean._

One of the finest of all the letters he wrote to Mr. Watkin was from

Memphis. It is dated October 31, 1877. In this he made a prediction

which afterwards came literally true. He seemed to foresee that, while

in his loneliness he would write often to Mr. Watkin, once he became

engrossed in his work and saw new sights and new faces, his letters

would be written at greater intervals.

"DEAR OLD DAD: I am writing in a great big, dreary room of this great,

dreary house. It overlooks the Mississippi. I hear the puffing and the

panting of the cotton boats and the deep calls of the river traffic;

but I neither hear nor see the _Thompson Dean._ She will not be here

this week, I am afraid, as she only left New Orleans to-day.

[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF A POSTAL CARD SENT FROM MEMPHIS]

"My room is carpetless and much larger than your office. Old blocked-up

stairways come up here and there through the floor or down through

the ceiling, and they suddenly disappear. There is a great red daub on

one wall as though made by a bloody hand when somebody was staggering

down the stairway. There are only a few panes of glass in the windows.

I am the first tenant of the room for fifteen years. Spiders are busy

spinning their dusty tapestries in every corner, and between the

bannisters of the old stairways. The planks of the floor are sprung,

and when I walk along the room at night it sounds as though Something

or Somebody was following me in the dark. And then being in the third

story makes it much more ghostly.

"I had hard work to get a washstand and towel put in this great, dreary

room; for the landlord had not washed his face for more than a quarter

of a century, and regarded washing as an expensive luxury. At last I

succeeded with the assistance of the barkeeper, who has taken a liking

to me.

"Perhaps you have seen by the paper that General N. B. Forrest died

here night before last. To-day they are burying him. I see troops of

men in grey uniforms parading the streets, and the business of the city

is suspended in honor of the dead. And they are firing weary, dreary

minute guns.

"I am terribly tired of this dirty, dusty, ugly town,---a city only

forty years old, but looking old as the ragged, fissured bluffs on

which it stands. It is full of great houses, which were once grand, but

are now as waste and dreary within and without as the huge building

in which I am lodging for the sum of twenty-five cents a night. I am

obliged to leave my things in the barkeeper's care at night for fear of

their being stolen; and he thinks me a little reckless because I sleep

with my money under my pillow. You see the doors of my room--there are