KŌBE, March, 1896.
DEAR PAGE,--I have your exquisite photo of Constance--like a bit
of marble it is.... And I have your letter--a very dear letter,
though--excuse me--I cannot help hating the typewriter!
I have been very sick with inflammation of the lungs, and unable to
move until recently. But I shall soon, I hope, be able to send you
something....
About my name. Koizumi is a family name: I take my wife's name as
her husband by adoption--the only way in which I could become a
Japanese citizen. Koizumi means "little spring" or "little source."
The other name means "many clouds," and is an alternate poetical
name for Izumo, the "Place of the Issuing of Clouds." For I became a
citizen of the province of Izumo, where I am officially registered. The
word is also the first word of the most ancient poem in the Japanese
language--referring to a legend of the sacred records. _Please do not
publish this!_ it is a little private matter, and the whole explanation,
though read at a glance by a Japanese, would require many pages to make
clear. As to your other question, I always wear the Japanese dress at
home or in the interior. In Kōbe or the large cities I wear Western
clothes when I go on the street; because it does not do there for a man
with a long nose to be too "Japanesey"--there has been a surplus of
"Japanesey" display on the part of foreigners of the jocose class. I am
Japanese only among Japanese....
And you have been very sick too. Do you know that I am often worried by
the fear that one of us might die before we meet again? I very often
think about you. Please take every care of yourself,--all the outing
you can. I think, though, you are a long-lived tough race--you Bakers;
and that Page M. Baker will be writing some day an obituary of Lafcadio
Hearn that was,--with many pleasant observations which the said Lafcadio
never deserved and never will deserve.
You think I am misanthropic--no, not exactly; but I do feel an intense
hatred for the business class of Northern mankind. You know I never
could learn much about them till I was ass enough to go North.... And
you will remember that settled dislikes or likes come to this creature
at intervals--never thereafter to depart. My last horror--one that I can
scarcely bear--is what is called "business correspondence." That is why
I say that I dislike the sight of typewriting--though I assure you, dear
Page, I am glad to get a line from you written or printed in any way,
shape, or form.
Ghosts! After getting your letter last night I dreamed. Do you remember
that splendid Creole who used to be your city editor--whose voice seemed
to come up from a well, a lover of music and poetry and everything
nice? John----? Is it not a sin that I have forgotten his name? Next
to yourself I see him, however, more distinctly than any other figure
of the old days. He recited "The Portrait" of Owen Meredith in that
caressing abysmal voice of his. Last night I was talking to him. He sat
in a big chair in the old office, and told me wonderful things,--which I
could not recall on waking; but I was vaguely annoyed by the fact that
he "avoided the point." So I interrupted, and said: "But you do not tell
me--you are dead--is there ..." I only remember saying that. Then the
light in his eyes went out, and there was nothing. I woke up in the dark
and wondered.
For six years in Japan I have been walking up and down--over matted
floors--by myself, just as I used to do in that room you wrote me from.
Curiously, my little boy has the same habit. It is very difficult to
make him keep still at meal-time. He likes to take a nibble or sup of
something, then walk up and down, or run, then another nibble, etc.--I
hope the gods will save him from adopting other former habits of mine,
which are less innocent, when he grows up:--for example, if he should
take a foolish fancy to every damozel in his path. However, I expect
that his mother's strong common-sense, which he seems to inherit, will
counterbalance the fantasticalities bequeathed him by me.... It has only
been since his entrance into this world that I fully realize what a
"disgraceful person" I used to be.
I live pretty much alone--have no foreign friends and very few Japanese
friends outside of my family, which numbers, however, a good many dear
souls. How isolated I have managed to be you can imagine from the fact
that sometimes for months no one sees me except home-folks. I work
when I can; and when I cannot I bury myself in studies--philosophical
studies: you can scarcely believe how they interest me now, and I find
worlds of inspiration in them--new perceptions of commonplace fact. I
try not to worry, and let things take their course. Probably next year
I shall be leading a busier life; but I don't know whether Japanese
officialism can be endured for any great length of time. I had one
dose of it too much already. The people are the best in the world; the
military and naval men are _men_, and generally _braves garçons_....
The old men are divine: I do not know any other word to express what
they are. When you meet a horrid Japanese, though, there is a distorted
quality about him that makes him a unique monster--he is like an awry
caricature of a Western mean fellow, without the vim and push--solid
contemptibility _in petto_. You can scarcely imagine what he may be.
Every transition period has its peculiar monsters.
I wonder, wonder, wonder whether I shall see you again,--and walk
up and down on that cocoanut matting,--and make noises through the
speaking-tube leading to the composing-room. Perhaps I could make some
sketches of American life better now--after having looked back at it
from this distance of eight thousand odd miles....