The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Japanese artist in London
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: A Japanese artist in London
Author: Yoshio Makino
Release date: October 6, 2026 [eBook #79734]
Language: English
Original publication: Philadelphia: George W. Jacobs & Co., 1910
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79734
Credits: Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A JAPANESE ARTIST IN LONDON ***
[Illustration: FULHAM ROAD.]
A JAPANESE ARTIST
IN LONDON
WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED BY
YOSHIO MARKINO
[Illustration: colophon]
PHILADELPHIA
GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO.
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY
CHATTO AND WINDUS
_Published July, 1910_
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Printed in U. S. A.
_To
Mr. and Mrs. M. H. Spielmann_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
AN APPRECIATION ix
AUTHOR’S PREFACE xv
I. MY ARRIVAL IN ENGLAND 1
II. MY LIFE IN GREENWICH 14
III. MY LIFE IN NEW CROSS 22
IV. MY LIFE IN KENSAL RISE 40
V. AT THE TOMBSTONE-MAKER’S IN NORWOOD 53
VI. MY LIFE IN BRIXTON 64
VII. I DECIDE TO COMMIT SUICIDE 79
VIII. THE LOOSENING OF THE ROPE 86
IX. “THE DARLING OF THE GODS” 108
X. A CHELSEA CONSERVATIVE 114
XI. SOME JAPANESE IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND 130
XII. MY JAPANESE FRIENDS 151
XIII. “THE COLOR OF LONDON” 162
XIV. IN THE WEST LONDON HOSPITAL--BEFORE
THE OPERATION 167
XV. IN THE WEST LONDON HOSPITAL--AFTER
THE OPERATION 179
XVI. MY HOLIDAYS IN LONDON 197
XVII. CONCLUDING CHAPTER 208
ILLUSTRATIONS
IN COLOR
FULHAM ROAD Frontispiece
CHELSEA EMBANKMENT Facing page 10
OUTSIDE ST. GEORGE’S HOSPITAL ” ” 58
HYDE PARK CORNER ” ” 76
OUTSIDE SOUTH KENSINGTON MUSEUM ” ” 92
CHELSEA CHURCH ” ” 124
THE THAMES AT RANELAGH ” ” 158
EARL’S COURT STATION ” ” 216
IN MONOCHROME
PEN AND INK STUDIES FROM MEMORY Facing page 30
PENCIL STUDIES ” ” 36
OPENING DAY AT EARL’S COURT ” ” 42
EMPIRE BALLET ” ” 204
AN APPRECIATION
This seems to me to be a book of unique interest. The irresistible humor
and the force of Yoshio Markino’s writing is well known to critics, for
in reviewing his three large color books, “The Color of London,” “The
Color of Paris,” and “The Color of Rome,” most of them have given as
much space to the single chapter contributed by the artist as they have
to the entire letterpress of the book.
Nor is this surprising, for Mr. Markino in his quaint English has
sometimes an arrestiveness almost equal to Thomas Carlyle’s. There is
real style in it. He has evolved a grammar of his own which is
strikingly effective.
In his new volume, “A Japanese Artist in London,” he has a subject
eminently suited to exhibit the humor and pathos and forcefulness of his
style. For in it he relates his stern battles with starvation, and the
strange experiences into which he was plunged by the extraordinary
succession of trades to which his poverty condemned him. When he first
came over he was working in the Japanese Legation and Art Schools. Then
he tried starvation for a time. He became a model in one of the Art
Schools where he had been a student; then a tombstone-maker at Norwood.
Then he starved again until he met his good fairy, Mr. M. H. Spielmann,
who got him various commissions. He helped to stage “The Darling of the
Gods”; illustrated magazines and newspapers, not at all in his own line;
and finally obtained a commission to illustrate “The Color of London,”
and arranged an exhibition where he sold the originals.
In San Francisco he cleaned windows and scrubbed floors to get the money
for his art-school fees, and lived on the bread given to the students to
rub out the charcoal; then he made teeth for a dentist; at odd times he
has been even a naval architect.
He belongs to a very old Samurai family in Japan, and always kept his
starvation and hardships concealed from them with true Japanese Bushido.
But now the world is to have the full and unvarnished account of them
told in Mr. Markino’s inimitable Japanese English--and the result is a
book of pathos and humor which comes half-way between Michael Fairless’s
“Roadmender” and Mr. Dooley’s “Impressions.”
It is a book which will live, for it tells with absolute candor and
fidelity of life right down to the bed-rock of starvation, and it adds a
new variety of humor to British literature.
The book was not easily written. It perhaps never would have been
written if so much of it had not been comprised in his correspondence
with Miss Olave Potter, who wrote the letterpress of “The Color of
Rome.” Some of the matter which is here made public he wrote to her in
private, other parts of it were written on her suggestions arising from
their correspondence. Sometimes Mr. Markino was at a loss for the
English word. He replaced it with a picture, going back to the Japanese
habit of ideograms, and so ingeniously that Miss Potter was never at a
loss to translate it into words. She arranged the manuscript and
corrected the proofs. How wisely she refrained from tampering with his
English, the reader will see. Its very crudeness has its force, its
humor, and not infrequently its pathos, while its artless confessions
show that Mr. Markino has as white a soul as ever entered a human body.
He is absolutely candid and entirely without false shame; he records
poverty so dire that his work was paralyzed by hunger. He often had to
get into bed in the middle of the day to get warm enough to hold his
brushes, and at one time walked every day from Kensal Rise to Norwood,
except a pennyworth of tram from Westminster to Brixton, and from
Norwood back the whole way to Kensal Rise, which he reached at midnight.
There are no pages which make pleasanter reading than those which record
the goodness of the poor landladies to this Japanese castaway; when he
could not afford to buy food they shared their own with him; when he had
no money at all they let his bill for lodgings run into pounds. Some
went further and lent him the money out of their savings-boxes. When
prosperity shone again a little they were always faithfully repaid. He
writes of them now in the same terms of equality and friendship as he
uses when he is talking about his Cabinet Minister friend. He is as
incapable of thinking himself better than the humble as he is of
considering himself inferior to the great. At the present moment he
shares his heart between the Cabinet Minister and a shoemaker.
Yoshio Markino is more like a spirit than most of the spirits clothed in
flesh which we call human beings. At houses where he opens his heart to
their inmates and feels intimate, he flutters in bubbling over with news
and excitement--he always has news even if he had met you an hour
ago--he counts his friends, as it were, to see if they are all there,
gathers each to himself with some little private personal touch, and
then sits down on the floor as he was taught to sit when he was a tiny
mite in Dai Nippon. His unselfishness, his chivalry, his warmth of
heart, recall all one has read of the Bushido of the Samurai class, to
which he belongs, in the “Tales of Old Japan.” And every reader of these
pages will see much of the magical personality of which I speak,
reflected in them. These lines, written by I don’t know whom, might have
been written of him--
“He was the proper, friend-making, everywhere friend-finding soul,
Fit for the sunshine, so it followed him,
A happy-tempered bringer of the best out of the worst.”
DOUGLAS SLADEN.
AUTHOR’S PREFACE
Just the moment I was going to start writing this book, one of my
intimate Japanese friends--Wakamiya--has sent me the first number of his
new periodical. There was one page entitled “Human Voices and Devil
Voices.” I saw these words on the page: “All humans are born in this
world with crying voice: the beginning of human life is Trouble. All
humans go into coffins with the voice of praying: the end of human life
is Repentance.... It is not hard to make the whole world an enemy, but
it is hard indeed to make the bakers good friends.... Poverty is the
most final weakness.”
My friend has conquered me. What single word could I add to this? It is
only for a few weeks that baby birds enjoy their comfortable life while
they are sleeping under their mother’s warm breast in the nest. At this
time they may desire not to meet rains, snows, and frosts all through
their life. But is there any single bird in this world which escapes
the storms? So with our life. Go to the peers and ask them their life;
they will tell you their sad life-story, which may easily make you shed
your tears. Go to cabmen, ask their life-story, you may still more
easily be moved to tears with their pathetic stories.
I myself have had some experiences in the last thirteen years in London.
And now I have to write this out. But the readers please kindly remember
I do not mean to be so conceited to be proud of my little experiences;
neither do I grumble, especially before such a wonderful nation like the
Britons, whose perseverance in hardship is simply marvelous. Indeed,
they were my leaders all through my hard life, and I am much indebted to
their encouragement.
My life is as simple and unworthy as my pictures. The matter of fact is,
my publishers demanded me to write down all my experiences, so if only
the readers don’t yawn on my writing, my publishers and I shall be very
grateful.
It was rather a difficult task for me to go on for whole book with my
terribly deformed English, but my English friend has so kindly dragged
me all round to reach the finishing point. If it were a Marathon race I
should not be entitled the prize like Dorando.
I think there are two kinds of life in this world--Safety in Danger, and
Danger in Safety. For instance, a baby in his mother’s arms is
frightened by dogs on the ground. That is danger in safety. A swindler
on a soft and comfortable sofa is safety in danger. My life belonged to
the former.
Analysis of my life.
Discouraged? Very often.
Disappointed? Always.
Spoilt? Very much by John Bulls and John Bullesses.
In short, I have always been mentally pleasant and financially
unpleasant. But I am told by my elder English friends that my financial
unpleasantness was all through my own fault.
When I was a boy at home I was rather spoilt, because my father was very
generous to the villagers. I was called the Hon. little Master of
Markino. Here, in London, I have no reason whatever to be spoilt. Why
are all my English friends so good to me? I must put all this down as
the great generosity of the good Britons.
A Japanese Artist in London
CHAPTER I
MY ARRIVAL IN ENGLAND
It was December 8, 1897, when I arrived here from America, where I had
been some four and a half years. I was quite young, but I was far more
boyish than my own age. First of all I went to Paris, where I wanted to
study Art. But I had neither money nor any knowledge of the French
language. I had only one recommendation letter to some one.
Unfortunately this gentleman had left Paris previously, so I decided to
come to London to see some of my Japanese friends. I took the night
train through Dieppe and New Heaven (Haven). From the very first it
seemed to me to be a New Heaven; I had such a good impression with
England. Those English officers on board the Channel boats had such
gentle faces; they talked to me so kindly. It was a great comfort after
the desperate struggle in Paris, where I was practically dumb and deaf.
When I arrived at New Heaven I had only forty francs in my pocket, and
one small bag which contained three collars, one white shirt, one
necktie, two pairs of socks, a German Bible and Keigan (a Buddhist
Philosophy by Colonel Torio). The custom-house officer was so surprised
when I told him that it was all my possessions.
It was four or five in the morning. I went into a coffee-stall and had a
cup. The man Said it was “thruppence.” I could not understand it. I gave
him ten franc piece, and he gave me the change. I could not, of course,
count it, but after arriving in London my Japanese friend saw the change
and he said it was quite right. The English money is so difficult for
foreigners to calculate. For about half-year or so I always used to give
bigger coin than the price of the things I purchased, and take the
change without examining it. I was never deceived. Only I had to have so
many coppers in my pocket--sometimes over three shillings in coppers!
Now, coming back to my journey. I arrived at London Bridge at seven, and
took another train to Greenwich, where my Japanese artist friend was
staying. I had another recommendation letter to the Japanese Naval
Attaché in London. I saw him immediately. He was only too glad to keep
me as his private secretary, for at the time Japan had ordered from
English shipbuilders warships and some twenty or thirty torpedo boats,
and he was extraordinarily busy. The naval inspector’s office was in
Gloucester Terrace, so I settled myself down at 4 Milner Street in
Chelsea. From ten to six I had to work at the office, then I attended at
South Kensington College of Science and Art at night. My wages at the
office were £5 a month; later on £8, then £9. I learnt afterwards that
all this was from the naval attaché’s own pocket, just to “keep me on
for the sake of art study.” I was quite alone in some boudoir-like room
to work for the attaché. My surprise there on the first day was that the
landlady brought me tea and bread and butter at 4.30. I said to myself,
what a kind lady she is! The next day she brought in the tea again. So
the third day I asked her if that tea was from the attaché or from her,
and why? She said it was the English custom to have afternoon tea. Oh,
what a beautiful custom! It was really a great refreshing for me. I
said, “I quite love England, only for afternoon tea alone.”
At this time I began to stroll on Sunday afternoons. At first I was so
frightened with London fogs. I thought, if I live in such dreadful fog I
will soon become consumptive. So I bought a respirator at a drug store,
and used to wear it whenever I went out. When I visited peoples they
laughed at me because I got a round black mark round my mouth.
Nevertheless I kept it on until some doctor told me the fog was not so
injurious as I thought. (Who knows? This “dreadful fog” has become my
greatest fascination, only a few years later!)
As I had been in America previously for four years, naturally I used to
compare everything here with that of America; and what great contrast
between the two countries--especially to a Japanese! And here I feel I
need to talk about my life in America, just roughly.
I ran away from home to San Francisco on July 1893, with a hope to
become a poet or a writer in English. All my friends there advised me to
become an artist instead, because one cannot master a foreign language.
So I entered into Hopkins’ Art College. Of course I was penniless. I
had to make livelihood by washing windows and dishes, or a little better
thing, making sets of false teeth for some dentists. It was awfully
difficult for me to pay my school tuition, seven dollars a month. I
stayed there for four years, but practically I have not attended the
school more than twelve months altogether. The school used to supply
French breads to the students for the purpose of charcoal drawing. But I
used to live on this bread. I made it as my luncheon every day. (This is
the very first time that I confess the truth. Thank Heaven that the
curator did not find out!)
I was rather amused with my poor life, but by no means did I feel
pleasant with the way those Californians treated me. It is the
world-known fact that they hate Japanese. While I have been there four
years I never went out to the parks, for I was so frightened of those
savage people, who threw stones and bricks at me. Even when I was
walking on the street the showers of pebbles used to fall upon me often.
And I was spat on more occasionally. Of course they were very low-class
peoples, but even better-class peoples had not a very nice manner to
the Japanese. If I got into a tram-car and sat down on an empty seat
beside some ladies, they used to glare at me with such disgusting
expression, and would get up and go away to find out a seat far away
from me.
Once I went into a cable car in Sutter Street. I saw my classmate young
lady opposite me. I took my hat off and greeted her. She turned her face
away. I could not understand why, as she used to be so intimate to me in
the class-room. The next day I went to the school. As soon as she saw me
she began to apologize me, saying it was not her idea at all to insult
me, but she was so frightened that those other occupants of the car
might be indignant with her speaking to a Japanese. Another time I
experienced far worse thing. I went out with my paint-box and canvas to
the beach near Cliff House. No sooner than I started to paint, several
boys came to me. They were all older than myself. They broke my
paint-box. They threw away all colors and brushes into the sea and tore
my canvas. Then they fled away. I was such a helpless boy I could do
nothing but weep on the spot for hours. I was so sad, because it took
me three or four months working very hard to buy those materials.
Such was my life in America. But I had not so bad a feeling then as I
should surely have if it happened now! Because America was the first
foreign country I ever visited in my life, so I thought, if we Japanese
go out anywhere we shall be treated like that, as an inferior race.
After such experiences I was naturally surprised with the cosmopolitan
ideas of the Londoners.
I started my first sightseeing from Hyde Park and the Green Park and St.
James’s Park. I could not understand all those iron railings. I thought
they were to divide private grounds from the public ones. But I saw many
people on both sides. I so timidly walked inside the rail. Nobody
shouted me. Then I went near the crowds of people with still more fear.
Being quite ignorant of the English civilization I anticipated some
pebble-showers every minute. I waited and waited with beating heart, but
nothing happened to me at all. I walked into the crowds who were feeding
birds in the lake of St. James’s Park. Nobody spat on me! I ventured
myself into the thickest crowds, and I was squeezed between the peoples.
Nobody took any notice of me. “Hallo, hallo, what’s matter?” I said in
my heart. “Perhaps they don’t know I am a Japanese.” I took off my hat
on purpose to show my black hair. Finally one man pushed me quite
accidentally, and he touched his hand to his hat and apologized me very
politely. I realized at last that I was in the country where I could
enjoy my liberty quite freely. Fancy polite apology instead of swearing
and spitting! I felt as if I had come to a paradise in this world, and I
was quite melted with comfort.
Perhaps nobody could ever imagine my most grateful feeling at this
moment, except those of my fellow-country friends who were in California
once. Even now, after some thirteen years’ stay in London, I often have
nightmares of California, and wake up in midnight and wonder where I
really am. When I realize that I am in London I feel so happy.
In the streets first thing I noticed was so many silk hats. Then those
peoples who were walking seemed to me so gentle, and with very dignified
manners. Indeed, in California you cannot walk one block without
hearing swearings. Here you hear apologizing words instead.
On the bus I often sat down by the side of English lady. When other
peoples got off there were many empty seats, but she would not bother
herself to remove. In fact, it would give me more comfortable seat to be
alone, but the idea of English ladies not bothering to move was far
greater comfort for me.
At this time I went to a little newspaper shop to buy a box of
cigarettes. The shopkeeper treated me quite same way with his
countrymen. I asked him if he has seen Japanese before. He said “No.”
Then I asked him again if he was not curious of me? He said, “No, sir.
You see, sir, we ’ave our colonies all _hover_ the world, sir--white
men, yellow men, brown men and black men are forming parts of the
British nations, so I am not curious of a Japanese gentleman at all.”
What a broad mind he had! He was only a little shopkeeper, but he was
worthy of being called one of the most civilized of the nations. I made
a friendship with him at once, and I told him how I was treated in
California. He said, “Thut ain’t fair, sir! Indeed, thut ain’t fair!”
How sweet this word was to me! I carried this sweet “thut ain’t fair” in
my head, and slept with it all night so comfortably.
As I lived in Chelsea I used to have walk on the Chelsea Embankment. It
was my favorite place; so it is now too. One afternoon I made a longer
promenade along the embankment to Westminster. On the way, I saw a large
stone building in a peculiar shape, the Britannia on the top of the
roof. It had no window. It stood dead silent like a ghost in the evening
mist. I thought it must be a mausoleum of some ancient kings. But my
landlady told me that it must be the Tate Gallery. “You ought to go in
there one day, there are beautiful pictures; it is just the place you
ought to go to.”
Westminster Abbey was a great revelation to me. While I was a schoolboy
in Japan, I learnt all the history of the Abbey; then Washington Irving
described it so vividly in his “Sketch Book,” which was my most favorite
book. Generally travelers are disappointed with sightseeing if they
trust books
[Illustration: CHELSEA EMBANKMENT.]
too much. But Westminster to me was the reverse. I not only realized
every word that Irving said, but I found the Abbey more solemn, more
dignified, and more sacred than I was imagining. Those numerous white
marble statues of the great statesmen are in just the right place. They
seem to tell me all that they have done. I feel myself so small and so
humble before them. And those chapels and chantries of Henry VII. are
something like a dream of the past history. Even now if I go there I
forget all my worldly care.
To my Japanese eyes the building looks far older than its history tells.
In Japan stones almost two thousand years old are not worn out like
this. Perhaps it is through the English climate. But surely everything
English doesn’t always look older? For instance, look at the English
women. First of all, Her Majesty the Queen looks so young. I cannot
believe her age. Some Japanese naval officer attended a levée. He told
me he had the honor to speak to Her Majesty while she was Princess of
Wales. He was quite near to her, and he had the same idea with me--it
was impossible to believe her age. I know several English ladies who
look like their daughter’s sisters. It is true what I heard in Japan.
“English women are flowers all their life.” I wonder is that through the
climate too? My logic seems rather poor in this instance.
I have quite forgotten to tell my most important thing--my art-study at
South Kensington. There I studied casts with charcoal until March of the
next year, 1898, and during this time I used to go to Greenwich every
Sunday to see my Japanese friend. He was studying the designs at
Goldsmith Institute in New Cross. I envied him so much. He had plenty of
friends at the Institute, and such a homely life at his diggings. He
told me English peoples never become friends without introduction. If I
only decided to attend the night class of Goldsmith Institute he would
introduce me to all his English friends. Then his landlady, too,
persuaded me to come to live with them. I was only too delighted. I came
back to my place in Milner Street and told the landlady I was going to
remove on the same day. She was so astonished, and explained me it was
the English custom to give one week’s notice. Here I learnt another
lesson of English life. I felt myself a savage, and was ashamed so much.
But I could not control myself for a long week to wait, so I gave a full
week payment to her and said, “All the same, I shall go.” She would not
accept that. She said, “Give me only half of that, as you did not know
our custom”; and she told me with moisted eyes that she would miss me
very much. In fact, I had quite comfortable life there. She had taken
care of me very kindly. It was my pleasure every night when I came back
from the school to see my window lit up with the firelight inside, and
to find a hot bottle in my bed. I was quite sad when I shook her hand
for good-bye.
But when I arrived at Mazehill Station I forgot everything, and was so
excited about my new home. Everybody was surprised when I arrived at the
house. They never thought I would come so soon. My bed was not even
ready yet. When I told them what I had done they were all very angry
with my rashness, especially because I was so poor--£5 a month!
CHAPTER II
MY LIFE IN GREENWICH
My new home was No. 96 Annandale Road, quite close to Mazehill Station.
It was a little two-story house, a regular suburban type. My room was at
the back of the house; such a tiny room that when they put in a single
bed, a wash-stand and a desk, I could hardly move. Underneath my window
was a cemetery. There were a few trees. Every morning at dawn a
blackbird used to sing on the top of a tree. It was first time in my
life to hear blackbirds. They have such a beautiful voice, and I was so
happy to be awakened by them in the morning. My landlady told me that
one of the blackbirds laid eggs on that tree, so the husband bird sang
every morning to please his wife bird. Then she said, “You see, in
England husbands always take great care of their wives. Even the
blackbirds do so. If you marry in England you must do the same.” I was
so amused with that.
My Japanese friend took me to Goldsmith Institute in the evenings,
where I was introduced to the teachers--Mr. Marriott and Mr. Buckman in
Life Class, and Mr. Firn in Design Class. I belonged to Mr. Marriott’s
class, and started the life study.
On Sunday, my Japanese friend and I used to go to Plumstead and
Shooter’s Hill. With the latter I was quite familiar when I read Charles
Dickens’ “Tale of Two Cities,” and I recollected that story of the
Highlander as if it were really happening.
The time came when my Japanese friend had to go back to Japan, but I
still stayed in the same house and enjoyed my homely life all the same.
The landlord’s name was Mr. Watson. He was a collector of the Prudential
Life Assurance Company. He was about sixty years old, and he had such a
benevolent-looking face, like that famous picture of Sir John Millais’s
“Victory, O Lord.” He had beautiful long gray beard and whiskers. His
gentle and tender eyes were sunk in his face. They were so tender,
especially when he smiled. I used to call him “Moses,” and made him as
my model to study “the old Englishman” whenever he and I both had time.
His wife was only thirty-two or thirty-three, very jolly and
extraordinarily kind-hearted woman. She used to come into my room every
day when I was out, and brush my clothes and make “order” inside of my
drawers. First time in my life since I left home that all my socks and
underwears were mended! She took a great trouble of shopping “something”
especially for my suppers every day, and after hard work at the office
and hard study at the school these suppers were great treats for me.
They had two daughters--Elsie and Winnie. The elder was eleven and the
younger was eight. They both were very pretty girls. Elsie was very
affectionate and rather shy; she used to like to read and play the
piano. Winnie was rather like a Persian cat, and petted by everybody.
She had such big round blue eyes like owl’s, and beautiful curls of
chocolate hair, and a fresh complexion. She looked really like a doll. I
often tried to draw her portrait, but it was too difficult for me. She
was my idol! These two girls used to sit on my both sides, and were “so
earnest to hear some stories about abroad.” I used to tell them about
Japan, Sandwich Islands, and America. One day I told them how beautiful
were those California wild poppies growing on a vast field. They wanted
to go there. I said, “But there is a most dangerous thing there. It is a
poisonous snake called Rattlesnake. If this snake bites people, they die
immediately. Only the way to escape death from this terrible snake is to
cut off the part where it bit. If that snake bite my hand I would cut
off my hand at once; if it were my feet, I would cut off my feet.”
The children looked at me with some curious expression. They both were
quite silent for a while. Elsie broke out first. “If that snake bites
your head, would you cut off your own head at once?”
I could not answer.
Winnie was very serious, and said, “Elsie, don’t ask such a question. If
Mr. Markino cut off his head he could not come to live with us.” Elsie
was quite sorry. I took both heads of these angel-like, innocent English
children under my two arms, and kissed them most tenderly.
I must mention another instance to show how the younger girl was
attached to me, and what a curio-comic girl she was. One evening, I was
so tired and dull. The landlady said, “Mr. Markino, I suppose you have
got a cold, you need some mixture.” By this she meant whisky. But Winnie
was listening, and immediately she ran out of doors. After a few minutes
she came back and threw a little packet at me, and said, “’Ere you are!”
It was a real mixture for a cold. I learnt afterwards that she went to a
chemist and bought it with her own money.
Saturdays were their “great days.” All other week-days I had to leave
the house before they got up, so that I could reach the office in time
after the train and bus journey from Mazehill to Gloucester Terrace; and
they were generally in bed when I went back after the school. I had no
chance to see them on those days. On Saturdays the office closed half
day. I used to buy oranges or apples at Charing Cross Station and put
them in my pockets. They were always waiting me at the Mazehill Station.
They often waited two or three hours there when I was too busy at the
office. Soon as I got off the train they would search all my pockets and
find out “something.” Then they were so happy. I used to carry Winnie on
my back, while Elsie pulled my coat to guide me to home. If I had an
early afternoon I used to take them to London to see Zoo, Parks, or some
music halls. They were too frightened of traffics to cross the road; I
used to carry them in my arms, one each time, to the other side. We
spent Sundays generally at Greenwich Park. They were so proud to their
children friends because they had walk with a Japanese “gentleman.” What
a different thought from those California children!
The landlady used to say to me, “Oh, Mr. Markino, please don’t spoil my
children so. I don’t know what will become of them after all this.”
At this time I wrote all my London life to some Japanese friends in San
Francisco. They all envied me much.
I stayed at this most comfortable home for about a year and a half. Then
that poor old Watson died. His wife was so upset. She could not survive
more than half a year and died, leaving those poor children alone in
this world. I was obliged to remove to a new diggings at New Cross. I
was no less sad than those poor children.
They had some rich relative among the English Navy. This naval officer
sent them to a boarding-school. Since then I did not hear of them for
such a long time. Just the time when “The Color of London” was published
in 1907, I found a letter addressed to my publishers, with a Canadian
stamp on it. It was from Winnie. She told me in her letter that soon
after she and her sister finished the school, they both went to St.
John, where their aunt was. She wanted to write me so often, but did not
know my address. At last, to her delight, she saw some reviews of my
book in a paper, and she hurried to write to me.
I answered her immediately, asking her if she would like some toy-books.
I got her answer like this: “My dear Mr. Markino, you cannot imagine how
delighted I was to hear from you after all. I am afraid you are still
thinking of me as a little ‘Toby’ in a pinafore. But remember, I am
seventeen, and I believe I am a few inches taller than you now....”
One of her photographs came with this letter. Indeed, she was quite a
handsome young lady! How wonderful Time passes by so quick! If my art
could grow up at the same rate as this little friend, I should be a
great master by this time!
A few weeks later I got another letter from her, saying that she had “a
nice young man with a very kind heart,” &c., &c. She asked my advice
whether to marry or not. I persuaded her to marry. A wedding-card came
to me half a year later. Alas, my own art is not in the stage of
marriage yet!
Elsie, the elder girl, began to write to me too. In all her letters she
expressed how happy she was in Canada. Last Christmas she sent me a
beautifully bound book of Longfellow, with these words on the
frontispage--“Recollecting all your kindness long, long ages ago.”
CHAPTER III
MY LIFE IN NEW CROSS
In New Cross I lived in two places. First in Amersham Road, and then at
St. Donald Road. I have nothing much to say of these two places. I had
apartments, and took all meals in my own room, so I did not see much of
the landlords or their families. The second place was awfully
cheap--11s. 6d. for a week.
At this time the Japanese Naval office was moved to Victoria Street. I
used to walk from Charing Cross to the office way round St. James’s
Park. It was so nice to see that pretty bit of the Park every day, but
that was not my real reason. I tried to avoid seeing Westminster Abbey
too often. I shall give the reader full reason for this in the words
which my father used to tell me when I was a boy. He was a great pilgrim
to visit all historical places in Japan, in order to make poetries. He
said, “We have most poetic feeling in our minds when we only read books
of those places and don’t visit them at all. Generally we are
disappointed if we see the places actually. Sometimes they are more
poetic than we were imagining, but even then, if we visit the same
places too often and become too familiar with them our poetic ideals
suffer a great deal.”
I thoroughly agree with my father. In the case of Westminster Abbey it
was “more poetic than I was imagining,” but I was so afraid to get too
familiar with it. That was why I tried not to see it every day. Even
now, I visit it quite seldom, once in three months or so. Then every
time I enjoy myself there with some singular sorts of feelings.
In the evening, after the office, I used to take the same train from
Charing Cross to New Cross with Mr. Marriott and Mr. Buckman. Both were
my teachers at life class. They were very kind gentlemen, and I made a
great friendship with them. They used to invite me to their musical
evenings. At the school I had about seven or eight class-mates. Some of
them had awful lucky names for artists--Leighton, Watts, or Prior,
something like that. But my most intimate class-mates were Sand,
Galleghar, and Jennings.
Sand was a boy of a bootmaker at Catford. He was the youngest, about
seventeen or eighteen. As his manner was rather rough, all other
students used to mock at him. But I always had a great sympathy with
him. He was such a simple boy, and was so earnest to study hard. And he
was so very ambitious too.
One evening all students had a “chat.” I said, “If I become quite
well-known artist some day....” They all laughed at me. But Sand came to
me and shook my hand warmly (if roughly too): “Never mind their
laughter, my Chin-Chin; you and I shall make ‘a name’ some day.” I
wonder what has become of this ambitious boy now, after some ten years?
I would not be surprised if I see his name big somewhere one of these
days.
Galleghar was an Irish. He was very philosophical, and his pen-and-ink
sketches of trees on commons were full of poetry. But he was such a
woman-hater. I heard a great deal of woman-haters before, but I could
not believe until I saw him actually with my own eyes--simply a miracle
to my eyes!
Jennings was rather miserable young fellow, but most kind-hearted. He
was a great help to me when I succumbed into penniless poverty a little
later on.
I think I attended the Goldsmith Institute about two years, of course
with many intervals absence, as usual through financial difficulties.
The naval office was busy at the time, so that when I came to the
class-room I was quite worn out and unfit to study. The teachers often
said to me: “Whatever are you doing with your drawing to-night? You are
spoiling all those best parts you have done last night. You look too
tired; you had better go back, and go to bed immediately.”
But I was too sad to leave my dear class-room before the time. I used to
sit down on a chair and smoke cigarettes and watch the others working. I
don’t know whether I am right or not to mention here about my smoking.
It seemed to me, afterwards, that smoking was prohibited in the
class-room, although the teachers did not say anything to me. I know I
was much spoilt there.
The office was getting still busier. The other secretary was often
detained until late at night. I told the attaché that I felt it was not
right of me to leave the office while they were still working. He
smiled and said: “Never mind us at all. If you were here for work only,
I could get a better worker. I only keep you here for your own sake to
study art, so if you feel too tired at the school, I shall let you leave
still earlier.” And he did that to me!
Captain (now Admiral) Mukoyama, the Naval attaché, and my great idol,
was summoned back to Japan at last. It was the saddest news to me. My
Japanese friend Shirasu (the Chancellor of our Legation at the time)
came to my room one evening and said to me: “You know Captain Mukoyama
is going back to Japan in a few days. I saw him last night, and we
talked a great deal about you. He is very fond of you. He has a great
confidence in you. I am sure the other officers will be kind to keep you
all the same, but remember, our ship-building will be quite finished
soon, and you will not be wanted any longer. Why don’t you go back to
Japan soon, if not with the Captain? He might easily push you up through
his influence in Japan, and you might have a comfortable life there for
all the rest of your days.”
Oh, nothing but “comfortable life!” That was not my chief ambition then!
I worried all night. Indeed, this was the first dark cloud in sight, but
it was getting bigger and bigger, and later on I met with some of the
strongest tempests in my life.
Yes, I worried, but I had already chosen my path--to reject the
“comfortable life.” In that one sleepless night my nature became
absolutely changed from childish gaiety to gloomy misery. From that
moment I did not laugh heartily for eight long years. If I did laugh or
smile at all, it was only to conceal my misery from the public.
Captain Mukoyama called me to his private room at St. James’s Place on
the day before he left. He said to me: “Now our last day has come; you
have been so good to me, I shall miss you very much.” Why, I have done
nothing for him; it was he who has been so good and so kind to me. How
could I pretend myself to accept his words? I was so much moved in
tears, and I could hardly lift up my face to see him.
He continued: “I hear you have decided to stay in London. I suppose you
are preparing yourself to meet all sorts of difficulties; remember
there are some ten thousand artists who are struggling in London. It is
not easy matter to live on Art; besides, there are more wolves than
sheep wherever you go in this world.”
“Yes, my dear Captain, I know it is not easy thing for me. I believe it
is not only artists, but engineers, doctors, musicians, and everybody,
have enough competitors to struggle against. If one is afraid of his
competitors, he cannot succeed in anything at all. I am no cleverer than
ordinary peoples, but I have self-confidence to conquer all the
difficulties by working harder than the others. If they do once, I shall
do the same twice, and if they do ten times, I shall do the same a
hundred times. It was my ambition from the very first to be quite
independent with my art. Only you have been so kind to assist me, but
now I feel so courageous to go on with my own way.”
“Well said, Markino. One who has the ambition to conquer the world must
be so. I believe you shall succeed one day with your own eagerness.
However, I know your nature quite well, and I am so anxious to think how
much more you shall suffer than those hard-hearted peoples. This world
is not so sincere and so neat as you are imagining; but never mind,
whenever you meet any difficulty, let me know, I shall assist you all I
can.”
I think it is no wonder our Navy always wins whenever we have battles.
All the sailors would be willing to fight their best under such
kind-hearted officers. I myself thought I would fight to death, if I
were a sailor under his command.
The next evening I told my teachers and all my class-mates what I was
intending to do. Every one of them turned such an anxious face to me.
They all said how hard it was to live on Art in London. They looked more
nervous than I myself felt. Surely they anticipated my future fate more
accurately than myself, because they were all English, and they knew
English life quite well. I always say, ignorance is the best medicine
for timidness. When I crossed the Atlantic Ocean from New York to Havre
on board _La Touraine_, we met a strong gale in the English Channel. Big
waves washed the deck constantly, and the ship did not move on well. I
did not know we were in danger, for I could not understand French. All
the passengers and crew seemed very anxious, but I alone was amused
with the grand view of the high sea. I was so frightened when I learned
afterwards that it was rather a dangerous voyage, and that I might not
have lived!
My life voyage was as dangerous as _La Touraine_, only I started with
blank ignorance. Mr. Marriott asked me, “Can you draw crowds of people
in the streets?” I said, “No.”
“Can you do designs?”
“No.”
“Do you know anything of Architecture?”
“Not at all.”
He was quite pale. I never forget his kind sympathy which so naturally
appeared on his face. He said: “You go downstairs to our library and see
all those monthly or weekly magazines. You must try to do something like
those illustrations.”
So I did as he told me and bought some sketch-books, and started
studying “figures” at the stations, at the restaurants, at the theaters,
and everywhere I went.
At this time I had another secretary friend at our office, and we two
used to go together to an A. B. C. for luncheon. I always took
[Illustration: PEN AND INK STUDIES FROM MEMORY.]
out my sketch-book and studied the people. My friend was awfully
disgusted with me, and said, “Look at the people, they all are watching
you. I am ashamed to come to this restaurant with you. Can’t you give up
your horrid sketching?”
I said, “By no means could I give up my Art study. If you object to me
sketching, let us go to different restaurants quite separately.”
When I had luck to spare a few shillings, I often went to a better-class
restaurant, not for the luxury of dishes, but to study better-class
people.
Oh, I must not forget to mention one thing, of a most faithful waitress
at a restaurant in Baker Street. After my meal I left three coppers on
the table and went away. When I walked about a hundred yards a policeman
stopped me and pointed out for me to look back. I saw the waitress
chasing after me. She found out a ten shilling piece between those
coppers, so she wanted “to return gold to you.” I was much appreciative
with her faithfulness. I said, “Really, you had a full privilege to put
‘gold’ in your pocket. Let us divide this half and half.” So I gave her
five shillings in spite of my very poverty. She seemed quite happy.
Here in this book I am giving some of those sketches which I did in
restaurants at that time. I also began to study drawings from memory.
Every night when I came back to my room I used to recollect what I had
seen during the daytime and try to draw them from memory. Naturally all
the negatives in my head were nothing but young ladies!
It was a most surprising thing how little memory I had! Sometimes I
remembered only the dress, but forgot all about the hat. Sometimes I
caught dress and hat, but forgot the boots. Generally I did their backs,
because I had more chance to look at them from the back for a longer
time. Here I reproduce some of those studies just to amuse the readers
with my struggles on the difficulty.
I was not discouraged with my bad memory. When I was in San Francisco I
used to go to fifteen cents meal at some German restaurant. I was quite
surprised that those German waiters took more than twelve different
orders at one time from us hungry eaters. They never made mistakes. I
asked one of them how could he remember all the orders. He said it was
only “experience.” First time when he became a waiter he took one order,
then later on two, three, five, eight, and so on. Indeed, everything is
through “experience.” So I had patience to get experience some day. I
was quite right. After nine years’ experience now I can remember a whole
crowd of some eighteen or twenty people.
But at the starting-time it was such a difficult task for me. Whenever I
went out to the streets I was like a crazy man. More than once I knocked
my head against the lamp-posts while I was walking uncautiously, being
so busy to study the movement of peoples. The movement of horses was
still more difficult to study. Once I ran after a cab in Victoria Street
and knocked down a poor little baby. I had trouble with his mother.
How lucky I was that there were no motors in those days, or I might
easily have been killed by them!
I had a young lady friend in Lewisham High Road. She wanted me to go to
St. John’s Church every Sunday evening. Of course I could not understand
the English enough to enjoy the sermons. It was such a trying hour of
waste time there. But at last I got a happy idea. I thought I should
study the peoples in the church. I had a Bible with large leather
covers. I tore off all the script and put my sketching-book inside the
leather cover. In the church I started to sketch during the sermon. My
lady friend noticed that one day. She was so shocked. She never asked me
to go to the church. Not only that, but our friendship was ended through
my vulgar manners. I was sorry to make such savage disturbance on the
national religion of England.
She was always very good to explain to me about the ladies’ fashions.
When I got her last letter, to “end friendship,” I rather missed her.
Art or Heart? Art or Heart? Both sound so much the same to each other.
Cockneys or French peoples might easily mix them up. But to me, there
was a great different meaning, and I decided to take Art.
Although my idolized Captain Mukoyama had left the office, the Fleet
Paymaster, Mr. Sakura, was as kind as the Captain to me. Once he gave me
nine bottles of _saké_ (Japanese wine). I had not tasted _saké_ since I
came to England, so it was a great treat for me. I used to enjoy one or
two glasses every evening, and finished two bottles. But that made me so
sleepy, and I could not study well after this drink. It was too bad to
be so lazy every night. I thought I might give all the rest to my
landlord, but he preferred Scotch. It was a pearl to a pig. Too pity to
give away such precious thing which we cannot get by money! So I
finished all seven bottles in one night.
One gas-light in my room seemed to me to be three or four. The feet of
my desk began to wave like snakes. Everything was whirling. I do not
know how I got into bed.
Next morning I had bad headache. I was obliged to wire to the office,
“Too ill to attend.” In the afternoon I got up and had a walk. When I
went back to the house the landlady told me she was so frightened when
she made my bed, my slippers came out from the sheets, and seven empty
bottles were lying about the floor. She hoped the kind officers would
never give me _saké_ any more!
At this time the office removed again to Nottingham Place, near Regent’s
Park, so I removed to Kensal Rise. The landlady was rather hard-hearted
woman. She often made nasty trick on me. I shall not talk much about
her, because she was only the one exception during my thirteen years in
London.
One day I received my monthly wages at the office--five pound note and
some gold. I got on the top of bus. There was a lady with the latest
style hat on. I sat down on the back seat and began to study that hat.
The conductor came for the fare. I was so busy, and pulled a penny
quickly out of my pocket. I got off the bus at Wigmore Street and walked
to Marshall and Snelgrove. A lady came to me and said she was so glad to
see me. She was the lady whose hat I was studying from the back. I was
so surprised. I wondered if English ladies had some more eyes on their
back. How dangerous! She was a very kind lady, and she said that as soon
as I left the bus the conductor picked up a five pound note on my seat,
and said that he would take that to the Scotland Yard. “Go to Scotland
Yard to-morrow morning and you will get your five pounds.” That was her
kind advice.
Scotland Yard! What was Scotland Yard? I saw a guide-book, and found out
it
[Illustration: PENCIL STUDIES.]
was near Westminster. I thought it must be something Scotch. All the
things I knew of “Scotch” were only whisky and my tweed overcoat! I was
so curious to see some more of Scotch. I went there next morning. Why,
they were all English! Even now I don’t understand why it is “Scotland
Yard.” However, I got my money back, after paying fifteen per cent.
As I lived at Kensal Rise, I changed my school to London Central School
of Art and Craft. At the same time the paymaster told me I should not be
needed at the office. It was February of 1900. He gave me two months’
notice, with £30. Mr. Wilson was my new teacher at the school. I told
him about my position at the time. He encouraged me very much, saying
there was an opening for my future if I did my Japanese style. He
introduced me to Mr. Holme of _The Studio_. I took a few sketches there,
and Mr. Holme accepted them, but said he could not be able to publish
them for some months.
March 31st came, and I said good-bye to the office with that thirty
pounds, which the paymaster really meant for the boat’s fare to go back
to Japan. At this moment I could not worry, because I had been worrying
quite enough. I was half delighted to think to make my art as my own
master, which had been my ambition for ages.
April Fool Day was the anniversary of my artist life. I think that was
why I could not be wise with my art business!
As I could not still draw anything well enough to make a picture, I
bought Kodak in most ignorant hope to help my art. It was quite useless.
I gave it to the daughter of my landlady. I bought a wood figure for
forty-two shillings. I thought it might be a help to me. It was quite
useless too. Only this two-guinea wood figure became a help to me when I
was starving in Brixton later on. One of the lodgers in the same house
fetched me two shillings from that, “after great difficulty,” and I had
four meals from that.
I had spent almost all that thirty pounds for the lodging, as well as
for buying some “useful things for my Art business” in three months’
time. And when I had become quite conscious that there was no other help
for my art than my own hard study, I found out only £2, 10s. were left!
My lodging-house was unusually expensive (thirty-five shillings a week)
at the time; I had to move to a small house in Mortimer Street, Kensal
Rise. Every penny was so precious for me then, so I could not hire a cab
for removal. Late at night I tied up all my things. My bag was broken,
and I could not use it. So I wrapped everything in my bed-quilt, and
carried it on my back, and walked to my new diggings some three or four
streets. The peoples on the streets stared at me. Perhaps they thought I
was a smuggler!
I found this house by a “let” card on the window.
CHAPTER IV
MY LIFE IN KENSAL RISE
The landlord of my new diggings in Mortimer Street was a blacksmith. He
used to go somewhere near Edgware Road to work every day. He told me it
was the hardest work in the world, especially in hot summer days, to
beat red-hot irons with such heavy hammers near a furnace all day long.
I could not lift up his hammer, it was so heavy. I could not believe he
lifted it thousands and thousands of times every day.
His wife used to call him “Ted,” so I called him “Ted” too. I have
forgotten his family name. He married his own cousin, and had three
girls and one boy. The eldest daughter was about nine or ten, and the
youngest about two years and a half. The latter’s name was Clarie, and
she was my favorite.
They had such a sweet home, if poor. Many rich peoples ought to be
ashamed before them if they saw such a sweet harmony in their devotion
to each other. I engaged a very small room in this house for 3s. 6d. a
week. They gave me a large kitchen table for my work. When they put this
table into my room there was no space to put a single chair, so I used
to sit on my bed to work. They charged so little for my meals;
practically it was only the original price of the food. I am sure they
could not make any profit from my meals.
As I said before, £2, 10s. was all the money I had. Naturally I could
not attend to the school any longer; but my teacher, Mr. Wilson, was so
kind to call me to his house at Vicarage Gate once a week. He did try
all he could to help me. With his introduction letters in my pocket, I
used to visit many peoples. Everywhere I was rejected. My £2, 10s. was
almost gone. Mr. Wilson himself bought a few drawings of mine for 10s.
6d. each, “just for encouragement.” About these drawings I have a
strange story to tell the reader.
One evening on July last year (1909), I had a walk on Chelsea Embankment
and saw a young Japanese. Naturally I stopped and began to talk with my
country-fellow. He said he came to England to study Art, and now he was
a pupil of Mr. Wilson’s. When this Japanese Art-student met with Mr.
Wilson the first time, the latter asked the former if he knew a Japanese
artist called Yoshio Markino, who lately illustrated the books “The
Color of London” and “The Color of Paris.” The Japanese student said,
“No.” Then Mr. Wilson brought him my drawings which he bought from me,
and said to him: “Look! these were Markino’s works about seven years
ago. How wonderful that one could get on so well by his own earnestness!
I give these drawings to you now. Keep them, and look at them whenever
you yourself feel disheartened. They will encourage you.”
Then Mr. Wilson told him how he was delighted to hear my “success” (I
myself cannot sincerely accept this word just yet, though) and added,
“Perhaps Yoshio Markino might be too proud to see me now.”
I told my Japanese friend that it was on the contrary. I should be far
more delighted to meet my kindest teacher. Only I had been so busy and
had no chance. Perhaps I shall see him some day soon.
[Illustration: OPENING DAY AT EARL’S COURT (THE FIRST SKETCH THE ARTIST
STRUGGLED TO SELL).]
At Mortimer Street I used to get up at 4.30 or 5.30 in the summer-time,
and make all sorts of designs and sketches “for sale,” until 9.30, the
time of breakfast. Then I had to take them down to the City to show to
publishers. Sometimes they would say the managers would like to see me
at five o’clock; then, with some bright encouragement, I walked all way
back from City to Kensal Rise for luncheon, and walked the same way to
the City again, only to meet disappointment, as the managers did not
like my work. I used to look at those posters on the dead walls to find
out printers’ names, then went to the free library to find out their
addresses in the post guide. I had heaps of their names and addresses on
the back of my sketch-book. I tried every one of them, but all were
fruitless. My last penny was gone then, and I got into debt with that
poor landlord. His wages were only £2 a week, and he had to keep his
wife and four children. I was too sorry for them to take meals there, so
I did not come back for luncheons; I used to drink water from fountains
in the streets. It was my only luncheon then; my landlady knew that.
Every morning when I left the house she used to say to me, “Come back
for meals, and please don’t starve yourself!”
How could I accept these kind words from such a poor woman? It was only
heart-breaking to me; and she also said to me, “Good luck to-day,” every
morning, and she was waiting me in the evenings to hear “happy news.” It
was always difficult for me to enter into the house after fruitless
tasks all day, because she was such a sympathetic woman, and she often
showed me her tears and said, “Never mind about your debts to us, but I
am so sorry for your own hard life!”
So often I wanted some good news, more for her sake than for my own,
just to see a smiling face of this kind-hearted woman. Nevertheless,
things were still going on harder and harder upon me.
As I walked a good deal every day, my boots were quite worn-out, and my
torn-out socks were peeping out almost half the size of my feet.
Wherever I went, the editors used to stare at my boots first, then at my
works afterwards, with this simple word--“No, thanks.”
If I could not come back at the dinner-time I was too sorry to trouble
that poor woman, so I used to tell all sorts of lies, that I had a nice
dinner out; and many a night I went to bed with my hungry stomach.
Indeed, I was too hungry to sleep. A cup of coffee and a few pieces of
bread at breakfast were not enough to keep me all day.
When one gets too hungry one’s nerves always get sharper. My head was
too clear to sleep. I tried not to move quickly, as that made me still
more hungry. I lit the gas and began to study anatomy and perspective
books. That was the way to avoid waste time in vain.
On Sundays I stayed at home all day, and had full meals, and worked out
my designs and sketches. My landlord “Ted” used to bring tea and
pastries into my room, and say: “Mr. Markino, please take this tea, as a
pleasure to me. I cannot bear to see you working so hard without tea.”
And “Ted” used to offer me one cigarette every night; and he always
said, “Smoker has sympathy with smoker.” Indeed, it was such a treat for
me.
The landlord and his wife both were always as kind as kind could be.
They always said to me, “We have never seen a man so honest and so
diligent. God bless you. Believe us, you will be all right some day
soon.” They never pressed me about my debts. They had a little wooden
box in which they used to save a few shillings every week for their
quarterly “rents.” The wife told me they had never touched that money
before, as they must be honest and pay their landlord. But now, as I was
going to get a few pounds as the copyright from _The Studio_ some day,
she began to violate her own law, and used to take out sixpence for my
luncheons whenever I went out to the City. She said, “It is too great a
temptation for me to control. I cannot bear to see such an honest man
like you starve.”
While I was thus struggling at Kensal Rise, my old class-mate Jennings
got a “better job” (£2, 10s. a week, I believe it was). He wrote me that
I should not work so hard all through the week, or else I might get
illness. He persuaded me to spend every Saturday afternoon with him. I
used to meet him at Westminster Bridge. Then he would take me to Kew,
Richmond, Hampton Court, &c., &c., paying all my expenses. He also gave
me one pair of his old boots, as mine were too old to wear. Oh, I forgot
to mention that I had only two broken socks at this time. I used to
wash one pair in my wash-stand every morning before I went out.
At this moment there was only one job for me to get a little money by.
It was to be a model at my old school, Goldsmith Institute, at New
Cross. Mr. Marriott suggested it to me, and I was delighted to take this
job. I had to go there from 2 P.M. until 5 every day. I used to get
half-a-crown a day.
My landlord and his wife were so pleased.
I had to take trams on the way there in order to reach there by the
time. But on the way back home I walked all the way from New Cross to
Kensal Rise in order to give every penny to my landlady. I used to eat
my dinner at Lockhart’s in Westminster Bridge. Steak and friend onion,
sixpence a dish, was a great dinner for me then.
I found out it was not quite easy task to be a model. I was in Japanese
costume, and had to sit down like Japanese too. My neck muscles began to
crack, and my arm felt as if it was going to be broken. And such a pin
and needles! I could not walk for quarter hour after the posing. I did
the same thing for three weeks.
Then my pocket began to be dead silent again. How much I envied those
who had any sort of work to make livelihood. Even the domestic servants
were my great envy! How often I wished to wash windows to get 2½d. each.
A most spoilt child of the Samurai, and a boy-king in his village once,
now become a starving unemployee! And I myself was surprised that my
heart was become the same as those miserable unemployees too. Indeed, I
had such a dirty beggar’s heart then. It was one of these days that I
saw a gentleman in the Park. He was smoking a cigarette, and he threw
away more than half of that unfinished cigarette. I said to myself,
“What an extravagant man he is! If he knew what poor life meant, he
ought not to do that. It is most cruel thing of him to do that before
me!” I dared not pick it up, but practically my heart felt just same as
if I picked it up. I could not help without recollecting an unfortunate
Englishman whom I had met before.
While I was at the Japanese Naval office in Nottingham Place, I often
went with my Japanese friends to a billiard-room upstairs of some
publican’s near by. My Japanese friends went to play billiard, and I to
study sketching their movement. There was an old man who was the counter
of billiard. We used to give him sixpence, and he was always so grateful
to us. One evening while my friends were playing billiard, I had a chat
with him. He told me he was once “a very rich gentleman, in an elegant
house with stables.” He also told me all his sad history, how he was
bankrupted. As he was a great sportsman when he was rich, he found out
the billiard counter was the only business left for him at last. I asked
him, “If you were so rich then, I suppose you often rebel against
yourself. Don’t you feel it is rather ridiculous that you should thank
so politely for our little sixpence? I hope you would not feel that we
are insulting you?”
He looked at me with such a happy face, and said, “No, sir; not at all,
sir. Sixpence is something so valuable to me, sir.” Then he shook my
hand, and said in low voice, “This world don’t think as you do, sir; you
are very kind, sir.” I saw his eyes were quite moisted.
Who knows! The time had come that I myself wanted to say, “Sixpence is
something so valuable for me!” Indeed, I wanted any work to earn
sixpence then. But only one thing was, I could not ask any disgraceful
money like chips or charity. Even in my hardest time, it seemed to me
the Samurai spirit of my dead father above was always demanding me,
“Keep your own dignity.”
It was almost useless to try those printing firms any longer. The
porters of some firms began to turn most unpleasant faces to me, saying,
“You again!” And some of them absolutely refused to let me see the
managers. I began to think some other way to earn livelihood. I
remembered my old schoolmate Jennings used to work at a tombstone-maker
at Norwood, and lately he had left there to get a “better job.” It came
to mind, “Try that tombstone-maker.” But Jennings was having his
holidays in Belgium.
I saw the manager of that tombstone-maker only once when Jennings was
there. I remembered his name--Mr. Edward--so I wanted to write him. I
borrowed twopence again from my landlady. One penny for notepaper and
envelope, and the other penny for the postal stamp. The very next
morning I got a telegram from Mr. Edward--“Come immediately.”
My landlady was more pleased than myself. She lent me the traffic fares,
and I arrived at Mr. Edward’s office on midday. He said he would keep me
for thirty shillings a week, and advanced me ten shillings. He told me
Jennings was living very cheap somewhere near there, and surely he would
be pleased to share his room with me. But unfortunately he wouldn’t be
back within ten days. So I decided to travel from Kensal Rise during
next ten days. All the family at Kensal Rise were so pleased with “good
news.” I gave nine shillings to my landlady, notwithstanding she refused
several times to accept “so much.”
She used to make sandwiches every night for my next day’s luncheon, and
I left there in early morning and walked to Westminster, took the tram
to Brixton, and walked the rest, I could not reach to the office before
ten. But Mr. Edward “understood” my late arrival. Then, on my back
journey, I walked all way from Norwood to Kensal Rise for ten days. It
was always quite midnight before I got home. After I removed to West
Dulwich I used to send “Ted” ten shillings a week. Alas! the rent day
had come, and my pictures were not published by _The Studio_ yet! My
poor landlady had trouble with her landlord. It was all through me. It
gave me such a pain. I wrote her to mention my name and tell him all the
circumstances. To my relief I got her answer--“Don’t worry, it is all
right; my landlord will wait.”
The next month _The Studio_ published my sketches, and I was paid all my
copyright. I returned all my debts to that most kind-hearted landlady in
Kensal Rise.
Later on, when I got a little better off, I sent “something” to them,
and they were delighted. Last year (1909) I went to Kensal Rise in hope
to see these most sympathetic peoples. To my great disappointment
everything was changed there, and I could not trace anything of them
after eight long years!
CHAPTER V
AT THE TOMBSTONE-MAKER’S IN NORWOOD
The tombstone-maker’s office was situated in front of Norwood Cemetery.
It had a little gate, and the building was about a hundred yards back
from the street. Many granite crosses and marble angels were exposed in
this space. A few fir-trees were growing high up from between those
tombstones, the branches of those trees covering the roof of the
building. It had a large background, too, where two or three
stone-cutters were working from early morning until late evening.
My working room faced to this backyard, and I used to work there quite
alone. The first few days I had only to trace some architectural
drawings which Mr. Edward had made, then he used to give me some plain
drawings of crosses, and other sorts of designs for graves, and which I
had to “set in perspective.” There were many Scotch and Irish crosses. I
often made mistakes with those net-like designs, but Mr. Edward always
forgave me.
There were so many pathetic inscriptions on those tombstones--“My most
devoted wife who passed by so & so,” or “My beloved only son died so &
so.” Here I noticed one thing to prove my philosophy. I found out that
there were so many inscriptions which showed that when one of those old
couples dies, the other half always dies after a short period. I always
had this idea, that when young peoples marry they are in a great love
for the first few years, then they began to quarrel. But when they both
pass to fifty-five or sixty years old they become most devoted
companions to each other again. If any one doubt this, look at those
pathetic inscriptions on the tombstones. One cannot live without the
other half in earliest period of marriage, nor in the latest periods.
But in the middle ages, it seems to me they are not so broken-hearted:
perhaps they become quite jolly widows or widowers. Let us hope to die
either quite young or quite old! I mean, at the happiest moment.
Hitherto I used to have such a bad habit of either whistling or humming
some songs while I was working. But in this tombstone-maker’s room I
began to be quite silent at work. Everything there was too pathetic, and
I was in a very serious mood. It was all dead silent. Only those
stone-cutters’ hammers broke the silence with their cling-clang!
Occasionally they brought a clumsy wooden wagon to carry away those
finished tombstones. The yard was very soft earth and it was quite muddy
after the rain, and the wheels were buried deeply into the mud. They had
some old wooden planks here and there as “bridges.” Men would shout
“Ready?” and the wagon went on with “All right!” Then such a loud
cracking noise. The bridges were broken, and the wagon sank into the mud
a foot deep! The wagon-horse seemed much annoyed. He shook his head,
biting white foam in his mouth. It seemed to me such hard work for him.
At the front office room customers came every day. Generally they were
women in mourning. They used to tell the manager all their sad
stories--how their husbands were good and kind to them, and how suddenly
they got a fatal illness, and how doctors gave up hope; and that their
last words were so sweet.
In the case that the customers were too poor the manager used to make
“easy terms” for them. Oh, their low and sad voices! As it was so quiet
there every single word of them reached to my ears so distinctly, and I
often sobbed in my room.
A blackbird used to come to those trees and sing. Its voice was as sweet
as that one which I used to listen to in Greenwich, but how differently
it sounded to me! In Greenwich it was a wooing voice, and here it was
the voice of the last prayer. Who knows if it was the very same bird!
When one’s circumstances change, one’s feeling changes too.
My diggings at this time were No. 1 Martell Road, West Dulwich, just the
other side of Norwood Cemetery. The owners of the house were an old
couple with two daughters and one son. The old man was a job worker, and
one daughter was telegraph girl. They were very simple and good-hearted,
if rough. The old wife had rather quick temper, but was undoubtedly very
sympathetic woman. It is true what an ancient Chinese philosopher said,
“One who easily gets angry I trust thoroughly; one who always laughs I
dread!” I trusted this poor old woman quite heartily, though she often
wanted to fight with me. She was always fair in her business matters. I
could not believe she knew the word “cheat.”
I had a small room just next to Jennings on the top floor, only 14s.
including full board a week!
Every evening Jennings and I worked together. He used to suggest me some
ideas of designs which were “most acceptable to the English publishers.”
Some evenings we spent all the time looking at illustrated magazines and
books. We used to buy Pictorial Comedies “between us,” and we admired
Dana Gibson very much.
On Sunday we often had walk in Dulwich village and Streatham, and it was
our “luxury” to buy a box of Sweet Caporal or Ogden’s Cigarettes--2½ a
box! Ogden’s had a portrait of famous English actresses in each package,
and I used to collect them. It was the very beginning of my real
appreciation of English beauties. Truly I began to admire English
beauties too much, and it spoilt my business.
One day Mr. Edward came to me, and said, “Don’t you know, Markino, that
angel is masculine! For goodness’ sake, don’t draw such big pectorals on
his figure!”
A little later on, he came again and said, “Markino, I am sorry for you,
but you see my customers are complaining that your angels look more like
ballet girls. I honestly think for your own sake that if you paint real
ballet girls you may make more money. I shan’t throw you away
immediately, so you can come to my office two weeks more. During this
time try some publishers with your ‘English beauties.’”
When I told this news to Jennings in the evening he said, “I told you
so, you naughty boy. You know Mr. Edward is a very religious man. What
will you do now?”
I said, “I was born so wicked, I would rather give up the ‘religious
subject’ and go into ‘English beauties.’”
Thus I lost my permanent situation after three months easy life.
Now my hard life began again. The winter had come. It was the severest
winter I ever experienced in London. I remember
[Illustration: OUTSIDE ST. GEORGE’S HOSPITAL.]
peoples used to skate on all those lakes in the parks. I could not
afford to have fires. Every morning my window had such beautiful
web-like designs with ice which did not melt all day long. My hand was
too cold to hold my brush. I often went into bed for a few minutes to
warm myself. One day I went into a Free Library near my place. I found
out it was so warm there, so I used to carry my paper and pencil there
and worked there, and if the porter came I hid my sketches under some
magazine, as if I were reading the magazine.
The evenings were awfully comfortable because Jennings was at home, and
I worked by fire-side in his room, so most parts of my work were done in
the night.
One day my landlady brought me a little album and told me her friend
wanted me to paint something in it. She said, “I remind you, Mr.
Markino, this album belongs to a very religious lady; please don’t paint
anything too saucy!”
Alas, I had already begun to be known as “a Saucy little Jap!” I was
thinking all night to choose a subject to paint. At last a most
“religious” idea came into my mind--a young widow offering flowers to
her husband’s grave!
Strange to say, after some seven years, when I had become acquainted
with the peoples at my publisher (1908), one of the clerks came to me
and said, “Mr. Markino, do you remember you painted a picture in the
album which belonged to my sister-in-law in Norwood?”
Once or twice in a week I used to come out to the City with my designs.
This time I was a little luckier. Sometimes those lithograph companies
bought some “effective” designs for a guinea each. But I had
unsuccessful journey oftener. Some managers said my pictures were too
Japanese, while the others said they were too European. There was a
comical story about it. One day I was in a great hurry to wrap up my
pictures, and by mistake I took one of Jennings’ works together. A
manager looked so unpleasant with my works because they were “too
Japanese.” He picked up that picture by Jennings and said, “Look here,
it is too Japanese. English publics would not understand such design.” I
said very politely, “Pardon me, but it is done by my English friend.”
He was rather perplexed. “Oh, I am afraid your friend is too much
influenced by you!”
My friend told me not to take too seriously all what they said. It was
only their excuse. If they really like my work they would take it
whether it was “too Japanese” or “too English.”
One publisher gave me a commission to do a book of some two dozen small
designs for twelve guineas. I finished them in a week. I was looking
forward for the immediate payment. No cheque came day after day. I had
only half-penny then. I found out some very old pictorial postcard in
the bottom of drawer, so I wrote on the card asking the immediate
payment. Next day I got a letter from them. Twelve guinea cheque was in
it, but they expressed their anger because I wrote on a postcard, and
added that I must not be so ignorant of the publisher’s customs--the
payment on publication. Jennings told me they were only too kind. They
might easily bring a libel action against me using postcard for money
matters.
I was so frightened--a quite new lesson about English custom once more!
I wrote an apologizing letter to them.
However, Jennings and I were quite happy. He called me “a rich man.” We
both decided to remove to Brixton, because it was so inconvenient for
both of us to live so far away from the City. I spent several days
hunting for a new diggings in Brixton district.
It was this time that the Anglo-Japanese Alliance was announced. When I
was passing that large space near Brixton Station several English
sailors surrounded me. Evidently they must have been on Japanese water
some time for their duty. They began to squeeze out from their head all
Japanese words they remembered. As soon as they saw me they shouted,
“Banzai!” “Ohayo,” or “Konnichiwa.” One of them started to talk to me,
and his beginning word was “Sayonara” (“Good-bye”). I was much amused
with their childish innocence. They carried me to a “Pub” near by and
had a drink for our Alliances. I whispered a few words which they might
probably have heard from tea-house girls. My anticipation was quite
right. They were so delighted, and laughed.
Now leaving the question of the Anglo-Japanese Alliance aside just for a
while, Jennings and I, a private Anglo-Japanese Alliance, found out our
diggings at No. 151 Brixton Road.
CHAPTER VI
MY LIFE IN BRIXTON
Our Anglo-Japanese home at 151 Brixton Road was an ordinary boarding
house occupied by an old couple and one step-daughter. Jennings and I
engaged one bed-room and one sitting-room, where I used to work all day.
About ten or eleven lodgers were staying. Most of them were students for
chemists, and commercial travelers. There was one law student called
Beven, a quite young and bright fellow, with much ability. Lately I
heard he is getting on splendidly as a solicitor somewhere about
Tottenham. He and I became great friends, and I used to call him
“Scientific Liar,” and he called me “Mock British Lion.”
It was this time Mr. Grant Richard published my “Little Japanese Dumpy
Book.” The weekly magazine _King_ took several sketches of mine. But
luck did not smile upon me regularly. One day Jennings and I noticed
that the landlady “turned out” one lodger because he could not pay
regularly. We looked at each other’s eyes rather seriously. Jennings
said, “Never mind, if you could not pay I shall pay that for you.” I
think he did so for a few weeks. Sometimes publishers accepted my works
but never published. More seldom my pictures were published, but not
paid. Beven told me that I ought to make the contract each time. “In
England,” he said, “it is the only way. And if it is in black and white
it is quite safe.” But whenever I saw a new person he looked to me so
gentle and so kind-hearted, and every time I thought, “Oh no, this
gentleman would never cheat me,” and I worked without contract, only to
repent afterwards. Beven thought I was most “hopeless, foolish fellow
for business” he has ever seen.
I got into a heavy debt with the landlady again. I was so frightened
that she might turn me out every minute. But to my surprise (and
delight, too) she said to me, “Oh no, we shan’t turn you out; your case
is quite different from the other. I know those wealthy peoples never
pay you properly, but never mind, we shall always feed you well.”
Unfortunately this kind-hearted old woman died in a few months, and the
peoples of this house asked all the lodgers to have meals out until they
were quite settled down. I understood they were almost broken-hearted
and could not manage our meals every day. Jennings felt so
inconvenienced about that, and he removed some other house, but I myself
was quite penniless and had some debts, so I could not remove. I took
only one small bed-room on the top floor. A chemist student, one of the
lodgers, was very kind to me. He used to take my pictures to the City,
and sold one or two for me. It was this time he sold my wooden figure
for me too.
But that was not enough, and I began to be a hermit again. Day after day
I had to go to bed without any meal. This time I got a little bad
impression with some English business peoples, because if they only were
honest enough to pay me what they promised I need not suffer this
starvation. Indeed I had far more credit than my actual debts. I still
keep my diary of this time. On one of its pages I find this passage:”
... did not send me the cheque to-day again. What dirty commercial
spirits they have in their heads! Money to these people is just like
fishes to cats. I do hate these merchant spirits. It doesn’t matter to
me, after all, whether I get two pounds or twenty pounds. If I get more
I only spend more to please other peoples. Money does not affect me
enough to hate this world, but just imagine those dirty merchant
spirits! This dirty feeling perishes all good friendship. I suppose
everywhere in this world is just same. So I have not much hope to live
in this world now. Damn the dirty wicked world! What use to live in such
a place--Devil’s Den. I am not very hard on individuality, because it is
their own weakness after all. But how pity they cannot cure their most
incurable hereditary illness.”
But another page of this diary says, “Went to the National Gallery and
spent a whole morning there. I saw many peoples inside. They all were so
humble before those old masterpieces. Who knows if they were same sorts
of peoples with those who are treating me worse than their dogs. Perhaps
they themselves might be those dirty commercial peoples. But in front of
the masterpieces they behave themselves so nicely. Very well then, very
well. I shall make a “masterpiece” some day and let all those dirty
commercials kneel down in front of me! It is all through my faults that
I should be treated like this now because my Art is not good enough
_now_. But some day, yes, some day....”
At this very moment I got a letter from my elder sister in Japan. She is
thirteen years older than myself and I was her pet at home. In her
letter, she expressed that she began to feel that her young age was
nearly gone by, and she was so lonely that she was thinking of me more
than ever. She dreaded to be awake with her dream at midnight that I was
dead; and she wished so much to see me just once more, because when I
ran away to America from Tokio, I did not go back home to say good-bye
to her. “And,” she continued, “if it is impossible for you to come back
now, please let me hear some bright news, and don’t forget to send me
your photo, too!”
I never wrote her about my hard life, as I was afraid it would upset
her. But she began to be alarmed with my long silence. Her letter was
only a dagger to my heart. How fortunate that my sister did not see me
borrowing 2½d. from my English friend for the post stamp which I put on
my answering letter.
My answer to her was quite simple--a Japanese poetry in four lines:--
“The lofty summit of the mountain is almost in sight,
But the road around the precipice is too much curved.
You must, I understand, be tired of waiting a long, long age,
Though I, myself, am climbing incessantly all this time,
without rest.”
I was then such an ambitious boy, and I wanted “name” in vain. I used to
write all what I felt in my note-book. It says, “London is such a large
town. It is really too large. Something like a big ship. I cannot move
it with my strength.” I remember when I was a boy I went to a sea shore
and saw a large European boat. It was the first time in my life to see
such a large ship. I got up to the top of the cabin. I wanted to jump on
the deck, but I was afraid I might make such a noise, as I often made in
the schoolroom when I jumped from the desk to the floor, and that I
might shake the whole boat, then the Captain would be angry with me. But
at last I decided to jump on the deck. Why, such a hard deck! I made no
shaking, only I hurted my feet so much.
“Now in London, if I try to make sound with London, London does not
sound at all, only I hurt myself. That is all.”
It was only just a few weeks ago (Nov. 1909) that I received a most
flattering letter from my most intimate friend: “Be courageous, Markino,
London had begun to move a little by your brush.” Alas, I am grown up
and no more a boy slave of “fame.” My present ambition is only to
improve my art. Any favorable or unfavorable criticisms are no account
to me. Only nice subject and nice composition are my real delight.
Well, getting back to my Brixton life. The King’s Coronation Day was
coming. Mr. Gordon Home, the editor of _The King_, commissioned me to
make four sketches--two naval reviews seen from a Japanese cruiser and
two processions in London Streets. That meant some twenty pounds--a
great fortune for me then! But all my delight was robbed by the King’s
illness. I had pain as if I myself were operated!
I think I concealed all my misery fairly well before the public. For at
my starving time I called on _Harper’s Magazine_ at Albemarle Street
several times. The manager said, “You must be getting on quite
prosperous. You look always so happy.” How lucky he had no X-ray
apparatus to see my empty stomach! He was, anyhow, very kind to
introduce me to a French lady artist, who had a studio in Hammersmith.
She gave me some jobs to paint some Geisha’s portrait on the cloth cover
for portfolios. I was paid half-crown each and I could paint two every
day. This job continued for a few months, and my diggings began to serve
the lodgers full meal, too.
One of these evenings my landlord came into my room and said, “A
Japanese gentleman come to see you, sir.” I opened my door and I heard
voice downstairs: “O’yi Markino! Bokuda, Bokuda!” (“It is I, it is I!”)
I shouted, “Who are you; whose name is ‘I’?”
The next second I met him on the middle of stairs. It was my dear
Japanese poet friend, Yone Noguchi! He told me he had just arrived from
New York to Queen’s Hotel in Leicester Square. He removed to my address
immediately, and had a room just downstairs of mine.
For the first few nights, naturally, I was so busy to ask him about my
friends in Japan as well as in America, then we began to talk each
other’s experiences since we were parted. He had a little better opinion
on America, because he spent most part of his time in Washington and New
York, where the Japanese were not so much hated as in California. He
used to say English peoples are so slow, and he called me a cow, because
my temperament was “so slow” too.
“Markino,” he often exclaimed, “you are getting too English altogether.”
But one day he received a letter from his worshiped friend, Mr. Charles
Warren Stadard. It ran something like this:--
“Yes, my dear Yone, you may think English people are very slow; you may
not like them now. But be patient and stay there a little longer. Some
day you will find out something at the bottom of English people’s
hearts--some gentleness, some sweetness, which other nations seldom
have. When you have once recognized this you will never forget it all
your life.”
Yone was a very sharp observer. It did not take long time that he fell
into love with the English peoples. Indeed, after only four months’ stay
in London when I went to see him off at Paddington Station I saw his
eyes were much inflammated with tears. He peeped out from the train
window and said to me, “I am sure I shall come back to England. Yes, I
must come back again. I promise you faithfully. So you wait here until I
come? Markino, you are a lucky fellow to stay in Sweet London all the
time.”
Yone’s four-month visit to London was my great comfort. We both had
something nobler and sweeter than anything which one can get with money.
Although I was meeting great sympathy of those landladies wherever I
went, my art was suffering a great deal through their ignorance. Now
Yone was my complement. It was this time that he told the story of
Keats, which I wrote in my essay of “The Color of Rome.” Yone used to
sit on a chair in front of the fire-place stretching his two feet high
above the mantel-piece, drooping his head on his chest and grasping his
two hands together on his back. Whenever I came back into the room it
was my great delight to see this peculiar pose of his.
We two often had walk along the Victoria and Albert Embankment in nights
to enjoy London fogs. I remember he made many poetries about London
Mists. I wonder if he ever published them. Yone thought the English
publishers were “too slow” for the publication of his works, so he
decided to publish them himself. We saw the advertisements of those job
printers, and found out the one at Kennington was the fairest. Yone
ordered him to print some two or three hundred copies of his few
poetries on brown paper. It was about sixteen pages, entitled, “From the
Eastern Sea,” by Yone Noguchi, a Japanese. Price two shillings. A
messenger came from that printing-office to see Yone especially about
the lettering of the price. He asked Yone again and again to assure that
it was really two shillings and not two pence! Yone gave him positive
answer. After the messenger was gone Yone told me that the messenger
looked into his face so seriously to find out if Yone’s head was “a bit
off,” and we laughed so much until our landlord’s dog began to bark at
us!
I think it was about the evening of February 13, 1903, Yone and I went
to the printing-office, and a few hundred copies of “From the Eastern
Sea” were ready, so we carried them home. It was such a cold night and
my hands had no feeling at all. Then the pavement was quite frozen, and
it was so slippery and almost impossible to walk with my worn-out boots.
Yone warned me not throw them on the mud because he could not afford to
print them again.
On the same night Yone sent more than half to some important literary
people and newspapers. Every one of them welcomed this little brown book
(pamphlet, rather), but one of them (I think it was Mr. William
Rossetti) wrote Yone kindly enough to warn him that unless he obeyed the
regulations of Publishing Law he would be punished. We both were so
frightened, and next day we went to Somerset House and registered his
name and sent copy each to the British Museum, Oxford, and Cambridge.
Many people came to buy Yone’s book. About business matter he was as bad
as myself. He could not ask the payment. He presented each copy to
everybody who came to buy. One evening he said to me, “I cannot afford
to present all my book.”
I said, “Of course you cannot; why don’t you ask them the payment?”
“But, Markino, just think how could I ask two shillings for this,
although I put on that price?”
While we were talking a very young fellow came to buy Yone’s book. It
was Arthur Ransome (he was only seventeen or eighteen then). I told
Ransome that Yone wanted two shillings a copy. Ransome was willing to
pay. Yone shouted, “No, Markino. It is ‘lie!’ it is ‘lie!’” and ran out
of the room. However, Ransome insisted to leave two shillings. We
decided to buy some cigarettes, and when Ransome came we three should
enjoy the smoking. Afterwards I learnt that Ransome was as poor as we
were then.
Soon after this the _Unicorn Press_ wanted to publish a more “elaborate”
edition, and I made a design for the book-cover--many Japanese boats
loaded with parchment sailing forward, and each sail had Yone’s family
crest. My original design was dark indigo on bluish-grey ground. Yone
liked it very much. But to our great disappointment the publishers
[Illustration: HYDE PARK CORNER.]
printed it vermillion on cream ground--to make it more “effective.” I
said, “Effective? Indeed, it is effective enough to make us sick!
Commercial elaboration means our Hell!”
I think Yone made several nice friends here, in whose heads he is still
well remembered for evermore. But he had gone so soon. I not only missed
him so much, but began to sink into the financial difficulty again.
Perhaps it was worse than ever. My debts for the landlord were getting
higher and still higher. I had less courage to try and sell my pictures
this time, because it was so difficult to get payment after “accepted,”
and I could not try same places again.
It was one of these days I was walking near Hyde Park Corner, I felt
something on my chest, somebody was striking me with his stick. It was
Ukida Goji, a Japanese Chancellor. He said to me, “Here, here, are you
still living?”
I was not clever enough to answer such a difficult question, so I passed
on in silence. The day-time I was so busy to try some publisher, but
when I went to bed at night I began to recollect those words, “Are you
still living?” I could not understand why should I be so insulted like
that, only because I was poor! My pillow case was quite wet with my
tears. Really, I need not take him so seriously, as he was only an
insignificant chancellor!
CHAPTER VII
I DECIDE TO COMMIT SUICIDE
With such fruitless task day after day I was much discouraged, and
moreover I was so disappointed with this false and faithless world. One
morning I quite decided to commit suicide, if that day’s task were
fruitless again. Though I was such a quite worthless little man, and it
would make no difference whatever to the world whether I died or lived,
it was something for me to die. It could not be a joke to me, I was in
such a serious mood. Even now I cannot forget that feeling. Let me write
down all my impressions at that moment.
As I am a Japanese I could not believe that suicide was a crime. If
there is crime in a suicide case, the crime does not belong to the one
who commits suicide, but to those who so cruelly drived suicider into
such decision. They deserve the name “manslaughterer,” if not
“murderer.”
I have a most pathetic story, which I want to tell to the English
readers. Some years ago there was a most innocent and sacred little
girl, like an angel, in Japan. By some misfortune she was captured by
some American blackmails. The poor girl found out that she was going to
be sold as a prostitute in America. There was no way for this helpless
creature to escape her future doom. She committed suicide, leaving a
poetry which is even now repeated incessantly by every Japanese mouth.
It ran thus:
“Tsuyu who dani ito-o Yamato no Ominameshi, furu America
in Sode wa nura saji.”
“Even a drop of dew is dreaded by a little meadow flower of Japan.
How could she bear to make her sleeves wet amid the pouring rain?”
(_Ame_ is _rain_ in Japanese language, so she used _America_ as
_rain_ with double meaning.)
Indeed she was too pure to be ruined by those barbarous Americans. The
Japanese judge had sense enough not to pass the sentence of “unsounded
mind” on her. But we all worship her as the sacred mirror of the highest
ethics.
There is always something higher and nobler than our life. That is
human dignity. For this higher and nobler dignity that innocent yet most
graceful girl gave up her life. Not only for her own dignity, but for
the dignity of her country, the daughter of Japan killed herself. But
she is immortalized forever!
We, each individual, have each our own bodies, but our conscience is
only one conscience, common to all of us. Therefore it is most selfish
to kill the sacred conscience, which is common to others, for the sake
to save our own life.
Look at those Early Christians! Thousands of them met their death
because they refused to give up their faith.
Of course they did not kill themselves, other peoples did that. But what
is the difference--killing themselves by their own hand or by the other
peoples’ hands? I call them “suicides” all the same. Jesus Christ
Himself knew those Jews would kill Him, yet He gave up Himself to them.
It was, in a manner, suicide. Why then do the English judges not condemn
Christ? Why do they not call Jesus Christ “unsounded mind”? Of course
there are many who are really “unsounded mind.”
I myself was not a coward to be afraid to face these difficulties. There
was something, which I shall not write here to avoid the trouble of any
libel action. But, truly, I hated some faithlessness and I could not
sell my dignity for that. Oh, let the judges call me “unsounded mind” if
they like. But I would call those faithless fellows “unsounded mind” by
return. It is not myself alone, I am sure. How many innocent souls in
this world are being driven into this state every year--nay, every week,
or even every day? The one who drives them this way must have the same
crime with the one who pierced the spear into the side of Jesus Christ,
or as Judas Iscariot.
Even at this moment I was not absolutely pessimistic with the whole
world. How could I forget those pathetic, sweet, English women in those
lodgings. Besides, I recollected some little sweet story which my
brother told me when I was a boy: “One summer morning, when the dawn
came, Miss Morning Glory said, ‘I shall blossom when my little Master
Dew comes to me!’ Little Master Dew said, ‘I shall go to see Miss
Morning Glory when she blossoms!’ While they were waiting each other,
the cruel hot summer sun came and perished both Miss Morning Glory and
Little Master Dew.”
In this wide world there are plenty friends in the same opinion, only it
is always one’s fate that one does not meet with them. My Art was my
Miss Morning Glory. Surely there must be many Master Dews? But they did
not come to me, so my Art was going to be perished by some faithless
ones, without blossoming.
But what does it make different to this world whether my Art blossoms or
not? We all must die some day sooner or later. I could not help without
being jealous with those soldiers and sailors. If they die on the
battlefield, their names shall be celebrated by the whole nation. If
they come back alive, they shall be fully decorated as the triumphers!
It was quite different in my case. If I die I must die like a dog. If I
live, I must meet all insults. And the cruelty in peace time is greater
torture than bullets and swords on the battlefield. The hardship on the
battlefield is all flowers. The difficulty in peace time is nothing but
dust. Oh, why did I not become a soldier or a sailor? I shut my eyes and
saw a mental vision. Some dirty deceivers were sneering at me. My
sister and brother were weeping besides. My dead mother and father were
beckoning me from above the sky in misty clouds and so vividly I saw all
my friends’ faces. In the far distance I heard my own voice faintly. It
was that poetry I sang at Yokohama wharf just before I sailed:
“When the son of Samurai decides to step out from the threshold,
He would sooner die than come back before his Ambition is fulfilled.
Why should he worry where to bury his bones?
Wherever he goes, there is a green hill.”
I opened my eyes and wondered if my expression was changed. I looked at
my glass and I found no change. I could show a jolly smile. Ah, that is
all right.
I left no note. I was intending to hide my corpse by drowning. I did not
want to trouble anybody, neither I wanted the judgment of that
ridiculous “temporary insanity.” I looked back to my old room again and
again, and recollected all my history there.
The first place I tried on this day was _The Magazine of Art_. I had
never tried this magazine before because it was such a high art
magazine, and I was told that art magazines never pay to artists. But at
the time I had such a great question to answer--Death or Life? I got
courage to try it.
CHAPTER VIII
THE LOOSENING OF THE ROPE
From Brixton Road to Ludgate Hill every step of my feet made my heart
beat. Death or Life?--that was my question on each step. The porter of
Cassell’s took me to a little reception room, where I waited a few
minutes. The assistant editor of _The Magazine of Art_ (I think it was
Mr. Fisher. I am such a bad one to remember English names) came to see
me first. He was so polite, and so modest. I felt myself something more
like a human at last. We say in Japan, “If you want to see a house
master’s nature, look at his servants how they behave themselves.” It
was quite true in this case. He said he would take my portfolio to show
to Mr. Spielmann. Perhaps Mr. Spielmann would come out to see me himself
if I waited there awhile.
Mr. M. H. Spielmann? I knew his name before, because Yone Noguchi told
me he was a great art critic. While I was waiting in the room I already
began to feel some great comfort through Mr. Fisher’s kind treatment.
After some five minutes the great art critic came into the room with my
portfolio in his arm. He promised me to buy some of them and publish all
my sketches. I myself thought I was such a clever actor to conceal all
my anxieties from him. He never told me anything what he saw in me. But
after a few years, when he wrote the introduction chapter of “The Color
of London,” to my great surprise I found out these words in his writing:
“He looked tired and pale.... I promised to buy one or two: his eyes
danced, &c., &c.”
Now I see I was not quite a successful actor. His eyes must be X-ray.
What a sharp observer he was! This has added more confidence of mine on
his profession too. I think it is my turn now to write my first
impression of him. I hope Mr. Spielmann will forgive me that because he
himself did the same.
By his appearance I thought he must be very sensitive. By his speech
with such a great rapidity, yet each syllable pronounced so distinctly,
I thought he must be very particular on everything, either publicly or
privately. That was not all, but I found out some most sympathetic
pitch in his voice which was buried in the bottom so deep that he would
not show his kindness much outwardly as most hypocrite would. This was
my very first impression on him at a glance. I am always very proud that
my judging was not mistaken.
A few days later he asked me to write a sketch of my life-story, and he
also wanted me to tell him how much I needed for my work.
So I wrote him a short essay on my life, and said, “As your magazine is
devoted for the art, I know it will do me good by your publication. I
really must not ask you any remuneration at all. It is only your
kindness to speak about any payment, so please do just as you like.”
Next morning I found Mr. Spielmann’s answer on my breakfast-table.
“After reading your most pathetic essay, I cannot take your advantage.
Please find the cheque enclosed....”
He bought two pictures with full prices (the best price I ever had
before), and also offered me the copyright for the others.
My Morning Glory has met with the tenderest Dews just by the time!
Ever since, for some seven years, Mr. Spielmann has been always Dew to a
dying Morning Glory. It will be quite a thick volume if I write out
every kindness he has done for me.
I have three names for him--
1. The rescuer of my life.
2. The father of my Art, because he has been doing all sorts of good for
my Art from both points of view--study, as well as selling.
3. The Custom House for all my English friends, because it was he who
introduced me to all my most valuable friends I have now.
About the same time I met with Mr. Lee Warner. He was the Art Editor of
_The English Illustrated Magazine_. His office was in the upstairs of
one of those old houses at Paternoster Square. The stairs were worn out
in the shape of cow’s back. The floor of his room was inclined to one
way, so pens or pencils would not stop on the same place where you drop
them. The walls were not right angle to each other, either, at the
corner. It was something like an architecture painted by a very modern
impressionist.
Whenever I went there I always thought, if ever an earthquake were
occurred in London, he must be the first person to be buried under the
roof.
He accepted some of my work for his magazine and also introduced me to
the editors of _Black and White_, where I worked several weeks
continually. Mr. Lee Warner, too, was very kind to get many commissions
for me. My sketches and articles, accompanied with a note of Mr.
Spielmann’s, were published in August number of _The Magazine of Art_.
Mr. Douglas Sladen was the very first person who wrote to Mr. Spielmann
a letter which I had the privilege to look at with a delight. It ran
like this:--
” ... This month’s number of your magazine is most interesting,
especially about that Japanese artist. Will you send him to me; I
think I can put him in the way of some work.”
From this time I used to illustrate the novels by Mr. Sladen.
Mr. Teignmouth Shore, too, wrote to Mr. Spielmann to send me to him. He
was the Editor of _The Academy_ and _Literature_ then. I wrote some
articles about my impressions of the English stage. I needed a
dictionary to write my essays, so I went to a discount stationery and
bought “Twentieth Century Dictionary” for 2s. 6d. I hurried to my room
with this dictionary in my arms. I was so excited to see inside, I
turned all pages from the beginning to the end. I saw so many Japanese
words, such as “Banzai,” “Kami,” “Kakemono,” “Tsuba,” &c. I was so
surprised. Are they already nationalized into English? How quick they
are! Surely they have come to England some time after I did. And fancy
they were already Anglicized! They are wonderful progressives, and I
myself am such a dreadful Conservative! I used to worship this very
“progressive” dictionary until Arthur Ransome so kindly gave me a book
called “Unspeakable Scotch” by Mr. Crosland! He said, “This is such an
interesting book. Everybody laughs to death to read it. Oh, you must
read it.”
I opened the book and wrestled every word with my worshiped Dictionary.
Why, this very Cosmopolitan Dictionary never gave Scotch words! I had to
give up reading. How disappointing! Indeed Mr. Crosland’s “Unspeakable
Scotch” was my only unreadable book then.
One morning a postcard was awaiting me on my breakfast table. It was
written in Japanese. “I have finished my three years’ study in Germany,
and now I have come to London to have a sightseeing before I go back to
Japan. But as I cannot speak a single English word I cannot come to your
place. Will you come out to Albert Dock to fetch me? I am on board the
Japanese steamship _Kawashi_, which I took from Antwerp.”
It was from Colonel Surgeon Morinami.
Morinami was my brother’s most intimate friend, and he used to spoil me
when I was a child. I could hardly finish my first cup of coffee, and
went to the Albert Dock. A middle-aged Japanese gentleman was walking up
and down on the wharf. He seemed thinking something seriously and quite
absent-minded.... He did not answer to my “Good-morning.” I asked him if
he met with Colonel Morinami on board that ship. He said “I am
Morinami.” I shook his hand and said “I am Markino.”
“Oh, you are Hei-bo?” (My boy-name was Heiji, so I was called Hei-bo or
Little Master Hei.)
Naturally we could not recognize each
[Illustration: OUTSIDE SOUTH KENSINGTON MUSEUM.]
other, as I saw him last when I was only nine years old!
We began the sightseeing immediately. First of all I took him to the
Medical Museum at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, as he was a surgeon. Then, in
four days’ time we had seen almost all important places. He was amazed
with the size of Crystal Palace and the “wonderful” structure of Black
Wall Tunnel, the “sacred dignity of old Westminster Abbey and St. Paul,”
and the thick crowds in the City. But he had more sense than only to be
amazed with large buildings or busy metropolitan life. He was especially
so keen about educational works. All museums like “British,” “South
Kensington,” &c., &c., were his greatest admiration. When he saw those
ship and train models and Natural History Museum at South Kensington he
sunk into such a deep thought. He could not answer to my single
question--“What do you think of these?”
After such a long silence, he began to open his mouth at last. “In
Germany I have never seen such perfect museums. How wonderful is the
British Nation about voluntary works for the public education! Just one
glance at these museums is worth far more than one year study in Japan.
I heartily admire the Britons. I heartily respect the Britons, and I
sincerely envy them too.”
Every evening after the dinner we talked until one or two A.M. Nothing
could be more interesting to me than to hear all the news of my home
village. Such a change since I left there, that the wild fields where I
used to gather mushrooms are turned into mulberry fields, and some silk
manufacturing firms are puffing thick smokes from their chimneys; that
hundreds of poor girls are summoned there by a steam whistle every
morning; that the manager of an old inn has become a wealthy man and
builded a large European-style house; that my old nurse died, and her
daughter, who was only a few-years-old baby when I left there, is now
married, and the road was widened for more frequent traffics, &c., &c.
Then he told me all his experiences at Chino-Japanese War. As he was a
surgeon he did not go near the actual fighting spots, but those poor
wounded soldiers were only the cause of heart-rending to look at.
One day he was mixed up among those defeated Chinese, and suddenly the
shower of bullets were poured upon him from a Japanese force. More than
twenty Chinese fell dead around him in a few seconds. He was quick
enough to pick up a long spear which some Chinese left, and fix a Red
Cross flag and wave it. The Japanese trumpeter signaled “Stop fire,” and
he joined to his regiment again safely. “But,” he said, “the battlefield
was nothing comparing with my hardest time for studying.” And he told me
what a hard time he had to study the medical lessons. I told him all my
experiences in America and in London. I also told him my opinion about
the suicides, which I had decided only a few weeks back.
“Ah, now I see,” he exclaimed, “you were not a madman.”
“How do you mean by that?” I asked.
“Oh,” he exclaimed, rather surprisedly, “I forgot to tell you what I
heard of you in Germany.” Then he told me that he spoke to all his
Japanese friends in Berlin that he was intending to meet me in London.
Some Japanese Chancellor said to him: “Yes, there is a Japanese called
Yoshio Markino in London. But he is a madman. Don’t go to see him.”
Whereupon Morinami answered him, “Well, let Yoshio be a madman if you
like. He is my villager and I am much indebted with the kindness of his
father, Mr. Toshimoto Markino, when I was a boy. I must see Yoshio
Markino whatever you say.” Thus he came to me. “So you see,” he went on,
“I am so glad to see you. I can thoroughly imagine why that Chancellor
called you a madman. You can imagine that, too!” (I hope the reader can
imagine, too.)
“Never mind of him. Not only I alone, but all our nation must be
grateful to you that you have not stained even a dot on the dignity of
our country all through your hard life. Perhaps you may still meet more
hardships again in the future. But always remember you are in a strange
country, and the strange nations are always watching you every day. Do
not forget a minute that you are representing our country here. As
regards your opinion of suicide, I thoroughly agree with you. Do commit
suicide if it were necessary for the sake of our high ethic. I, myself,
shall have all the responsibility, and I shall fight against the world
to prove you were not ‘unsounded mind,’ but show them your ethical
theory and Yamata Damashii [the patriotic soul of Japan]. But what I
sincerely expect is your success. And when you succeed, do come back to
your sweet home once more.”
“Come back to my sweet home. I have no home now. My family was almost
bankrupted and our old home was sold a long time ago. And you said
yourself, that everything is quite changed at our village.”
“Nay, do not say so! Your brother is leading a poor life, but full of
honors, and all the villagers are paying their homage to him. Most of
those old villagers who used to spoil you are all dead now. But their
children never forget you. They are still very loyal to your family;
such a loyalty you cannot imagine in Europe. Even the views, though they
are changed, you shall find some sweetness in them to recollect your
early life. You know that temple Shimmei Sama? I used to spin the tops
in front of that sacred stone lantern when I was a child. Now that
lantern is removed away except the foundation stone, but whenever I go
back there now this very foundation stone always tells me the history
of my childhood. Nothing in this world could be sweeter than home.
Therefore come back home once more. All your schoolmates are scattered
all over Japan now, but I shall gather them all to our Koromo village
when you come back, and all the villagers shall have a holiday to
welcome you. Whenever the northern wind of England blows too severe
against you, just think that warm and mild hearts wait for you at
Koromo. If the whole world throw you away, Koromo village alone will
always be ready to welcome you most heartily. River Yahagi is clean
enough to wash all the worldly dust you get, and Mount Sanage is high
enough to prevent the cruel northern wind.”
“Ah, the northern wind of England may be too severe and too cruel. But I
need it. I think we Japanese rely upon each other too much. Through the
severeness and cruelty in my daily life I am learning a great lesson.
That is the spirit of Independence. Look at each individual Briton! How
independent they are! They are my teachers. The flower of almond
blossoms in chilly February, and when the severest northern wind blows
it scatters its noblest fragrance all over the world. Let me stay in
England until the last leaf of my flowers is blown off. I am contented!”
“Oh, you misunderstood me. I did not mean to persuade you to come home
altogether, but remember to pay a visit when you can.”
The morning of the fifth day came, and I went to Charing Cross station
to see him off. We were some twenty minutes too early. We waited the
last minutes on the platform. The Colonel Surgeon passed his eyes from
my head to my feet. “You are grown-up! You were such a comely, girl-like
child, and I used to carry you on my back, you remember?”
The cruel clock hands never stopped. The shrilling steam whistle
penetrated into my heart. The porter banged the train door. One hatless
Japanese head was thrust out from the window. It was the last sight of
Morinami. “Sayonara, Sayonara,” and “Sayonara!” Each Sayonara sounded
more and more faintly. A thick smoke from the engine veiled his face
invisible.
When it was cleared up he and the train were no more in sight. For some
minutes I stood on the same platform like a corpse without soul. So
absent-minded I was when I walked out the station that I struck myself
against a pedlar. I bought a box of matches which I really did not want,
and I don’t remember how much I paid him. A bus drive from the station
to my place took twenty-five minutes. I went into my room and locked my
door. Now nobody could see me at last! My self-controlling power was
overcome, and I cried like a baby.
To wipe off my tears, I went to Hampstead to see Mrs. Dryhurst in the
same evening. I had made an acquaintance with her some time ago. I
stopped at her house until twelve. She lent me “Chuchuland” by Lady
Gregory. It was quite new book. I took it back with me, and when I came
to Blackfriars I got on the last tram. A dirty woman took a seat by side
of me and shouted: “’Allo John, won’t ye piy ma fare?” I was so
frightened that I jumped off from the tram. I fell down quite flat and
threw “Chuchuland” some yards away. It was buried in mud! I begged Mrs.
Dryhurst to let me buy a new copy for her. But she insisted not to do
so. She would keep it as a souvenir of my adventure on that night. This
book was awfully interesting, and Irish legends resembled closely with
some of Japanese.
Since this time I was a frequent visitor to Mrs. Dryhurst, who
introduced me many interesting peoples. Among them were Miss Beatrice
Harraden, Mr. Nevinson, Professor Surry, and many others. One day those
friends of hers surrounded me and asked me how was about the religions
in Japan. That was a very difficult question to me. It is fact that I
was at an American Missionary College in Japan and studied the Bible
lessons for four years. But among us, the young schoolboys, the
Christians were looked down as “not highly educated.” I think the main
reason was that those terribly ignorant and uneducated American
missionaries in Japan were talking and doing too much nonsences. While I
was in America when anybody asked me if I were a Christian I always
answered negatively to prove that I was not one of those “Uneducated.”
But to my astonishment I was entirely knocked down. They called me
“Pagan,” “Heathen,” and “Barbarian,” and they treated me as if I were
not a human. Fancy! that one whose duty is supposed to be “to seek the
lost sheep” should act himself not at all humanly!
Now, facing to my dearly respected English friends in Hampstead, I was
rather too timid to express my own opinion so freely. Besides, it was
not my intention to injure the Christian faith in this country. So I
shamefully acted myself as a fox. I said: “Japan is a free country for
religions. You may find quite numbers of Christians there.”
“How pity! How pity!” were the expressions from every one’s mouth.
Some one shouted, “How about your beautiful philosophies, then?”
Mrs. Dryhurst asked me, “Have you ever forgotten Laotze, Confucius, and
Mencius?”
I exclaimed, “Ahé, ahé. Wait, wait, wait, wait a second, please.”
I could not speak immediately. When those ancient Chinese philosophers’
names were mentioned, my heart was so deeply stricken with joy, as if
one was told the name of a woman to whom he devoted his love. Indeed,
Laotze, Confucius, and Mencius are my very best sweethearts in this
world. I do not worship them as gods, but I heartily love them as my
elderly brothers.
My first words to my friends was, “I am not a Christian.”
“You are right, you are right,” was echoed and re-echoed in their mouth.
Then I confessed how timid I was before them, and they all heartily
laughed. Then I told them that my father was a great scholar of the
Ancient Chinese Classics, and I was brought up with those philosophies
together with Bushido. Therefore when I sunk into penniless poverty and
suffered terribly, my philosophies were my own leaders.
Of course, those ancient philosophers did not always say original
things. Many words of theirs I often found out already in my heart, but
to see that they had same idea with me, was such a comfort. It is always
so. For instance, I lost my mother when I was eleven years old. I was
almost broken-hearted. Some doctors gave up hope of my life. At this
moment I hated to see those sympathizers, who persuaded me to look “the
bright side.” Only one best companion of mine was a little boy, who lost
his mother at the same time. We two used to seclude ourselves in a room
and shed tears together. That was the sweetest moment then. Confucius or
Mencius always wiped away my tears during my hard life.
Those friends of mine in Hampstead insisted that I should give the
philosophical lectures there. I did so for several evenings.
Mrs. Dryhurst used to give her cook “holidays,” in order to make
Japanese dinner. I was the chief cook, and she herself and her daughters
and some of her guests were my assistants. It was a great fun that some
half-dozen peoples worked whole afternoon in her kitchen. I was much
amused to go out shopping with a little basket. Her grocery was on the
corner of the street. But one day I saw a new grocery shop only a few
doors beyond. They had such nice fresh mushrooms, and much cheaper than
the other’s, too. I bought some there, and went back so proudly and told
her “these mushrooms have no walkie-walkie to-day.”
Mrs. Dryhurst was so angry with me, and said, “How dare you go to that
new shop! I have been a customer of that old shop ever since I came to
this house. They all know where you come from. You have done such a
dreadful thing for me. Yes, I know that new shop sells better things for
cheaper price. They are advertising themselves just now. You see, after
a few weeks they will be just the same as the old shop, if not worse. I
would rather eat ‘walkie-walkie’ than have things from the new shop.”
Her lecture impressed my heart so much about the English Conservative.
I am not talking about the political sects now. Let them be Unionists or
Liberalists, Nationalists or Socialists, all the Britons are so
Conservative. This is most admirable. I remember it was only a few years
ago hundreds of Chinamen came to London to establish a laundry. They
worked nicer, cheaper, and quicker than English laundry. But all the
Conservative Britons would not change their own laundry to the
newcomers. So the Chinamen were quite bankrupted and ran away. I think
the Americans have much to learn from the Britons.
With such admiration in my heart, I became very faithful to Mrs.
Dryhurst, and I used to go to her old shops every time. It was the time
of the Russo-Japanese War. I went to buy some mushrooms at the old shop.
The shopkeeper said the mushrooms were 8d. a pound. They were all eaten
by insects and so bad, so I picked up only the good ones in a paper bag
to weigh. The man made such a face with his round eyes, half amused and
half perplexed, and said to me, “Nowadays Japan is having victories
everywhere, sir. Even in my shop, sir!”
I recognized that he could not be able to sell those I have left,
because I had taken all the good ones. So I gave him twopence more, and
he shook my hand with “Banzai.”
As soon as I began to get a little work, to be able to pay for my daily
bread, all sorts of illness visited me repeatedly. I had such bad
“boils” on my neck, one after another. It was so painful. I could not
lay down on bed. I used to pass several nights on the chair. I drowned
myself with brandy to forget the pain, and a doctor was very cross with
me and said, “that was the worst thing for the boils.”
Blood-poison visited me next as the penalty of the bad food I had.
Toothache, influenza, and intestine troubles were not modest enough to
keep away from me. However, the ill-health and the bad weathers never
affected on my tempers at all. The worst thing was, or is evermore, the
insincereness of business peoples. Oh, those intentional insincerities
on the matter of only a little payment! I often sunk into most
disheartened condition, when I thought how faithless this world was.
Arthur Ransome used to call on me most every day to cheer me up. And he
and I went to the downstairs of Café de l’Europe on Friday evenings most
regularly, he to find some idea to write, and I to sketch the peoples. I
think he mentioned this in his book “Bohemia of London.”
At this time I was not at all in “safe condition of my livelihood.” Some
kind-hearted person offered me a position as an artist for a
lithographer firm. It was £3 10s. a week. I absolutely refused this,
because I knew it would stop my study altogether. Many of my friends
were either angry with me or laughing at me. I got a name, “most foolish
boy.”
CHAPTER IX
“THE DARLING OF THE GODS”
It was the beginning of November, 1903, when Mr. Spielmann told me that
Sir Herbert Tree (Mr. Tree, then) was going to reproduce a Japanese play
called “The Darling of the Gods.” I might be a useful help for him. Did
I care to work that? I answered him positively. Only a few days later I
received a letter from Sir Beerbohm Tree, “Will you come to see us
immediately?”
I went to the stage door of His Majesty’s Theater. First person I met
there was Mr. Michael Morton.
“What part of Japan do you come from?” was his question.
I answered most rapidly--“Aichi Ken, Mikawan o Kuni, Nishikamo-Gori
Koromo cho O-Aza Komomo Aza Jimokudai.”
I was sure that he could not catch a single word, but he showed a most
satisfactory smile. Afterwards I learnt from him that he was rather
afraid that I might not be a real Japanese, because I “don’t look like
Japanese.” Good gracious! I wanted so badly to show him my Keidsu
(family tree), which my brother is keeping in Japan. With that family
tree you can trace as far back as more than a thousand years, when my
ancestor was a royal prince.
“Shika mo Seisei toto taru Seiwa-Gengi no Matsuyeo nari Anakashiko,
Anakashiko!” (At least, am the descendant of the purest and most
worshipful Gengi family, the true offspring of the Emperor Sewa. Amen!
Amen!)
Mr. Morton and I have become such great friend to each other now.
Although I have made hundreds friends in London since then, whenever I
count my very best friends in my one hand I always bend one finger for
him. That is to say, he is one of the five best friends among hundreds.
Wherever I go, he always tries to come and see me, and he was the
frequent visitor while I was in Paris.
Mr. Morton took me to Mr. Tree’s dressing-room during the evening
performance, and I saw Sir Beerbohm Tree first time as “Richard II.”
Miss Lena Ashwell came into the room a few minutes later. She told me
she was going to take a part in “The Darling of the Gods.” A call-boy
informed Mr. Tree, “Time, sir,” again and again, and he was on and off
the whole evening. We all had a little chat, hearing the cheering voices
for “The Bolinbroke,” “Thunders” at Wales Coast, the Bells of
Westminster, and the Pipers outside the Tower of London, everything
which was going on on the stage downstairs. Morton brought me to Mr.
Dana’s room, and we settled the “business matter.” Gentler, easier and
fairer than any business I had before! I said to myself, “Oh, I don’t
hate the business matter now! I see it does not always taste like castor
oil. This is perfectly honey!”
From the next day I had to attend the rehearsal from eleven to four. I
knew that Mr. Tree would not like any stranger to watch the rehearsal.
But to my surprise I saw a strange gentleman sitting on one of the stall
seats and watching us. He came to me and said, “How do you do, Mr.
Markino?”
I looked at him quite curiously. He said, “I am Mr. Tree.”
Oh, I was so much ashamed of myself. I have seen him ever so many times
on the stage, but that was my very first time to see his private face,
and I could not recognize him. Why, how could he transfigure himself
such as Richard II. last night? He is most wonderful actor for “making
up,” and I renewed my amazement once more when he “made up” himself as
Zakuri. A real Japanese villain!
The way Mr. Tree and Mr. Morton drilled all those “extra” ladies and
supers was wonderful. I can never forget their patientful task. They
asked me to make them “real Japanese,” and “to be very particular for
everything, and not a bit of mercy for that.” Every word of mine was the
rule for them. I knew I was such a dreadful demon to them. Poor “extra
ladies” so often had to sit on the hard floor half-an-hour, or even an
hour, according how the rehearsal was going on. Those leading actors and
actresses shared this torturing all the same. But they were so wonderful
the way every one of them caught the real spirit of Japan.
There was a Japanese restaurant near Bloomsbury at this time. One
afternoon I took Mr. Tree, Miss Ashwell, Miss Constance Collier, and
Mr. Morton there. We sat down on cushions and ate Japanese dinner with
chop-sticks. Mr. Tree said, “I really feel that I am Japanese,” and I
saw on the stage that he was as good as his words.
Miss Ashwell copied my sister so well from her photo. I often wished to
call her my sister.
As the first night was approaching I began to be so busy. Besides the
daily rehearsal, I had to look after costumes, coiffure, and scenery
painting, to see if all the details were correct. Last few nights the
rehearsal was going on as late as four or five o’clock in morning. I
could not sleep more than four hours.
My actor friends used to invite me to “a Samurai dinner” at various
restaurants. Yes, all were “Samurais”--mock Samurais of the prosperous
English actors, and one real Samurai in miserable poverty.
I am still keeping the intimate friendship with some of these
“Samurais.”
Was the rehearsal of this play merely a pleasure to me? No, there was
something more serious and more important for my life. I don’t think I
have ever told that even to Sir Beerbohm Tree before. Now let me
confess it freely. It was such a valuable study for my art. It was a
best chance to look all those pretty ladies and handsome actors so
closely and to watch all their movements. Where else could I have such a
chance! I stared at their faces and I stared at their figures all
through the rehearsing time. Nobody thought of me vulgar, as it might
happen so if I did the same at any public place, for it was my duty to
rehearse them. And when I went back to my room I used to draw them from
memory. What a good life class it was!
Of course I was as faithful of my duty as possible. So my brain was
twice busier than Mr. Tree was imagining.
After this play was put on I often visited the theater to meet all my
actress and actor friends. One evening while I was watching the play
from the wing, the stage manager teased me to push me on the stage. I
was so frightened that on the same night I had a nightmare, that I fell
on the stage while the curtain was up. More than once I repeated this
nightmare, and when I was awaken and found myself in bed I was so happy.
I am sure that the stage manager’s joke affected on my nerves too much.
CHAPTER X
A CHELSEA CONSERVATIVE
At the same time that Japanese play was performed at His Majesty’s
Theater, I had the special invitation from Walker’s Art Gallery, as well
as Bristol Academy, Manchester Gallery, &c., and I removed to No. 68
Sydney Street, Chelsea. The landlord’s name was Mr. Bates. He had wife
and two daughters and two sons. They were all such simple and
kind-hearted peoples. They had a maid called Lottie. About this maid
there was a pathetic story. She was a quite plain-looking, rather
comical girl. I was almost astonished with her loyalty to her master and
mistress. Wonderful, especially in Europe! (In Japan some servants have
a great devotion to their masters, which European peoples cannot
imagine.) One day, when I got more or less acquainted with those
peoples, I asked about Lottie’s life to one of the daughters, just for
curiosity. And I was told that Lottie was a homeless child some thirty
years ago, and Mrs. Bates picked her up and brought her home. She was
very clever. But when she was about nine years old, some wicked children
knocked her head so hard that Lottie fainted. Since then she has been
funny of her mind very often. She is so even now. But she is most
faithful and sympathetic woman. She has been serving in this house for
some thirty years, and she feels as if it is her own home. She has saved
a few hundred pounds. But she has no pleasure for herself. If those
young daughters talk something about love-matters, she always gives them
her full sympathy, but always says, “Ah, it is not for me,” and keeps
herself back. She has absolutely given up her own life! What a wonderful
decision she has! Nowadays there are so many nuns and monks. They are
all in their own habits. But I wonder how many of them have no romantic
feelings like this poor woman!
Is it because she recognizes her own plain-looking? Or is it because her
poor life? Does she not feel sad for herself? She seemed she did not.
But I myself felt so sad for her. Whenever I saw her, the questions of
humility puzzled my heart so deeply.
Ever since I removed to Sydney Street I began to feel very nervous about
my future life. I am getting older and older every day, while my own art
is still in such a beginning stage. Am I to pass all my life as an
amateur artist? This question began to worry me so much that I could not
sleep night after night. Something must be done at once--now or never!
I quite decided not to do pot-boilers any longer. Nothing but real
study! Poverty was in sight very nigh to approach to me every day, but I
paid no attention. I refused to do any of those uninteresting designs
for a few pounds. I went into the study of London mists. How do I like
London Mists? I have written that in my essay of “The Color of London,”
so I am not going to repeat it here. Only one thing I must say. It is so
difficult to get the real effect. I have never done it right yet. At the
same time it is most interesting subject to study. I used to wander
about the streets day and night. Sometimes twelve hours in a day. I was
quite in a dream whenever I loitered outdoors.
One evening I started my place about nine o’clock and enjoyed myself in
fogs until I felt my feet so tired that I came back to my conscience. I
could not recognize where I was. I asked the passer-by what place was
it. He said “Wimbledon.” Why, I must have passed over either Putney
Bridge or Hammersmith Bridge then, and I had no memory of crossing
bridge. It was after twelve, and I had to walk all way back.
Sometimes I started my place after midnight and walked about until
sunrise. The more I observed the mists the more I fell into love. But it
was most disappointing thing when I tried to put my impressions on
paper. I could never be able to paint London fogs as I saw. I cursed my
stupid hand. Every morning when I saw a white paper I had such a great
anticipation to do something “grand,” and after all day’s hard work, I
found out my paper only too hideous, and I threw it in the fire.
Sometimes I repeated the same subject six or seven times, and when it
was finished after five or six weeks it was simply unbearable to look at
it. It was buried in the fire again.
At this time Mr. Lee Warner called upon me, and told me I must try to
sell my works, even if they were not quite satisfactory. I said, “How
can I do such things! Art is not same with butcher’s business. Butchers
could sell some inferior meats for low price to those poor peoples. Even
if the meats taste rather nasty, it would stop the hunger of the poor
and save their death from starvation. It is not so with Art. Such
inferior Art like mine couldn’t give any pleasure for Art-lovers. They
would get sick of it. How could I claim even 1d. for my work? On the
other hand, if I ever become to paint just as I wanted, I would not
refuse even £1000, or £10,000. Will you wait until then?”
“Oh, don’t be so silly, you must try to make money, or at least I must
try for you.”
He snatched away from me one sketch of “Egerton Mews in Mist” which I
was going to put into the fire. And next day I got a registered letter
from him, a six pound cheque in it.
I am afraid he betrayed me to my landlady, because she used to tell me,
“Don’t throw your pictures in fire, sir. Oh, please don’t do that, sir.”
However, I made four or five pictures in one year time. Somebody gave me
several introduction letters to show these pictures to them. I took one
introduction letter with my portfolio to a lady. I rang the bell. A
servant came out to the door. She took that letter to show to her
mistress, and told me to wait, and she banged the door. I had to wait
outside. It was such a hot summer day. The newly-painted door reflected
the strong sun upon me. I felt I was in an oven. The perspirations made
me wet all through. I was nearly cooked. I wanted to go away
immediately, but something whispered to my heart, “Be patient, for the
sake of the one who so kindly wrote the introduction letter.” It was
only my little etiquette to him to wait. After about three-quarters of
an hour the lady came to door and took my portfolio “in hope she might
be able to buy some.” All the pictures were returned to me the next day.
Couldn’t my life be any more than a peddler? Will not this world give me
bread unless I sell all my dignity? O, let me be starved to death! Such
dirty breads shall never go down through my throat!
I burnt all the other introduction letters then, and I shed the
bitterest tears in my room. Only my Ancient Chinese Classic book alone
so soothingly comforted me at this moment. It told me what a hard life
Confucius had. Once all the peoples hunted Confucius to kill him. He had
a refuge with his faithful pupils in a wilderness for three days and
three nights. He exclaimed, “Our ancient odes say, ‘Not being a panther
and not being a tiger, yet I have to pass my life in this wilderness.’
Is my Tao [doctrine] wrong? Why should I be like this?”
Shiko, one of his pupils, said, “Our Master’s Tao is extremely great.
Nobody in this world could accept it.” Gankai, another pupil, said, “Why
should we worry because we are not accepted by this world? After not
being accepted by this world, we can recognize that our Master’s Tao is
really great.”
One day the maid came to my room and said, “Miss Graham wants to see
you, sir.”
Miss Graham? Why, her father and brother came to me through Mr. Lee
Warner’s recommendation, and they both bought my pictures lately, and I
heard that Miss Graham was so kind to help me by every way she could. I
told the maid to make my room look tidy (that was a great job for her,
because I always keep my room in such disorder). While the maid was
doing that I went into my bedroom and put on my old-new suit. The maid
brushed me, saying, “Ain’t Miss Griham purty! Is she yer yung lydy,
sir?”
“You must not be so rude. If the lady hear you she would take that as
most insulting words. Remember she is a very, very aristocratic lady,
and I think she came to help me.”
“I-n-dee-d, sir.”
She went down to ask Miss Graham to come up. I waited her on the top of
the stairs. She was climbing up seventy-two stairs.
It took some time for her to reach the top floor. She looked about one
foot shorter than her real height. What a strange effect of perspective
when one is seen from the top. Quite a new lesson to me! And what! The
Hon. Miss Graham in a straw sailor hat? And in a plain cotton blouse?
Whatever on earth has happened to her? Was she outcast by her father?
Lo! it was a quite strange person!
“Are you Miss Graham?”
“Yes, I am. I saw your address in _This Year’s Artists_, so I have
come.”
“Ah, you are a model then?”
“Yes, sir.”
It was awfully difficult for me to control my laughter. I told her I
never use models, but if she was not busy I should like to have tea with
her. She came into my room and looked around with such a curious
expression. My room was about three and a half by four yards.
“I suppose you have a studio somewhere else?”
“No, Miss Graham. This is my studio as well as my drawing-room. It turns
into my dining-room thrice a day--oh, no, I am not quite sure of
it--sometimes twice in a day and perhaps once in a day very often. But
to-day let us call this my ‘boudoir,’ and we shall have tea together.”
I rang the bell for tea. Fancy all the trouble she had to find out my
address and come to see me! Perhaps she might have had an air-castle to
make a fortune through me--a half-starving artist! And, fancy! it was
such a trouble I had to make my room tidy and put on my only one shabby
“best” suit!
The maid brought the tea, and when she was leaving the room she made
“eyes” on me with such a wicked smile. I could so plainly read her face
then--“Is this yer very, very aristocratic friend?”
I told the pretty model that I myself was once a model. Over a cup of
tea and a few cigarettes she told me all about her daily life. Some
artists were very kind and some were very cruel, and that model is one
of the hardest business in the world. “I believe,” she continued,
“Artist life is just as hard as model’s.” Poor, sympathetic, pretty
girl! We could not materially help each other, but I was sure she had as
much sympathy on me as my real aristocratic lady friend whose name was
so singularly same. Wishing each other’s luck, we parted after about two
hours’ pleasant conversation.
My only one “best” suit could not endure all through my poorest life.
The back of the trousers was quite worn-out, and lo, such a big hole! It
was all right in cold days, because I put on my overcoat when I went
out. But on warm days I could not manage it well with the overcoat. I
put some of my old socks inside the trousers and sewed them together. My
maid said to me, “Your cloth look very bad, sir. You know Mrs. Bates is
very kind to you; she would wait your payment, so you must make a new
suit, sir.”
Why, Mrs. Bates had already been kind enough to wait my debts some
twelve or fifteen pounds, and I was quite penniless. It was absolutely
impossible for me to buy a suit, and I was obliged to stop visiting to
all my kind friends. I could not go to see even my worshipped Mr.
Spielmann. He might have felt it rather strange that I used to write to
him, while his flat was only five minutes’ walk from my place. However,
he has done all sorts of kindness by correspondence.
At this time my tailor’s son came to see me. My tailor is Mr. J. J. Bax
in Sloane Street. I knew him ever since I came to London. When I was
living in Milner Street my landlady recommended him as a very best
tailor, and I used to ask him to make all my clothes while I was working
at the Japanese Naval office. Only a few weeks before I left the office
I made one suit for credit, and as I began to sink into such poverty I
could not pay that to him for these long five years, although I have
always informed him my address whenever I changed, and he has not a
single time pressed me hard.
[Illustration: CHELSEA CHURCH.]
Now his son visited on me. I was more than ashamed to see him. The son’s
name is Fred. When I saw him first time he was only a boy. I was
surprised to see him so much grown-up.
“How could you forgive my most disgracefulness? I have been keeping my
debts against you for a long five years. I feel so much ashamed to see
your face.”
“Oh, Mr. Markino, don’t worry about that so much. But why don’t you come
to us to make more clothes? Surely you need more?”
He looked at my old suits. “Have you never made any suits since then? Is
that all the suits you got?”
“Yes, this is all what I have.”
“Oh, let us make one for you.”
“No, my dear Fred, my debts to you have been already such a heavy burden
on my heart. How could I double my debt to you? At present moment I
cannot see when shall I be able to pay you, so let me be alone.” And I
told him how difficult it was to earn money from my pictures.
Fred Bax suggested that he would exchange suits with my pictures, but
first of all he wanted to speak to his father. He took all my pictures
with him.
In an hour’s time he came back to me again. He turned me such a bright
expression and said, “My father wants three pictures of yours. For these
we shall cancel your £5 debt against us. Besides that, we shall make one
lounge suit and one overcoat, and here I bring the cash of £2 to make
the ‘balance’ for all. You must put this cash in your pocket and don’t
let your landlady know that, because you need some pocket-money.”
Since this time Fred used to call on me very often to see how I was
getting on, and every time he came, he used to leave a packet of
cigarettes, for he knew so well that I was fond of smoking.
Nowadays, when I go to his shop to order some clothes, I always look at
those three pictures hanged on his room and I recollect his kindness
when I was so poor. About that cash of £2, I could not conceal them from
my landlady. I gave all the money to her. She would not take them,
saying, “You must keep them, as you don’t know when you can get money
next.”
I said, “It is only too true that I don’t know when money comes to me
next. Therefore you must have this.”
After a long hesitation, my kind landlady took £1, 15s. for herself and
left five shillings for my “pocket-money.”
Very seldom I used to get a few pounds from my pictures, and whenever I
gave that money to the daughter of my landlady she was so frightened to
take them, and used to say, “Please wait, I must ask my Mamma about
that.” She would run down immediately. Then the mother came up and she
always gave a few shillings change, notwithstanding I had some £20 debts
against her.
One more or less fortunate day, I found out a letter on my breakfast
table. I hurried to open it. Five penny stamps were in it. The letter
started with “My dear Jack.” Whoever is it to call me “My dear Jack”? It
was very shaky handwriting. With such a great difficulty I read it
through. The meaning of this letter was something like this. “The time
is getting on very hard. You must suffer terribly. This is all what I
could spare for you. I hope you will enjoy a good dinner with this.”
It puzzled me awfully. The address above the letter was somewhere in
New Cross. The sender’s name was quite strange to me. I picked up the
envelope and found out it was not for me. It was addressed to _Mac ...
So-and-so, 68 S ... So-and-so Street_. The postman misdelivered it and
the maid thought it was for me. I was so sorry to open such a private,
pathetic letter. Fancy, there are some peoples for whom fivepence is a
“good dinner”!
Ah, I must not complain my own poverty. How many are suffering far more
than myself? I had two penny stamps then. So I put these stamps in that
envelope with the five stamps, and shut it up with a note “much apology
for opening it by a mistake,” and asked the maid to return it to the
postman.
Mr. Douglas Sladen made arrangement at this time for me to submit my
sketches to _The Queen_ once or twice in a month. I remember it was when
Mr. George Alexander produced “The Prodigal Son” at the Drury Lane, I
got a wire from _The Queen_--“Go to Drury Lane and make full page
sketch.” The wire came to me at 1.05, and the curtain had to be raised
at 2 o’clock. Alas! I had no penny for bus fare. I had to walk all the
way from Sydney Street to the Drury Lane. It was such a hot summer day.
When I reached there I was quite bathed in perspiration. The play was
already going on. There was not a space on the standing room. At first I
thought I would refuse this job! But I was so afraid _The Queen_ might
have to be published with a blank page, that I stretched my feet and
peeped through the people’s shoulders, and I made a sketch from my
memory at home.
Although I had the payment of my sketches from _The Queen_ I was still
far away from any comfortable life. I used to owe my debts always over
£10 against my landlady.
CHAPTER XI
SOME JAPANESE IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND
To my greatest delight, I got such good companions, two of my
country-fellows, Hara and Wakamiya. Hara came to London to study art,
and Wakamiya to read the books at British Museum. I would not be
surprised if Wakamiya has read all the books in the Museum during his
stay in London. At least, it is quite sure he has read the books there,
which he felt necessary.
These two Japanese friends used to call on me from time to time. I was
in such a strange position that they used to make me a second person and
not the first person like themselves, when we talked about the English
customs. Indeed they looked upon me as if I were an English person, and
questioned me many things about English life. Sometimes we all agreed
each other so well, and sometimes we had such dead-heat discussions
until midnight, or even until the next morning.
The English readers of this book might feel curious to know what we
Japanese were talking together, on the little top-floor room of 68
Sydney Street. Therefore I have made one chapter here specially about
the topics of our conversation.
Though the cranes have such long legs they would lament if we cut
one-tenth of an inch off them. Though the ducks have such short legs
they would grieve if we add half an inch on them. Different nations have
entirely different ideas, and whether their own ideas are too long or
too short, they are always at their utmost comfort with their own way.
We, the strangers, have no right to argue any English customs with the
English peoples.
What I am going to write here is my own idea. The readers might be
offended with me. But I sincerely wish to the readers, that as I am
always looking upon England as my second home, you will not hurt your
friendly feeling toward me, whatever I say which must be strange to your
ears.
Sometimes Hara and Wakamiya brought one or two more Japanese. Now I
don’t remember which of them said which. I remember they often told me
their own impressions, which I thought most splendid. But I feel I have
no privilege to write what they said without their consent. Let us hope
they themselves will write their own ideas some day.
“What do you think of the English free marriage?”
“I think that is no better, whatever they say. People say they marry by
their own love. That sounds awfully comfortable, but then I often wonder
how many of them really know what is love. So many times I have seen
terrible results through the free marriage. The people are unhappy as
could be. Even during their honeymoon they often quarrel each other.
Where is their love after all? In the average, un-harmonial and unhappy
families are no less in England than in Japan. Perhaps some of them
might be in a deep love when they married. But remember England has a
proverb--‘Love is blind.’ Indeed, some of them are too blind, and when
they begin to open their eyes that is only the beginning of the quarrel.
I am afraid such quarrels are the bitterest ones. On the other hand,
parents are not always so blind, therefore the fixed marriage of the
parents often makes their young children happier than the children
themselves are imagining. I say this especially for those who marry very
young. The fixed marriage by the parents could not always be happy, but
there is some duty in their hearts. I myself know several Japanese who
married by their parents’ will. First they could not love each other,
but they never forgot to be loyal to their parents. For the sake of
their parents they never quarreled, but always forgave each other, and
in their later life they became most harmonial. We cannot see such
beautiful ethics in England.
“Then, again, I often feel so sorry for young Englishwomen for their
custom of free marriage. So many young men go after them, especially if
the women are beautiful, and they annoy them too much. How wonderful are
those John Bullesses who manage all their difficulties so well. If I
were they my face would have hundred wrinkles in a few years, but is it
not simply miracle that they keep their faces so fresh like newly
blossomed flowers, as if they have never met any annoyance?”
“Ah,” my friend interrupted, “only if no young men come to them, they
will get enough wrinkles in their faces.”
“Pray don’t disturb me with your witty jokes, for I am talking very
seriously. I know some English young ladies who were much annoyed by
some young men. I really sympathized with them. I know too well how
awful it must be. Once I myself had an experience. Some lady whom I
could not love chased after me, and I was so much annoyed.”
Here all my friends laughed at me.
One of my friends said he could see so plainly one thing in London as
the result of the free marriage. “It seems to me,” he said, “that all
nice-looking women marry quite soon. And somewhat plain-looking women
are left alone. These women need some independent means for their life.
That is why we don’t see many beauties among lady artists or writers.”
I said, “That is rather cruel judgment. Because I know several lady
artists who are most charming and beautiful. Besides, if some artists or
writers look rather plain, there is a good cause. I am a man, but how
much am I suffering to reach to the goal as an artist! Women must suffer
more than men, because the former are more sensitive than the latter.
Most charming girl shall be turned into plain-looking woman by the time
she succeeds as an artist or a writer, and surely such women often miss
the chance of marriage only because they are too earnest to their own
ambition.”
About the social life of English men and women, I used to praise that to
my Japanese friends. The scholars of Confucius said, “Men and women must
be separated in different rooms since six years of their age.” They said
this evidently because they were afraid of any impropriety. I must
decidedly say they were mistaken. If you keep any difficulty aside the
longer, the more will be the difficulty. It is not only about the
different sexes but it is so with everything. One who faces towards any
difficulty the sooner always conquers it the sooner. The English life
shows it to me. I have noticed more than once that when I have had walk
with a woman of the different nationality she gave me a queer feminine
feeling. But with my English lady friends I always feel as if they were
my own sisters or schoolmates. John Bulless is the best to keep on the
pure friendship.
Now, talking of this subject, I must say a few words about the pictures
of nude figures. Why do some peoples say the nude figures are improper?
Look at those savage nations who have no clothes! Have they more vulgar
passions than we have? I don’t think so. If possible I wish all the
ladies would be quite nude. There is nothing more graceful than the
human figure. Those best dressmakers may be able not to destroy the
beauty of the natural figure, but they cannot help it by any means. Any
smart dressmaker in Bond Street or in Rue de la Paix could not cut dress
as graceful as the nude. They cannot make dresses better than the
natural figure.
If the readers doubt me, ask any serious art student in life class. They
shall surely approve my logic. Only one thing I sincerely object to, is
those poorly cut dresses which are so often too vulgar to look at.
I am very keen to read the divorce cases in the daily papers. Readers,
are you shocked at me? Perhaps you are, but it is quite true. Now let me
write why. I myself don’t understand why clergymen or any ethical
peoples don’t read them. There is much to learn from the divorce cases.
They are not the dreams or fantasies of novelists, but the real facts
which are actually going on around us every day. They are not laughing
or sneering matter, but most serious human philosophy. Fancy! Your own
sisters and brothers are actually having such life around you! I must
call those peoples “paradise-fools” who read only nice articles and hate
to read the divorce cases. Why do peoples laugh when I talk about love?
And then why don’t they get rid of it either? When the humans are in
graceful love there seems to me nothing could be nobler, and when they
mislead their love, they are uglier than pigs or donkeys. Whenever I
read the divorce case, I am always studying how their love was stolen
away. My Japanese friends and I often had the question, which would be
greater crime, the one who commits misconduct by temporary temptation,
even if he or she is quite faithful in other respects, or the one who
controls his passion yet devotes his or her heart absolutely to the
co-respondent?
We often spent whole evening for this discussion. My own idea is that
the former is savage animal, who has really “unsounded mind,” quite
different from the peoples who commit suicide, and the latter is
intentional insincerity. The intentional insincerity must be a crime,
yet too often a very pitiable condition exists in it too, and sometimes
its condition is only too foolish. I was often told that I must not mix
my philosophy with the laws. Ah, then, what is the law? Are we made to
adopt ourselves to the law, or is the law made to adopt it to our life?
This question is exactly the same as saying, “Is the language made for
the grammar or the grammar made for the language?”
If the law is made for our life, the law must be same with our cloth.
Could we wear the same cloth all the time? Indeed we are growing every
day; how could we wear the cloth which we made when we were children?
Certainly we cannot adopt the law of a hundred years ago to our modern
life. The last question is, how long could we be under one same law?
One of my friends used to sigh and say, “I don’t understand the life of
those city clerks. They go to the office every morning. They come back
every evening. What is their pleasure beside eating and sleeping? Do
they really know what human life is?”
I said, “They must have ‘a life’ with their wives.”
“But,” he said, “I often see some of them are quarreling with their
wives.”
I said, “Perhaps they enjoy their children.”
My friend asked, “Ah, could they not be any more than the human
manufacturing machines, then?”
I said, “The human manufacturing machines are very important for the
country. Any country never feels it has too many soldiers or sailors.”
At this moment, one voice broke in from a corner. “How cruel you are, my
dear friend! Do you mean to make them as cattle? You know it is the
butcher’s business to breed the cattles and kill them. Now do you really
expect the Government should act to the nation as the butchers to the
cattle?”
“But my own idea is always that if peoples could sleep without locking
their doors, they would love that comfortableness. But as long as there
are robbers and thieves in this world, we are all obliged to lock our
doors. Is there any one lamenting, because we are wasting most useful
metal like iron for making the locks? If one who has taste makes a
little artistic touch on the locks they would be not merely the
protection for thieves, but very nice decoration too. So with the
sailors and soldiers! They can be the nicest decorations of their
countries, and I am sure they are feeling that they have ‘Life.’”
All my Japanese friends, as well as I myself, always very much praised
the night school system in London. How splendid that one can study the
scientific theories in the evening classes, while they practice all what
they are learning on the daytime, and at the same time, make money for
their own livelihood. Academical students often succumb themselves into
too much science, so they are less practical, while the bread-makers
often become ignorant of all the theories. The night schools combine
these together to make one quite perfect.
One evening, my Japanese friend said to me, “It seems to me as the
general rule that in every country in this world, the lower middle-class
peoples are keeping the highest morals. The highest and richest class
peoples are just as bad as the lowest and poorest class peoples. I
suppose England is no exception to this rule?”
“Certainly England is no exception. But my own opinion is a little
different. It is true that the middle-class peoples are behaving
themselves best. But it is a great question, whether could I call them
the highest moral or not. Once I kept a cat. She used to steal foods.
Every time when she acted thief I used to smack her hard. In a few
weeks’ time, she began to behave herself so well, because she was afraid
to be smacked again. Could I call that cat very loyal to me?
“The only one thing quite sure was that she did not annoy me. So with
the middle-class peoples. They give no annoyance to this world. Perhaps
their systematical life gives the pleasure to the Government, very much
indeed. But, to talk frankly, I think many of them are very artificial,
while the highest and the lowest class peoples are natural. The highest
peoples are very natural, because they have money enough, and they can
do just as they like. The lowest peoples are quite natural as well,
because they are in despair, and have no hope to elevate their own life.
Only the middle-class peoples alone have the ambition to climb up. These
sorts of peoples are always thinking not to be cast away from the
social life. Perhaps they may meet with great temptation, but they
control themselves so well, not for their religious heart, but for the
fear that they might lose the next day’s bread. Look at the life of
clerks. They cannot get their good position unless they have some good
references, and to get good references they must ‘behave’ themselves
well. I suppose one who served ‘hard’ once, shall never be able to
return his post again. I know so many of this class people. They are so
timid and so trembling in their daily life as if they are walking on
thin ice in order not to be drowned! At this moment how could they be
natural? Accordingly their moral is more like some wood covered with
varnish than some well-planed and polished wood. Varnished wood often
looks smoother than any self-polished wood. But the latter is much
safer. Indeed, I have seen so often that the varnish was cracked and
some ugly grain appeared from the inside. How many times have I wondered
that those supposed to be ‘very sweetest friends’ should have acted such
mean thing about a little money matter upon me!
“On the other hand, I have seen so many sympathetic peoples who were
trying to perish their own beautiful nature by all means and to keep
themselves as cool as possible. Confucius said, ‘Those who are desiring
nothing but to be rich, shall never understand my doctrine.’ I remember
Christ said something quite same in Bible, too. It is very difficult to
find a real friend among these peoples. That is why I have more friends
among the highest and the lowest classes, who are so natural. Look at
the playgoers. Any pathetic tragedies are always unpopular among the
middle-class peoples. They always mock at them and say, ‘Oh, this is too
heavy,’ ‘Oh, that is too silly.’ They are trying not to be drawn into
any pathetic feeling, which would be the greatest danger against their
own ambition.”
My Japanese friends remarked to me that it is most unavoidable result in
such a thickly populated town like London. They must struggle like that,
or else they shall become prey of the others.
May I introduce my cats here once more?
When I was in San Francisco, my landlady had a mother cat and one baby
cat. These two cats were such great friends to each other. But we all
had to go away for a few weeks’ summer holiday. The landlady asked our
neighbor to look after our cats. When we came back after the holidays, I
was so surprised to see that the mother cat and baby cat were so
severely fighting. They became such great enemies to each other. I have
discovered that our neighbor did not give enough food to them. I
sincerely ask the readers, shall we have to fight with our best friends
when our foods are getting scarce? Are we the same class animals as cat?
I cannot help without recollecting the kindness of those landladies of
most common lodging-houses where I passed my poor life. Without their
noblest conduct, I could not enjoy my life to-day.
It was one of these days I was reading an evening paper, and all my
Japanese friends came. There was a news of a murder case. I think it had
occurred in a lonely country somewhere about Tottenham (I forget where
it was). Anyhow, one young farmer had shot his neighbor. There was no
witness except his own father. The father so dearly loved his only one
son. Of course it was the gravest news to him. But when the father stood
in the witness-box and kissed the Bible, he gave all evidence against
his own dear child, and afterwards he was broken down. I put the
newspaper on my desk and said, “Why should the father give witness
against his own son? If I were he, I would refuse to go to the
witness-box!”
One of my Japanese friends sighed deeply, and said, “Perhaps in such a
case I too may have the same idea with you. But just bring your thought
one step further. That English father certainly had the nobler moral. I
must admire the English custom most seriously.”
We often talked about the religions too.
My idea is that peoples ought to stick to the religion in which they
were born and brought up, because it ought to come to them most natural.
It is the sweetest part of the human life. Indeed, the religions could
not be served by any logic. If one tries to attack other’s faith by his
own logic, he would only injure the sweetest and tenderest part of the
heart of his friend. But here I have a few things to mention. Those
early Christians were most wonderful. What could be more beautiful than
those faiths for which they sacrificed their own lives? Here is the
translation of a Japanese poetry. “Mostly everything in this world
seems to be false, yet one who gives up his life for anything must be
really sincere.”
But nowadays most of those so-called earnest Christians are nothing more
than the masked hypocrites. I have had much experience with these sorts
of peoples. There is another kind of Christian who is not so bad as
those hypocrites. But their faith is so miserably shallow. They say,
“Oh, that is God’s will,” or “Oh, this is God’s will.” They bring
everything to God too quickly. When they go to this extremity they begin
to feel that doctors are not needed for their illness. If they see one
whose heart is aching with misery, they so cruelly mock at it and say,
“Oh, you have no faith to God.” These sorts of Christians often become
so proud before the outside people, and they often mock us and call us
with bad names. What great traitors to Christ!
I sincerely ask them, “Hasn’t God given us our head and heart to think
and to feel?” If flowers were blossomed directly on a big trunk of tree
they would not be quite so beautiful. Don’t you think some long slender
stalk makes the blossoms so beautiful? Let us hope that the stalk
between God and us is as long as possible. That is the way to make our
mutual life so sweet. Perhaps to shed tears whole evening for the sake
of our friends is one of the sweetest moments of our life.
Do you say our food is only for appetite, and would you swallow it? Only
very low-class animals do so. We human beings must grind our food with
our teeth and taste it very carefully, whether it may be sour or sweet.
Some great Buddhist priest in Japan said, “Those who talk too much of
Buddha with their mouths are not real Buddhists. The real Buddhism
dwells in the hearts of those who are silent.”
I think I can apply these words to the Christianity too.
I have several English friends who are always silent, but I can see most
beautiful Christianity in their hearts.
Now let me write a few more of our conversations.
“I say, Markino, don’t you think the London cabmen are awfully stupid?
Whenever I get in cab, the cabman never understands where I want to go.
He always asks me my destination again and again.”
“My dear friend, if cabmen were clever enough to understand your broken
English so quick as you want, they would not be cabmen. But I teach you
one thing. You tell your cabman from next time the name of a ‘pub’ near
by your destination, he will understand you at once.”
“Well, but don’t you think those cabmen or bus-drivers talk so vulgar
when they were struck by something passing by? They sound simply awful.”
“Ah, that is their own natural sound. Do you beat a slack drum and
expect to hear the sound of a nice bell? Have you not seen those
salesmen ring your coin on the desk whether it sounds the real gold or
forgery? If you want to know anything or anybody’s real nature, just
strike them; they will always give the sound of their own nature.”
“I say, Markino, what do you dislike most in London?”
“The servants’ breath. I don’t know why, but when those servants talk to
me, they generally put their faces so near to mine and shout so loud. I
have to inhale all disgusting odor of their breath.”
“Hear, hear; we are experiencing that uncomfortable job, too. The best
way to avoid it is to tell them we are not deafs, so we can clearly hear
their low whispers from far away.”
“Oh, then, Markino, what do you like most in London?”
“The safety in the midnight. Wherever in this world is such a safe town
like London? You can walk anywhere in London at any time in night. You
need not have any fear at all. This is awfully convenient to me to study
the night effect.”
“I say, Markino, don’t you feel it is more like a shop than a
drawing-room when you go to the English house? They put all their
properties on their drawing-rooms.”
“I love both way, Japanese as well as English. It is only different
taste, that is all. Certainly it is very artistic taste to have only one
genuine Kakemono on the Tokonoma, and it concentrates all our eyes
there. It gives me a very pleasant feeling. But on the other hand, I
don’t object the English idea at all. When they are arranged beautifully
it is awfully nice. Besides, we must think how long could we live in
this world. Suppose one had more than five hundred pictures, and he was
keeping them in Japanese way, how many times could he see the same
picture in his life? How pity to hide some pictures or curios which he
so dearly loves. When I think this point, I like the English way quite
well.”
CHAPTER XII
MY JAPANESE FRIENDS
After Wakamiya went back, some young Japanese students, Oku and Hidaka,
arrived from Japan, and Hara and Oku removed to my lodging to live
together, and Hidaka was the frequent visitor. Until my Japanese friends
removed to my place, they did not know all about my poverty, for my
landlady was such a kind woman, and she always served teas, dinners or
suppers to all of us whenever they came, notwithstanding I was in a
heavy debt against her. She did not want me “to look too shabby.” But
now they were with me day and night.
Perhaps nobody could understand Japanese better than Japanese. They at
once found out that I went to bed without supper every night. Their
nature was only too tender and too delicate. They did not want to help
me in any way which I might have taken as “insulting.” Hara came to me
and said, “Do you know, Markino, I cannot have my supper in my room?”
I said, “Oh?”
“No, I could not,” he continued. “That gas-stove gives bad odor, and I
lose all my appetite. May I have my supper in your room? But do I
disturb you? Tell me if I do.”
Two suppers were already ordered. The maid used to bring them to my
room. “Kindly keep company with me,” was the most courteous word of
Hara. Although I was so much moved with his kindness I intentionally did
not express my thanks to him, for I knew it was not his desire. On the
contrary, I often told him it was “a great disturbance to me” to have
supper together, and asked him to have his supper in his own room.
Oku and Hidaka often said to me, “We want so much to go to some west-end
restaurants, but we cannot read the menu, and we are too shy to go there
ourselves alone. Will you kindly take us to those restaurant?” Sometimes
I accepted it for the sake of “their pleasure,” and sometimes I refused,
saying they ought to be ashamed of themselves for to be so “shy.”
Now I sincerely apologize to my Japanese friends for mentioning that in
this book, for I know only too well that they would not like that. Only
if I were in Japan I should not utter a single word about that. But in
England I always feel I am an interpreter between English and Japanese,
and I want to introduce to all the English readers the different morals
of Japanese peoples.
This is only a brief sketch of their kindness. They have done most
innumerous kindness to me, which I shall not disclose here. The day
might come that I might forget that delicate taste of these dinners, but
their sweetest, tenderest, and most delicate kindness to me shall I
never forget.
Once in a week we used to have Japanese dinner. It was our greatest fun.
After whole day’s work we all went out for shopping the materials--such
as beef, chickens, fishes, turnips, carrots, mushrooms and rices. We
were loaded with bundles. Very often the bags were broken on the street,
and all those turnips were rolling over the pavement. We picked them up
with such laughter, but if too many English peoples were watching us, we
were so shy, and left them on the street, and ran up to home as quick as
possible.
Oku’s room was our kitchen. After we brought back all the materials, we
asked the maid to lend us several saucepans, a pastry-board, and knives.
We spread out some newspaper on the table and prepared the food, and
cooked everything on the fireplace. We did not want anybody to come into
our “cooking” room. The door had no key, so we used to put several
chairs against the door. But the maid had such enormous strength; she
often pushed the door open. Then all the chairs tumbled over, and such
confusion it was. Just like an earthquake! We were so shy, and we hid
ourselves behind the covers and screens.
To us, our ill-cooked Japanese dishes were far more delicious than those
dinners at Savoy or Carlton. I often ate too much, and I could not move.
“Oh, pray don’t make me laugh! It’s simply torture to me. I feel such a
pain!” I was really a pig.
The most valuable friendship I had with Hara, was not only with his
delicate sympathy on my poverty, or any discussion about the English
life. There was something more. That was because he was such an
accomplished and sincere artist. The very first day he came to see me I
noticed he was playing his pencil on a piece of paper all the time
while we were talking, then he crunched it and threw it into my
waste-paper basket and went off. For curiosity, I picked up that paper
after he went away and looked at it. Why, there was such wonderful
portraits of mine! Some profiles and some full faces with decided
likeness, and some whole figures with all my personal mannerism caught
so accurately. The full admiration and respect towards him was grown in
my heart at once. “Ah, surely his art is much elder than mine. How very
lucky to get such a friend!”
But he himself was so modest and so earnest and so sincere to the art.
First few weeks I used to take him round the streets, and whenever we
passed some picture shops he stopped to look through the show window,
and he would not move on. I told him those nameless artists’ works were
not half as good as his own. But he always said, “Oh, please don’t say
so. Perhaps my drawings are surer than those, and my compositions are
better too. But the European artists know how to use oils so skillfully.
I learn great lessons from them.”
Although I myself am such a great admirer of Turner now, I was not so
until Hara came. In fact, I hated Turner. Just a few days after Hara
arrived in London, he and I went to the National Gallery and sat down on
the seats in the Turner’s room.
I said to him, “The greatest heroes in this world were generally the
greatest deceivers. Don’t you think Turner was one of the greatest
heroes and deceivers?”
“Why?”
“Why, come and look at this picture of Trafalgar Battle. Look at those
figures! Look at Nelson! What an awful drawing! I think even
ten-year-old child could draw better figures. Oh, Turner was such a
speculator!”
Hara was in silence.
“Do open your mouth and tell me your opinion.”
“My opinion? I have no opinion at the present moment. Everything is so
different from what I anticipated in Japan. I feel I am dreaming, and I
feel as if fox is in my head. So pray leave me quite alone. Only one
word I want to tell you. That is, I appreciate your sincereness. Turner
is known as one of the greatest artists in the world. Everybody says
‘Turner, Turner, and Turner.’ But how many of them really understand
why Turner is a great artist? Now you don’t like Turner, and you
express that so freely. I like you so much because you are not a bit
conceited.”
Hara began to copy Rembrandt in the National Gallery. He went there
twice a week quite regularly. One whole year passed by. One evening he
came back from the National Gallery and said to me, “Now I have really
found out that Turner is very, very great. I say this with all my own
confidence and responsibility.”
Since this evening he used to tell me how much love he is in with
Turner. I hated him to talk of Turner like that, and whenever he began
to talk of Turner I used to turn the topic of our conversation into
Russo-Japanese War with Oku.
Hara sighed deeply. “My poor friend, if you cannot love Turner, you
cannot be a great artist. For you, Turner is more important than the war
news.”
“Oh, shut up, Hara, I hate Turner; you are not allowed to say Turner in
front of me.”
It was just the time that all those small works of Turner’s were put in
Tate Gallery. Hara came back from the Tate and asked me--“My dear
friend, will you honorably accept my humble invitation to a worthless
luncheon to-morrow?”
I answered him, “My dear friend, I most humbly accept your honorable
invitation.”
“Ah, then, you must go to the Tate at the same time and look at those
Turners with me for my pleasure.”
I was well cornered, I could not refuse it. I asked him whether he
wanted me to go to the Turner’s room before or after the luncheon. He
said he did not mind either way.
I said, “If I see Turner before the luncheon I shall lose all my
appetite, and if I go there after the luncheon it would be seriously
dangerous. Oh no, not after the meal, please!”
However, we went to the Tate after the luncheon next day. Hara led me
into the Turner’s room. I cannot express my feelings I had at that
moment. Neither my Japanese nor my English (very sadly both are quite
broken!) shall be able to express it. I think I was so strongly
impressed by those wonderful Turners especially because I began to
struggle to paint my favorite London fogs at that time. I watched one
picture more than twenty
[Illustration: THE THAMES AT RANELAGH.]
minutes, then I had “go around,” then I went back to some certain
pictures again. Those wonderful atmospheric effects! The colors were
breathing! The tones were moving! I had quite forgotten myself until the
closing time came. I noticed somebody was standing behind me. Thinking
it was Hara, I began to talk Japanese. But no answer! I looked back. He
was a strange English man. Where was Hara? The porter said, “Your
Japanese friend slipped off a long time ago.”
When I came back to my place, Hara shook my hand most warmly.
“So, you love Turner more than myself now. You were talking with Turner,
and you have quite forgotten me. I am so glad, because you were quite
right. Now I suppose you would not mind if I ask you to go to the
National Gallery and see those Turners?”
“Would not mind? Why, I should like to go there with you so badly.”
We both went to the National Gallery next day. All the Turners looked to
me quite different. Hara said to me, “Look at those figures and horses.
As you told me one year ago, they are very much like an amateur’s work.
But if you doubt whether was Turner good draughtsman or not, go
downstairs, or go to South Kensington Museum and look at his water-color
study. What could he not have done? Indeed, those studies show that
Turner was very accurate about his drawings. But I am sure he became
conscious that too accurate drawings give rather vulgar feeling, just
like those cheap illustrations in some periodicals. Therefore he wanted
to avoid all those possibilities of vulgar minute details. How noble and
how high his art was!”
I thoroughly agreed with Hara. Thanks heartily to my dear friend Hara.
He made my blind eyes open so that I could see the wonderful arts of
Turner!
With his sincerity and eagerness Hara was progressing his art day by
day, and after three years he became to understand the European art most
thoroughly. I remember Mr. Spielmann reproduced his copy of _Rembrandt_,
together with the original, in _Graphic_, and he wrote most flattering
articles. Even now Mr. Spielmann often tells me that “your friend Hara
has seen most inner side of those masterpieces in the National Gallery.”
Lately he wrote me from Japan. This is the translation:--
“Ever since I came back to Japan I have been so busy to see all those
old Japanese masterpieces again to compare them with European art. I
think now I understand them. How often I wished you were with me to look
at those wonderful works! Nowadays all the Westerners have begun to take
notice with our old arts. But I am afraid they are generally so
miserably mistaken. I feel it is our duty to write a book on this
subject. Let us do that some day soon.”
CHAPTER XIII
“THE COLOR OF LONDON”
It was on 20th of June, 1906, a few of my best English friends made an
arrangement for me to make a book from my pictures, and Mr. Loftie was
to write the text. The name of the book was “The Color of London,” and
Messrs. Chatto & Windus were to publish it. I hesitated to undertake
this, because I felt my art was not quite perfect yet. But my friends
told me that I must not always be so “foolish,” so I started my work at
once. All my Japanese friends were more delighted than I myself.
Although the publishers were kind enough to forward me some money by
weekly payment, I had still some debts to my landlady, and I could not
afford my bus fare every day. So I used to walk all the way wherever I
went to sketch. My doctor friend told me afterwards that I had not lost
anything by walking. It was very good thing for me. Because I needed
daily exercise.
Anyhow, I was very glad to think that I have to devote my life entirely
on the real art. No more pot-boilers! As I began to feel some comfort on
my daily life, I started to go round to see all my friends. My old
friend Arthur Ransome and I often visited our artist friends, Alphaeus
Cole and Miss Coleman Smith, in Fulham. Then I visited on Mr. Spielmann
more frequently, where I was introduced to many leading artists, writers
and diplomatists. I was quite an earnest auditor to their very
interesting conversations. Perhaps I was most spoilt at Mr. Sladen’s
house. Only he and Miss Lorimer were so cross whenever I spilt my
cigarette ashes on the floor.
Oh, at his house I have met many jolly John Bulls and John Bullesses. I
cannot write all in this chapter. I am thinking some day to write a book
exclusively about my John Bulless friends. Some one whispered me that I
ought not. Why not? Why could I not write all my admiration about them?
It is only pure and sincere admiration about them!
“The Color of London” was published on May 8, 1907, and at the same time
I had an exhibition of my original pictures at Clifford Gallery in
Haymarket. On the opening day so many prominent peoples came. I was so
shy, and I kept myself very small at one corner the whole morning. But
they began to flatter me and pet me. Only too kind of them to do so with
such horrid works. Anyhow, I got some courage at last to face with all
the visitors. I was surprised of myself on getting so bold.
Many flattering letters were pouring upon me, and I was invited to teas,
dinners, theaters, and clubs. His Majesty the King so graciously
accepted a copy of “The Color of London.”
My gay life did not last more than five days. It was a Saturday night,
May 11th. I went to see one of my Japanese friends who was going home.
Some half-dozen of my country-fellows had Japanese dinner together. Soon
after the dinner, at midnight, I became seriously ill so suddenly. I had
a cab-drive to my own lodging.
All night I was groaning in bed. As soon as the maid got up I asked her
to wire to all my Japanese friends, Hidaka, Hara, and Oku, who have left
my lodging a little time ago. Also I wired to Dr. Baldwin in Manchester
Square.
I was acquainted with Dr. Baldwin before, because he and his brother
were the admirers of my works, and bought some pictures.
My Japanese friends arrived to my room immediately. The doctor’s servant
replied that he was away to country, but he will attend on me as soon as
he comes back.
All day long my Japanese friends nursed me with great anxiety. Their
moisted eyes were better medicine than anything, and I forgot all my
pain.
They suggested me that I ought to mention the name of my illness to the
doctor, so that he would bring all necessary instrument. “Do you know,
Markino, what is your illness called in English?”
I said, “This must be appendicitis.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Yes.”
My friends wired the doctor, “Prepare all your instrument for
appendicitis.”
Dr. Baldwin came to my place with such a large bag with him in the
evening.
He said, “Now let me see. Will you lay yourself upward?”
“No, no, doctor; my illness is on my back.”
“What? I say, Mr. Markino, this is not appendicitis. You have grossly
deceived me. Look at what a job I have had to carry all those
instruments in my bag!”
“But, doctor, I really thought ‘appendicitis’ was the right name in
English.”
He laughed so heartily, and said the real English name of my illness
is ----. He had a temporary treatment for me, and said, “That will do for
a few days, but you need an operation. You had better go to the West
London Hospital, where I myself shall operate you. You will get a card
from the hospital in a few days. Until then you must wait.”
I suppose my illness was the result of the bad foods and the lack of
exercise through my poverty.
CHAPTER XIV
IN THE WEST LONDON HOSPITAL--BEFORE THE OPERATION
A few days afterwards I received a card from the West London Hospital.
The card said I must be at the door of the hospital at 10 A.M. on May
21st, just the next day of Whitsun Bank Holiday.
I drove a cab there quite punctually and presented the card to the
porter. He asked me my full name and age and occupation, and my
religion.
“My religion? I have none!”
He said, “Um ...m, you are a Free-thinker then?”
“Yes, will that do?”
“Yes, that will do quite well. You must go into the ‘Accident Ward’ and
see the sister.”
I entered into the ward with my little dressing-bag. The sister gave me
a bed, Number 12.
By a glance at this ward-room my very first impression was something
which I cannot express by any word. My heart was shuddered. “A quite
different world altogether,” was my first exclamation in my heart. Every
patient in bed looked so deadly pale. Perhaps the light green walls made
them look more so.
The ward-room was on the ground floor. It was a long room, its four
windows on one side facing on the street, and the four windows on the
other side facing to a corridor. Twelve beds were placed all around the
room. No. 1 as starting from the nearest one to the entrance door, and
No. 12 was by the entrance door again. In the middle part of the room a
stove was placed. Beyond the stove was a large table for the sister to
write the reports. Half of this table was covered with many flowers,
which were given to the patients by some kind sympathizers. A few
evergreen palms were spread high above these flowers. They seemed to
tell me that “all those beautiful flowers in this world shall fade away
quite soon. It is very sad thing, but it is so true. Only the pure,
simple, and sincere green leaves live forever and ever.”
This ward-room had two wings at the bottom. One was for bath-room and
the other for washing dishes, and making tea and beef-tea. Everything
was so neat and clean. I was quite astonished at it. How could it be
possible in this smoky London!
I had a fish luncheon on the first day. After the luncheon Dr. Baldwin
came and told me that I was going to be operated on Thursday afternoon.
From three to four I was allowed to go out to the back garden. There was
a man on No. 11. He was nearly convalescent, though he looked so pale
and weary. He and I went out together. He could not walk down a few step
stairs, so I carried him on my back.
“Do I walk too quick?”
“Oh no, that’s all right.”
“Give me your right arm around my neck. That’s it.”
“Oh, my legs are so stiff; do I weigh you down too much?”
“Not at all.”
We sat down together on a garden bench. The garden was about ten yards
square and quite secluded from the outer world by a high wall, and the
buildings round. There was one evergreen tree against a fence. It was
such a calm sunny day. The green grass ground was divided half and half
diagonally by the shadow. A gentle breeze was playing the leaves on the
tree, showing their green fronts and white backs alternately. The sun
ray reflected on them, and they looked more like ladies’ sequined
dresses. Those brick buildings in shadow had such tender grayish mauve
color as if they were mourning. Only the mild and happy pink light of
the sun illuminated all the edges to prevent me from going into too deep
melancholy. There were so many sparrows on the ground. They were busy to
pick up their foods, and were in dead silence. Oh, why don’t they sing?
Oh, why don’t they play? They gave me such a pain to think that I should
waste my time like this! It is all through my nuisance illness! The man
began to tell me the cause of his illness. While he was working at
Shepherd’s Bush he caught a great pain suddenly. It was far more serious
than he first thought. He was operated right up from his chest to
abdomen. He had been in this hospital more than two months and a half.
Now he was going to be sent to a seaside. He was worrying so much about
his wife whom he left at home.
We filled up our pipes with tobacco which I brought in, and enjoyed
smoking together.
A porter came out from the hospital and ran across the garden, and went
away through the back gate. The man said to me, “Ah, some poor patient
must have died; you see he is gone to fetch the undertakers.”
I said, “Have you noticed that porter dressed his hands with black thing
like india-rubber or leather?”
“Yes, that is to prevent the poison from the dead.”
In a few minutes two men came, and they all carried away a dead man
covered with black cloth, on stretcher.
The man pointed to a roof, and said: “You see that little square roof.
It is the skylight roof; under that roof there is the theater. Everybody
is operated there. I have finished my worst time there. But you have not
done yet. The day after to-morrow you must go.”
The time had come for us to go back to the ward-room. I wrote such a lot
of letters and postcards to all my friends.
After the tea I had a go-round to all the patients. No. 4 had an
operation the day before. He looked almost dead. He told me he had the
same illness with me. I spent most time with him. We all had suppers at
6.30, and had to go to bed 7.
All the day nurses went away and a night nurse came. The curtains were
dropped on each window, and all were dead silent. One electric over the
nurses’ table was lit. The sister was informing all day’s work to the
night nurse. They were whispering with such low voices. I often heard
them saying, “No. 12, No. 12.” That meant myself, but I could not
understand what they were talking. I only saw their faces between the
palm-leaves.
Sisters and nurses must be women just same with all my John Bulless
friends. They were as sweet and charming as could be. But why they
looked somewhat different from my other friends? I felt as if I were in
a Holy Mountain, far far away from this world.
After the sister was gone, the night nurse pulled down the electric
light very low, and she was eating her own supper. Now the whole room
looked quite gloomy. I looked at the clock, and with some difficulty I
found out its hands pointed fifteen minutes to eight.
Some time before that, Sir Beerbohm Tree gave me seats for this night,
and I was intended to see his “Trilby” with one of my John Bulless
friends. Alas, I got this illness. My friend had to go to the play with
her friend. I began to make all sorts of mental pictures of my friends,
according to the movements of the clock hands on each minute.
Ah, now they must be on the way to the theater; now they must have
arrived at the theater. When the clock hands pointed 8.15 my heart
beated so high, as it was the time that the curtain was raised up!
My eyes followed after the clock hands until 11.15 P.M. Ah, the play was
over! I could not sleep a few minutes longer till I finished my mental
picture of my friends returning to their house.
Then I covered my face with the sheet. A few groaning voices of those
poor patients sent me into a melancholy dream. The nurse so tenderly
shook my pillows to wake me up. It was the next morning about five. She
wanted to put a thermometer under my arm to examine my temperature.
From this day I was told to fast. Only a cup of milk, or tea, was given
to me at each meal time. In the morning the attendant doctor came to
see all the patients. The No. 9 was a very painful case. He must be
about fifty years old. All the nurses used to call him “Dad.” One day
while he was steering one of those tugs on the Thames, a rope caught his
left foot and it severed his foot almost off from the ankle. Only a few
tendons connected it. Now the attendant doctor took off the bandages.
Lo! all the skin was off. It was such a dreadful sight to look at. The
two nurses got hold of his leg, and the doctor was going to wash it with
some medicine. The poor man screamed and groaned so loud. Such voices! I
myself felt as if I were in the Zoo rather than a human room. Poor
fellow, he was such a jolly man, but he could not control himself with
that terrible pain.
This day was the visiting day. After the luncheon all those families,
relatives and friends of the patients, were pouring in. Here and there
on the beds I saw some affectionate kisses and warm handshakes. All the
poor patients, who were quite isolated from the outer world, had their
hearty communication at last.
There was some indescribably cheerful atmosphere in the ward now. Those
dead-pale faces had some color. Really, this was a Ladysmith or a
Mafeking day for them.
Horace Ward, one of the staffs at my publishers, came to see me. While
he and I were talking, a patient was sent to the No. 2 bed, just
operated a few minutes ago. He brought the full odor of ether, and he
himself was so pale and quite unconscious. Ward seemed very much
frightened. I told him it was a good job he did not come on the next
day, or he must see me just like that!
On the next morning I was told “better to keep myself in bed,” because I
must be operated in the afternoon.
No. 3 was a small boy. He said he was nine, but he did not look more
than five or six. He had been operated more than six times. He was no
more than skin and bones. He had a large forehead, with beautiful fair
hairs. His big eyes were sunken so deep. His nose and mouth were so
clearly cut. Dante Rossetti might have painted such a portraiture. So I
nicknamed him “Dante Rossetti’s boy.” This morning the nurse came to him
to wash the wounds on his leg with a syringe. The poor boy knew too
well that it was painful to be washed like that. But he was too weak
either to cry or to move. He laid himself quite flat on the bed, and
every time when the nurse poured the medicine into his wounds, he
stretched his maple-leaf-like little hands and tiny, bony feet, and
shivered them as if they were electrified.
Watching this poor boy from my bed, I recollected my own boy life. I was
such a naughty and cruel boy. I used to go around a pond in my garden
and beat those little frogs with my stick. The poor frogs would stretch
their four limbs straight and tremble themselves to death. Now that
Dante Rossetti’s boy was so much like those poor frogs I killed. So
unconsciously I went into sleep for an hour or two, and I was dreaming
of those poor frogs all the time.
In the afternoon the nurse told me to have a bath, and after the bath
she gave me a night-shirt especially for the operation. It was too big
for me. I could not put my hands out of its sleeves!
It was 5.10 P.M. the nurse prepared such lots of bandage in a big
basket, and took me to the theater upstairs. Dr. Baldwin was standing
between a bed and all his medical instruments for my operation. He was
in a white coat and white apron. I never saw him like that before. He
always looked a very dignified gentleman in his frock-coat. To-day he
looked exactly like a butcher. Another doctor was sitting side by him.
This doctor was to put me into a magical death.
I lay down on that awfully hard and small bed.
“Doctor, you know I am such a heavy smoker, and my heart is rather weak.
Do you think can I stand for a magical death?”
Dr. Baldwin put his ear to my chest.
“Your heart is quite perfect. You need not be afraid.”
“I suppose the ether is not quite as bad to my heart as some charming
English young ladies?”
They all laughed!
The ether operator was on my left side, and covered my nose and mouth
with a large India rubber thing.
“Now shut your eyes. Breathe in deeply from your nose, and breathe out
to this tube from your mouth. Th-a-t’s it! On-ce more! Th-a-t’s it!
On-ce more, again! Very go-o-d! Again. Th-a-t’s it!”
Then suddenly he sent lots of ether at once. I wanted to say that was
too much, but I could not utter a single word! While I was being treated
like this, my heart was beating so high, and it sounded exactly like the
steam-engine of a large boat, which you hear from your cabin.
First I saw some three dozens small red catherine wheels running round
so quickly on a brown ground. Then they became less number and running
slower on blue ground. Then I saw only three or four large white
catherine wheels running so slowly on blue ground. At last one large
light round thing jumped out from below. At the same time I threw my
right hand to the other side, which somebody caught.
CHAPTER XV
IN THE WEST LONDON HOSPITAL--AFTER THE OPERATION
Where am I? Light green walls! Let me see. Ah, this must be the life
class of Hopkins’ Art School in San Francisco! A shadowy figure is
staring at me! Who is that? Hullo, she is not quite a stranger to me. I
know I saw her somewhere else before! “Oh, don’t smack my face like
that!”
“No. 12, can’t you recognize me? I am your nurse. You are back to our
ward-room now. I have brought you in.”
Why! of course it was our “Accident Ward”! I saw the clock hands
pointing 6.10 P.M. One hour must have passed!
However fast I sleep, I can always realize about how long I have slept.
But this magical death was entirely different thing to me. I did not
feel there was even a few seconds in this blank one hour.
I asked the nurse, “When shall I be operated?”
She said, “Your operation is finished.”
No sooner than I was told “your operation is finished,” I began to feel
something at the operated part. First I felt a large piece of ice was
fixed there. Then I felt it was a hard wooden board, and some one was
striking the back of this board so hard with an iron hammer--bang, bang,
bang!--as many times as my heart beated. Only a few minutes later these
sounds were changed into pain! Oh, this was really painful. Who shall
say toothaches are the most painful? Comparing toothaches with this pain
is just same to compare Serpentine Lake with Atlantic Ocean.
The ancient Chinese poets often said “My pain is as great as if my
intestine was cut off.” I realized how good expression this was.
Just the moment I was getting into my own senses the porter brought in a
letter. It was from one of my Japanese friends. I had read it nearly
half, then the nurses came and snatched it away, saying it was not the
time for me to read any letter.
How much were my lungs saturated with the ether? On my every breath I
felt the pure strong ether was coming out, and I wondered if my lungs
themselves were brewing ether.
The night was dreadful. I could not see anything in darkness, so all my
nerves were concentrated to the pain. I told the night nurse that only
if the electric above my bed was lit I could bear the pain much easier,
but the nurse said it was the law of that hospital that all the lights
should be put off in night. The tender-hearted nurse came to me so many
times to soothe me down. I thought if I groaned loud it might take away
a little of this pain. Shall I try it? Oh, no! I am a Japanese. Peoples
would say a Japanese cried in the hospital. What a disgraceful rumor
might be spread out all over! So I laughed. However, the nurse knew how
painful I was. She fetched the attendant doctor in and he injected my
arm. It did not affect me at all. He tried twice again, only they were
ineffectual every time.
The dawn came. The first bus and wagons passed by. The traffic outside
the building was getting thicker. The window-curtains were raised up and
the day nurses came. I began to forget my pain a great deal. But I could
not move a bit yet. Warm milk was given to me in a feeding-cup. A nurse
poured it down into my mouth. I think I had only warm milk or tea for
about a whole week.
I had a friend to whom I used to write a letter every day. Only this day
I was obliged to stop my letter-writing for whole day.
The night came again, and my pain was as bad as before. A terrible
sleepless night again. I was counting every minute to hear the first bus
pass the building.
On the Saturday morning, after a milk breakfast, I felt so tired and
began to sleep at last. I was awakened by the nurse to have a beef-tea
luncheon, and I found out my pain was much subsided.
A poor man covered with all sorts of rags was brought in to No. 1. He
was accompanied by his poor old wife. The wife was weeping. It must be a
serious case. The man was sent to the “theater” about six o’clock, and
he was brought in on a wheeled couch to his bed again. A screen was put
around the bed. A doctor and a day nurse remained inside the screen for
a few minutes. I heard the wife crying.
They all came out quite soon, and I saw him through the screen. He was
covered with a white sheet. It was just like that picture of George
Watts’ in Tate Gallery. The porter came to put him on a stretcher. All
was covered with black cloth. I understood he was dead.
This night I had intervals sleep, but I was awakened by the pain so
often, and I saw the nurse sometimes standing by side of my bed, and
sometimes stealing herself away so quietly. Was she watching me while I
was sleeping? I worshiped her back with all my heart. Tender and gentle
angel was she to me!
Next day was the visiting day again. I had already many letters from my
friends promising to visit me, so I was counting every minute from the
morning. I believe every patient did the same with me except that
“Rossetti’s Boy.” He was sitting up on the pillow. I saw a big
crystal-like tear on his both eyes. They were getting bigger and bigger.
Then his eyelids could not hold them any longer. They flowed down on his
very pale cheeks, and the next tear-balls were ready on his eyes again.
Every time when the tears passed over his cheeks his tiny sharp lips
quivered so unconsciously. It was just like a lotus leaf with the
morning dews.
Why was he so sad? On the last visiting day I saw him spoilt by his
mother, who had brought some toys and picture-books. Couldn’t his mother
come this time? I learnt from the nurse that the poor boy was told to be
sent to the theater again, so he could not be able to see his mother. I
was so sorry for him!
Three P.M. at last! The entrance door was open for the visitors. Some
half-dozen of my very best friends came. It was the rule of the hospital
that not more than two persons were allowed to see the patients at the
same time, and the visiting hour was only one hour. I was so sorry to
say good-bye so soon to the first visitors, yet I wanted to see the next
comers as soon as possible. I did not know what to do. They all were the
quite regular visitors to me on every Sundays and Wednesdays. Among
these regular visitors was Mr. Lapsley. He is the owner of a
public-house called “A Bunch of Grapes” in Brompton Road. I used to go
to his bar occasionally to study the English life. But certainly I could
not be his profitable customer, because it was only once or twice in a
fortnight that I could afford myself to visit his bar. But one of those
evenings he came to me and wanted to speak, as I “was the most sober
customer.” I wanted to buy a package of cigarettes from him. He wouldn’t
sell me any cigarette. He said, “Cigarette is very bad for health.” He
ran out of doors and came back in a few minutes. He brought me such a
beautiful pipe, and offered me his own tobacco, and taught me how to
bite a pipe. Ever since I have become a pipe-smoker, and I noticed that
was so much better for my health.
Now, hearing that I was in the hospital, he visited on me so regularly.
It was all his hearty kindness, because I myself had done nothing to
him.
So many beautiful flowers were sent to me from all my friends almost
every day. The nurses were delighted with them, and said they have never
seen before such luxury of flowers.
About a week after my operation a little fish supper was given to me at
last. This was the very first solid meal for me. On the night I had such
a terrible nightmare. I dreamed all my bed-clothes were in flame, so I
screamed. The nurse hurried up to me and put her hand on my forehead to
see my temperature, and I was awakened. I told her about my nightmare.
She said, “Oh, that was so much better. I thought you were seriously ill
again. You know, No. 12, you often speak all your secrets in your
dreams.” I was so astonished and shy of myself. But she said, “Never
mind, we nurses never repeat what the patients speak in their dreams.”
That made me feel easy.
But the next day I was really very poorly, and I fainted. Strange to
say, that on the moment I was going to be fainted, I had exactly same
mental vision as when I decided to commit suicide. I saw so plainly
those portraits of my families and best friends.
They thought any solid meals were too early for me, and I had to have
only warm milk and tea for two days more.
As I was getting better little by little every day I began to observe
everything that was going on in the room. Some convalescents were sent
away and new patients were brought in immediately on the same bed. That
poor man on No. 9, who had the trouble with his left foot, was not
getting on satisfactorily at all, and the doctors decided to amputate
his leg altogether. He was sent to the theater one morning, and when he
came back to his bed and got into his conscience he groaned like a lion,
and he shouted, “Oh dear, oh dear; I am damned, I am damned!”
The nurse hurried up to his side and put her hand on his mouth. But his
groaning voice escaped through her fingers. Strange to say, No. 8 was an
old man whose left foot was amputated at the same time. Those two old
men had a race. Every morning when the attendant doctor and nurses
untied their bandages, I used to watch them through the screen. It was
very interesting to notice their progress. First their feet looked more
like a goose ready to cook. Their flesh and skin was tied together with
some cords. Gradually the skins were closing together, and then they
were quite healed. They looked like an old man’s bald head then. The men
were sent away after that.
One midnight a patient was brought into No. 1 bed. He was a dreadful
stutterer, and such a terrible deaf! The doctors and nurses used to
write all that they wanted to tell him. Afterwards I learnt from a nurse
that he was so deaf, that while he was walking somewhere about East
Sheen, a motor came alarming its horn, but he could not hear that, so he
was overrun by the motor. He had compound fracture on his both legs, and
his chest had some bad injury too. On that night the porter brought in
something like a big ladder, which they fixed on the back of the bed,
and the doctor tied up a long tray on the patient’s legs, and with many
cords they were hung to that ladder. It took over two hours, and the
patient was screaming all the time. I thought it was such a job for all
the doctors and nurses. I sat up on my bed and watched all the process.
The nurse came and said, “You naughty boy, you mustn’t do that. Lay
yourself down and sleep. The doctor will be very cross with you.” But I
was such a fox. No sooner than the nurse went away I began to sit up
again. The nurse came to put me down more than once again. But Dr.
Baldwin smiled at me, and said, “Are you interested with our work?”
That was such a good constitution, for the nurses never said anything
when I watched that treatment next time.
Every morning after my temperature was registered, on a tablet which was
hung on the wall above my bed, it was my greatest amusement to look at
that list. The marks of the temperature were made twice a day, and it
looked like the weather forecast of the _Daily Telegraph_.
One day a new attendant doctor came; he was very fair, and was such a
gentle young fellow. He had some strong odor of chloroform. I said to
him, “I suppose you are working in the theater all day. Don’t you think
you might shorten your own life by inhaling the ether and chloroform
every day?”
He smiled so tenderly, and shook my hand, and said, “No, Mr. Markino,
you need not be afraid of that. If I go and get fresh air I shall be
quite all right. It doesn’t affect my life at all. Only the peoples who
worry in their daily life shall surely shorten their life.”
Alas, I wondered how many peoples in this world could have the natural
length of their life! There are so many poor who are worrying in their
daily life every day, and what this doctor said is quite true. Look at
those youngsters in the poor districts, and if you ask their ages, you
would be much surprised. Their faces are so worn-out; sometimes
twenty-five-year-old woman looks more than forty, or even elder. It is
not only the poor people who have worryings; there are so many rich
people who worry even more than the poor. What is the general cause of
human worrying? Is there one word in which you can answer this question?
Yes, there is. It is selfishness. One’s selfishness is enough to make
hundreds of peoples worry! Then, not only that, but there are many
peoples who worry themselves all through their own selfishness. Indeed,
this world is full of the disgusting odor of selfishness, and there are
many poor weak-hearted victims who are made unconscious by this odor,
and never come back to life again.
One morning, about sixteen days after my operation, Dr. Baldwin came to
see me. I remembered his letter quite well. He had said “about two weeks
or thereabout to be in the hospital.” Now it was over two weeks. So I
asked him how many days more should I be in the hospital. He said, “At
least two weeks more.” It was such a great disappointing to me. This
time he has so grossly deceived me. But remembering how I did deceive
him about the name of my illness, I freely forgave him, and he laughed
at my idea.
I wrote to my friend how I was disheartened by this delay, and next
morning I got an answer. “Where is your philosophy, then? It is not yet
the time for you to count the days. What you ought to do now is to
observe everything in your ward-room and write your diary, which we may
publish some day.” So I obeyed my friend’s advice.
A constable came in his uniform. He was sent to an operation, and came
back quite unconscious to No. 2 bed. He must have only a slight illness,
for he got convalescent so soon. One morning a maid-servant came into
our ward-room to scrub the floor. The constable was very frivolous with
her, and they two made such noises. The nurse was very cross with the
maid, and sent her out at once. But the nurse did not say a single word
to him; and the worst thing was that the constable did not seem to be
ashamed! I remember more than one of my English lady friends said to me,
“If men don’t behave themselves well, it is always woman’s fault.”
It is very, very modest of John Bullesses. But I really think men ought
to control their animal passions fairly well too.
No. 6 was a middle-aged man. He must be serious, for all his families
were summoned on an ordinary day--I mean not visiting day. A screen was
put around the bed. I could not see him as well, as his bed was the
farthest one, but on the same evening the porter carried away his corpse
on a wheeled stretcher and passed by my side.
A young sailor came in one day. When his operation was done, he was put
in No. 5 bed. When he got into his conscience it was such an exhibition!
He threw away all the bed-clothes, and stood up on his bed. The nurses
put him down again and covered him with the bed-clothes, which he threw
off again and again. He swung his fists all round. The cupboard was
tumbled over, and the chair feet were broken. He shouted, “Don’t ye know
I am a boxer?”
The nurses were quite frightened. He began to call his girl’s name, then
he began to sing loudly all those vulgar songs. It was no more a Holy
Mountain, but a regular Bank Holiday.
A doctor was sent for, and he injected morphine on the sailor’s arm.
That made him go quietly to sleep.
All the patients laughed at him. But I rather sympathized with him. He
was a sailor--a follower of Nelson. He must have had a great pain; I
know it by my own experience, only a few weeks ago. And as he was too
proud to cry, so surely he acted like that to lessen his own pain!
England is safe as long as she has such an innocent, child-like sailor!
June 13, Thursday. Dr. Baldwin came to examine me, and said, “You can
get up.” I was so happy. At 5.30 P.M. I got up and put on my Japanese
kimono. Everybody was very curious of that. I felt as if a quite round
ball was grown on my heel, and I had a great difficulty to keep the
equilibrium to walk. I was nearly going to fall down again and again. My
“Rossetti’s Boy” was so anxious. “No. 12, you must go back to your bed!”
I imitated purposely as if I could not walk at all, and he was so
excited.
After the supper it was my great pleasure to help the nurses to wash the
dishes. The next morning, soon after my temperature was taken, I got up
to serve the breakfast to all the patients, and wash the dishes, then
to help the night nurse to make all the patients’ beds. The day nurses
were surprised when they came in to see everything was already done. At
luncheon and tea and supper I was a waiter as well as dish-washer. The
next morning I learnt how to make beds for those serious patients. Then
I helped the nurses even to do some unclean jobs.
Some patients told me, “Your hands is so soft, and your treatment is as
tender as a nurse.” I was awfully pleased with these flattering words.
My Rossetti’s Boy was very fond of me because I used to carry him to the
garden. He was as light as a newspaper. A new patient came into No. 11
bed. He was rather seriously ill, and he could not write, so I used to
write what he dictated to me. All his letters were for his Missus. I
have learnt a great deal about a John Bull’s affection toward his
Missus!
One of the nurses told me if I was a woman I could be a very good nurse.
These flattering words I could not so easily accept, for there was a man
on No. 8. His nature was rather greedy. The more I did to him the more
he expected from me. It was only five days, but during this short time I
began to get tired of him. In fact, I hated him in my heart, only I did
not show my feeling to him. I thought how difficult it must be to be a
nurse. I tried all the day to control myself, but I am sure that the
night nurse knew that. For she often said to me, “No. 12, don’t bother
about the patients any more. Your breakfast is getting quite cold. Go
back to your bed and eat!”
I remember Mr. Spielmann told me that “great heroes are humble slaves to
the public. So the King is the humblest slave of the nation after all.”
I must say, nurses are the greatest and noblest heroines. If all the
diplomatists of a country were as humble slaves to the nation as those
hospital nurses, how flourishing that country would be! If all the women
were just like these nurses, I decidedly agree with the suffragettes.
But I think the noble slaves of the gentle and fairer sex should not be
so rough to box the policemen or throw the stones to the window glasses!
On June 18th I had to say good-bye to all those kind sisters and nurses
and those pathetic patients, and I drove a cab to Mr. Sladen’s house,
which was so near to the hospital. When I came back to Sydney Street,
some flowers as well as a few Japanese friends of mine were awaiting
me.
CHAPTER XVI
MY HOLIDAYS IN LONDON
At the same time when I was discharged from the West London Hospital I
was told by my publishers to go to Paris at once to make a book, “The
Color of Paris.” I was still quite weak, and the doctors insisted that I
should go to a seaside at least for a week or two. But I decided to
spend my holidays in London, because I love London so much, and if I go
to any country place I get homesick for London, from the second day.
Once or twice I went out into the country before, but always I was
miserable, and when my train came to the London suburb I always felt so
happy. Perhaps the seaside air might be healthier for me, but I knew
nothing could be better for my health than to feel happy, and I am so
happy in London.
During this short holiday I made a very valuable acquaintance.
As I mentioned in the former chapter, Mr. Spielmann has been always the
custom house of all my English friends. But this was the only one
exception--Mr. Meinertzhagen bought a copy of “The Color of London.” He
wanted to meet me. He went to some picture gallery to get my private
address. The gallery people refused to give him my address. Only if he
had gone to my publishers they would be delighted to do so, but Mr.
Meinertzhagen read my essay in the book. He saw that I said I had a
friend in a little newspaper shop in Chelsea. Poor Mr. Meinertzhagen
walked all over Chelsea to inquire every newspaper shop. He had nearly
two hours’ walk, and at last he found out the one. The shopman said,
“Yes, a Japanese gentleman comes to my place every day, sir, but I don’t
know his address. He always comes from the direction of Sydney Street.”
Mr. Meinertzhagen asked a telegraph boy who was walking in Sydney
Street, and so found me out.
When Confucius was asked what was the happiest thing in his life, he
replied, “Friends come to seek me from the far away distance. Could it
not be the happiest thing?”
Strange to say my tailor’s son, Fred, was working under Mr.
Meinertzhagen at the Chelsea Conservative Club. So I often visited that
Club. I don’t know much about the political sects, but I was delighted
to meet with those Conservative peoples because they all looked so
Briton! And I felt so flattered to be called a Chelsea Conservative.
This was the reason I called the first chapter of my Chelsea life
“Chelsea Conservative.”
While I was in Paris I had dreams and reveries of London most every day.
On June 23rd, 1908, I left Paris. When I arrived at “New Heaven” once
more, the first thing I noticed was a policeman in his uniform, who was
standing on the wharf. My tears came out to see the real Briton again.
My publishers knew I loved Chelsea, and they engaged a room at Markham
Square in Chelsea for me. I had awfully jolly time meeting with all my
old Briton friends again.
But I think I was such a funny fool! Although I myself used to talk
against many things in Paris, I got angry at once if my English friends
talked badly against Paris. Every time when they talked in that way, I
recollected all my dear French friends. How could I make double faces
for them!
During this holiday I got a letter from some old Irish lady in Dublin.
First of all she mentioned that she was delighted with my essay in “The
Color of London,” and she said, “I am an old lady, but remember, I never
show the linings all round my skirt on wet days, so I hope you would not
be shocked at me.” Then she wrote that she wanted me to do a London
sketch for her. She particularly mentioned that she was not an
extravagant art collector, so she could not afford to pay me a big
price. “Will you let me know your usual price?”
At first I thought I could give my sketch at any price, or even as a
present for such a sweet lady. Then I rethought that if that lady was a
rich aristocratic lady, she might think I was insulting her.
Therefore I answered her like this. “Now I am having holidays in London,
and I am making studies of London sketches. For those studies I don’t
mind the prices at all. If you send me £6, that will pay me quite well,
but the highest price I ever got for my sketches was £20. Whether you
pay me £6 or £20 my work will be exactly same, because I cannot regulate
my art study according to the price.”
To my delighted surprise, she sent me a cheque of £20 on the return
post. Now my feeling is not about the money matter. I am sure she could
not imagine how I was appreciating her generosity, and that how her
generosity made me feel comfortable in my English life.
It seemed to me that I was not born to be perfectly happy. For as I
began to have less hard-up life, I was caught by a bad brain illness and
I had to pass terrible life for some weeks. But once more I was floated
on the surface of a bright life, when I was told to go to Rome with my
best friends.
From October, 1908, to May, 1909, I was in Rome, in order to illustrate
“The Color of Rome.” On June 4th I came back to London, and on the first
day I had a dinner at the Imperial Restaurant of S. Kensington Station
Building. I saw on the top of the menu “Imperial Restaurant and Hotel.”
I knew this restaurant for some ages, but never knew it was “Hotel.” I
asked the manager if I could stay here, and he made a special
arrangement for my room. The peoples in this restaurant are all
Italians, and I made friendship with them all at once.
From the middle of September, 1909, to December, 1909, I was sent to
Oxford to illustrate “Oxford From Within,” and only lately I came back
to my restaurant, which I call “Ye Olde Neste” because it is so
comfortable to me. How delighted I was to enjoy myself every day in this
old nest of mine again.
On Christmas Eve I walked all round the streets, and was so excited with
Christmas shops and jolly peoples. Everywhere was so crowded and it was
such a good study. My landlord gave me box of a hundred nice Egyptian
cigarettes, the same ones he charges 1d. each for. I was so pleased, and
at night he offered me port wine for my dinner. He is quite a darling.
I had such a jolly Christmas. The restaurant was closed all day, and all
the lodgers were gone. I was only the one left. They cleared out all
those small tables and made one large table. All the landlord’s family
and waiters and I had such a big Italian dinner at two o’clock. Then
they had dances, Neapolitan songs, and all sorts of Italian games. It
was just like “Est-Est-Est” or “Uomo piccolo.” I had so many cups of
champagne and Italian wines for luck and I was too jolly, like a pigest
pig!
On New Year’s Eve I went to St. Paul’s. It was very different from my
imagination; far, far more crowds were there. The manager of this
restaurant said, “It will be too rough for you to go there alone,” and
he took me there at 10.30. I took a sketch book with me. But lo! it was
absolutely impossible to sketch. For one hour and half we were just like
sardines! More than once I thought I might be flattened like a kipper!
Only the manager stretched his arms and protected me, so I could
breathe.
It was a great fun and I was awfully amused, but not at all good for
art. I saw some peoples peeping from those windows of the surrounding
houses. I envied them very much. If I could be in one of those windows I
am sure I could make a very good sketch.
About 11.15 one night, not long after the New Year’s Day, I was having a
little glass of brandy in the restaurant. A man came in. He was well
dressed; evidently he must be a gentleman. I judged him as a sportsman.
But his head was bleeding, and he was rather too jolly. The manager was
frightened. The man was repeating same thing over again and again,
saying he had been knocked by a taxicab, but he did not like to accuse
the driver.
At first I did not take any notice. He ordered some whiskey, and was
talking with the waiters. Then he turned his face to me and said, “You
are Japanese?”
I only nodded my head.
He said he knew the Japanese Military Attaché in Paris.
I only nodded my head again. I was rather frightened to get trouble with
“too jolly” people.
Then he said:
“Do you know a very well-known Japanese artist called Yoshio Markino?”
I only smiled.
Then he said, “Ah, you have a splendid brother; you must be proud of
him. You know, I always admire his works very much, and he writes most
interesting thing. Last time he published ‘The Color of Rome’ with Miss
Olave Potter. O, such a splendid book! I bought three copies--one for
myself, and two for two of my lady friends as Christmas presents.”
I walked to his table and took out my card-case
[Illustration: EMPIRE BALLET.]
and put my card on his table, and came back to my table again.
He was so surprised. Although he was so drunken he tried to be as
serious as he could, and expressed his delight. He said, “You may don’t
believe me, because you know ... I am not ... quite ri’ to-night. But
believe me, I am a grea’ ’mirer of that book.”
Then he said, “Didn’t you shay Markino an’ Facchino, an’ you pre-ferred
Newcasshle-'n-Tyne, an’ tha’ English morals ish beautiful box
well-locked?”
O, he remembered everything quite well. So I began to trust him, and
talked to him.
It was one of those idle evenings I went to the Empire Theater to see
the Ballet which my friend Mr. Wilhelm had arranged. Before the ballet I
saw a man who imitated many well-known peoples. At the end he gave an
imitation of King Edward. All the auditors so gracefully stood up and
paid their homage. It struck my feelings very much indeed. It was
neither the King himself nor his real portrait; it was only a music hall
artist. But for his imitation, all the British auditors paid all their
homage! I remember when I was in Japan some seventeen years ago, those
ignorant American missionaries were so foolishly preaching that “the
real Christian” should not worship any person--even the Emperor. There
was one Japanese (only one among 45,000,000 population), who was foolish
enough to take the missionaries’ word so seriously and refuse to bow
down before our Emperor’s portrait. All the newspapers discussed him
very much. I don’t know how the Japanese Christians are getting on
nowadays, as I have never gone back to my country since then. But if the
foreign missionaries must be sent to Japan, I sincerely hope they should
be from those refined Britons who worship even the imitation of the
King.
Just lately I passed the under-passage from the S. Kensington Museum to
the District Railway station. The passage is curved at the bottom. There
is an illuminated lettering, “To the Railway Station. Keep to the
Right.” And moreover, there is an index, pointing to the Right, as if
only the lettering alone were not enough. Why, there is no other way!
One who comes to this way is obliged to go to the right. Then, what for
is this? This is awfully Briton and I love it.
I am at present enjoying the London fogs ever so much, especially after
missing two London winters.
Lately my Japanese friend opened a Japanese shop just near my place, and
he is a frequent visitor. We have talks together as I used to have with
my other Japanese friends some three years ago. One day he said to me,
“Whatever is your idea and wherever have you got it? Certainly it is not
Japanese idea, and is not English either, what shall I call it? Pray
don’t call your book ‘Japanese Impressions,’ or else the public may be
puzzled.”
I answered him, “Amen! I myself don’t know what I am now!”
CHAPTER XVII
CONCLUDING CHAPTER
After being away for three times, how did that effect upon my impression
of London? It is true that I loved the _très chic_ color in Paris; it is
true that I loved the gay sunshine in Rome; and it is true that I loved
those old gothics in Oxford. But after some absences from London I began
to love London even more than before.
It was just five days after I came back from Rome that I was invited to
a dinner at the parliament by one of my M. P. friends. When I arrived at
Westminster station I was about a few minutes too soon to go in, so I
had a little walk on the Embankment. It was still daylight. I saw St.
Thomas’s Hospital across the Thames. My head was still full of those old
ruins in Rome, and those delicate colors of Parisian buildings, and I
said to myself, “How ugly colors are those London buildings!”
The dinner was finished at 9.30, and we all went out to the Terrace to
have a walk. London was in her most beautiful evening dress. I repented
that I said St. Thomas’s was ugly just a few hours ago. The rows of
those Hospital Buildings were silhouetted up and down against the soft,
misty sky; Westminster Bridge, just like many rainbows high up,
connected that distance with the foreground. All of them were in bluish
(perhaps a little greenish) gray. Pale electric lights, and the warm
umber lights of ’buses on the Bridge, were reflected on the full tide. A
few tugs were guided by small steamboats. These were all in one tone of
grayish mist. In the foreground, the pavement of the Terrace, many
semicircles were marked under many a lamp. Ladies in white, and
gentlemen’s white chests, broke the darkness here and there. They were
walking together as light as butterflies. Where else could such romantic
view be seen? Neither in Paris nor Rome, I am sure!
Perhaps the real colors of some buildings in London might be rather
crude. But this crude color is so fascinating in the mists. For
instance, that house in front of my window is painted in black and
yellow. When I came here last summer I laughed at its ugly color. But
now the winter fogs cover it, and the harmony of its color is most
wonderful, and I am sure I need a great deal of study to paint this
beautiful color. When I was in Rome I often exclaimed, “Only if Rome had
London fogs!” Paris often had fogs, but her color is quite soft enough
on the clear days, so any little fog made Paris color rather weak, and
not so lovable as London.
Then about the life of London, I have found out it is larger than any
other town, London is on the extremely larger scale altogether. She is
just like a vast ocean where sardines as well as whales are living
together. If a millionaire of other towns comes to London, he could not
be proud of his own wealth. If a beggar comes to London, he would be
surprised to see some one poorer than he. A most beautiful stranger
could not expect to be crowned for her beauty, and an ugly foreigner
need not be ashamed of his ugliness. Wise and fool both shall not be put
to the extreme ends either. Perhaps even the robbers and pickpockets may
find enough friends!
London contains more variety of life than anywhere else. I myself always
find out some friends with equal height. I mean, same degree of head
and heart and pocket too. Nothing could be more comfortable than to meet
with friends of the same degree in everything. This is the great reason
I feel so homely in London more than any other place. Then, also, it is
my pleasure to share sympathy with the peoples inferior to me, and to
respect the peoples superior than myself. Now then at teas, at dinners,
or at clubs, I often see a glimpse of some wonderful persons. I feel as
if I am diving in a mysterious ocean and see the fins and tails of some
monstrous fishes. It is my ambition to discover their whole figures some
day when I get a chance. Then, let me classify all John Bulls and John
Bullesses as Linnæus, or Grey did the botany!
I so often meet with the English peoples who express their mad
admiration of Japan. Of course there are several who really understand
everything Japanese, but in a greater majority they make me quite
disappointed. May I call those peoples curio-lovers? They love Japan
because anything Japanese is strange to their eyes. I am much afraid
these peoples shall get tired of Japan sooner or later.
I am in mad love of London, but it is not at all my curiosity. I have
been here long enough. Once I loved London for curiosity: once I was
rather homesick. But those periods in my life have passed away a long
time ago. Now I love London because I have found out the real art and
comfort in her. London life suits me so well. Of course I love my
country best, and I do not want my country too much Europeanized. “Japan
ought to be Japan forever” is my sincere desire.
Therefore I think such a person like me, who is in mad love of England,
must stay in England. My own intention is to pass my life among the pure
Britons and find out more Art in them.
Perhaps I love humans more than even the mists. Let them be either good
or bad, I cannot live without them. I hear that artists or writers
generally seclude themselves in a lonely place to find out some idea to
work out. I am quite reverse. Whenever I want to get idea for painting
or writing, I always throw myself amongst the thickest crowds such as
Earl’s Court, Shepherd’s Bush, or the music stands in the Parks. Let the
crowds push me to and fro--I call it a human bath. In this human bath I
always work out my ideas. And if I am left quite alone, I feel too
miserable to do anything.
When I was in Oxford I had no friend, and I often thought I might become
a madman. I am so lucky to say I have made so many English friends--up
from the Cabinet ministers down to a boot-repairer--and I love them all
so dearly. Only there is one thing I am very cautious about. That is, I
am always trying very hard to avoid any business matters with my English
friends. They all are very nice to me. But no sooner than I have to do
any business with them, I ever so often have been disappointed with
them. Oh, how often have I sunken into delusions! It has been my
question for a long time. Only very lately I have discovered something
about it. I think I am not mistaken, so let me write it out now.
In Japan we have some unwritten law and invisible spirit which has been
overruling all Samurais. This is called Bushido, and sometimes called
Yamato Damashii, or the Soul of Old Japan. In England there is an
unwritten law and invisible spirit too--I must call it “The Soul of
England.” The Soul of Old Japan is Honor, and the soul of England is
Business. For the sake of Honor many Samurais had dead-heat duels with
their dearest friends, and for the sake of Honor the fathers often
stabbed their children unto death. In England Business has the power
almost the same with Honor in Japan. I often notice my English friends
change their expression and knock the table with their fists and say,
“Ah, but this is the Business.” For “business” laughter gets serious,
drunkards get sober, friends quarrel, and lovers depart each other.
English husbands would bring their wives to the court, all for the
business matter. Of course I know that English peoples do much for Honor
also, but in Japan it is only the merchants who do the business, while
in England it may even be that Princes have business.
If this business soul is used properly it is just as graceful as the
Soul of Honor. They both ought to come to the same finishing point--that
is to say, one who esteems Honor shall have business fair, and the best
business men shall esteem Honor. I think this is the great reason why
England is the head of her commonwealth in this world. But if both the
soul of Japan and the soul of England were misdirected, they both would
be as ugly as possible. The former would be too quick-tempered, while
the latter would be too mean. They both are just like some drugs. If you
take them in proper way you will save your life from death, and if you
take them in wrong way you shall poison yourself unto death. But how
many peoples could be always in right way? We must remember we all human
beings could not always be perfect. Therefore we must forgive each
other’s faults. And as I am a Japanese I have a natural tendency to get
into my own fault and throw away friendship for the sake of Honor.
Frankly, I cannot bear if one thinks of a few shillings more than a
warm-hearted friendship.
When the soul of Business is misled by some inferior human, it is beyond
what I can bear. These sorts of people often think that they can easily
take advantage of me, because I am “soft.” How greatly they are mistaken
of me! It is only my etiquette not to struggle a little money matter
with them in fear that it would injure our noble humanity. But am I
afraid of any people? Never. Even if this whole world become my enemy, I
cannot feel any fear. What shall I do with those peoples who act some
mean thing upon me? There is one word, “Adieu forever.” Because I cannot
have friendly feeling with them any longer. Everything is finished with
them. What should I do throwing away all my friends like this? That is
why I said the best way is not to have any business matter with my
English friends. If your cat steals your fish, it is not the fault of
your cat, but the fault of your own self, and you can love your cat well
if you are cautious enough!
As long as no business is concerned, they all are perfectly darlings!
However, I am so lucky to say I have a few friends who are as fair in
business as their own faces. To me they are just like three or five
bright stars on the western evening sky. As the night is getting darker
they become brighter and brighter, and shine on the dark path for me to
march on. With these friends I can share my sorrow as well as my joy in
the business matters.
Are these few peoples only the bright stars in whole London? or are
there many as fair as these friends? I don’t know that, and I don’t want
to know either. Friendship is
[Illustration: EARL’S COURT STATION.]
by quality and not by quantity. These are enough for me to feel it is
worth of me living!
Now let me have a few words about my art. Although it is some seventeen
years since I left Japan, most time I have wasted for my living. So my
study on art was not much. It was not more than twelve months that I
attended at the art school in San Francisco, then about two years in
London Art Schools, which were only two hours in each night. When I
removed to Chelsea I began to study the London views; I wasted much time
owing to the lack of materials--sometimes I had no paper to work on.
It is only since I started to illustrate the “Color of London” that I so
luckily have been able to devote all my time entirely to study, and this
is the third year. Therefore, I must say my study of art is only six or
seven years all together. Though I am growing older and older every day
with the same rate with all the readers, my art is only seven-year-old
child! I know it is about ten years behind. I often feel very sad about
it, but it is altogether too foolish to lament about the past, which
shall never come back. Only I shall try to take care of my health to
prolong my life and shall patiently expect my success some day in
future. I am in the same idea with that Japanese philosopher who made a
poetry of six “no’s”--“I have no parents, no wife, no children, no home,
and though I have no money, I have no idea to die yet.”
Since some of my works appeared in the form of two or three books, some
critics as well as my intimate friends have given me most flattering
advices in papers or by letter. I am very thankful to all. Only one
thing I must beg sincerely to all my kind sympathizers: “Pray do not
take me as quite an artist yet.” If you look upon seven-year-old art as
a master, whatever shall become of this world? Some talked about
“Japanese Art or European Art?” About this question I have a few words
to say.
Yes, Japan has her own Art. The scholars have to learn how to hold the
brush and how to draw lines. These practices are just like that of
violinists. It would take some ten or fifteen years before they can
paint any of their own compositions. Some of them follow very faithfully
after their master, and some are founding their own schools. You can
call them all “Japanese styles.” How those old Japanese masters would
lament if they knew peoples were calling anything new or different “a
Japanese style”! Now the reader can clearly see I do not belong to any
Japanese style. It is true that I have studied charcoal drawings at some
schools, but it was only my study to get the shape from the nature, and
I was far below following any European styles. Then all the rest of my
study has been entirely myself-taught. Then, why am I European style? It
is true that I have learned such sciences as perspective or anatomy
through books. You may call them “European sciences,” but I learnt them,
not because they were European, but because I found them so true to
Nature. Is anything quite natural called “European”? I think it is a
very narrow-minded logic. Not only Europeans alone, but Japanese,
Chinese, Indians, and Negroes shall come to the same point if they are
faithful to Nature.
Another question reached to me, “Why don’t you paint more differently
from us, because you are a Japanese?”
A more laughable remark was, “You will lose your art unless you stick
to the Japanese style.”
To these peoples I sincerely ask, What is the definition of the word
“Art”? Perhaps they may say, “Art is something different from ordinary
things.” They might be pleased if I painted English women with one eye
or three eyes, or if I painted London Bridge on the top of St. Paul.
They would say, “Ah, this is charming Japanese Art because it is so
uncommon!”
But how could I do such things? I can see the beauty of English women as
well as the English peoples do, and I can unfortunately, or rather,
fortunately, see the beauty of London as exactly she is now. If I paint
English women not really so beautiful as they really are (very sadly I
always cannot paint so), that is my own fault, and not my Art by any
means.
My definition of the word “Art” is “Well selected,” and I faithfully
obey to my own definition. I could not be such a speculator to
distinguish myself with anything only different.
At present, I am in mad love of London seen quite naturally, and I
cannot pretend myself to make any style or mannerism which would only
mean a handicap to my study. All the books I am making now are only my
studies. Only if I were rich enough to get daily bread without selling
my pictures I should never show such studies to the public. This is
quite understood by my publishers. But some day I shall be something
more than a slave of nature. That is to say, I shall establish my own
school. Here I shall keep myself silent and let my brush speak it in the
future when I am ready. At present I am contented to be “one of many.”
* * * * *
When I finished writing this book I showed it to some friends: they
looked rather amazed because I have written about my friends and
everything “too directly,” and I have come back to my own conscience to
think that I might have written too much. But I am not clever enough to
conceal the fact and I am not hypocrite enough to tell a lie. So this
book itself is I myself. When Confucius made Shunju, he said, “It is
this book through which the public will know me. It is this book
through which the public will condemn me.” I must say, too, that it is
this book through which I may get bitter enemy. It is this book through
which I may get real friends. Anyhow, it is this book through which the
public will know me thoroughly.
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
my kind ladlady=> my kind landlady {pg 127}
‘behave’ themselvs well=> ‘behave’ themselves well {pg 142}
that our nighbor=> that our neighbor {pg 144}
After Wakamia went back=> After Wakamiya went back {pg 151}
called Yamato Damashi=> called Yamato Damashii {pg 213}
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A JAPANESE ARTIST IN LONDON ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when
you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works
provided that:
• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg
Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516,
Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
