DEAR NISHIDA,--This morning (the 17th) Mr. Takahashi came with your
letter of introduction. He is a charming gentleman, and I felt unhappy
at not being able to talk Japanese to him. He brought a most beautiful
present--a tea-set of a sort I had never even seen before,--"crackled"
porcelain inside to the eye, and outside a chocolate-coloured clay
etched with pretty designs of houses and groves and lakes with boats
upon them. The cups were a great surprise and delight--especially as
they were made in Matsue. Mr. Takahashi gave me better news of you than
your last letter brought me: he thought you were getting stronger,--so
I have hopes of pleasant chats with you. He told us many things about
Matsue. He is a very correct, courteous gentleman; and I felt quite
clumsy, as I always do when I meet a real gentleman of the Japanese
school. I think I should like any of your friends. Mr. Takahashi had
something about him which brought back to me the happy feeling of my
pleasant time in Izumo.
I don't feel to-day, though, like I used to feel in Izumo. I have become
very grey, and much queerer looking; and as I never make any visits or
acquaintances outside of my quiet little neighbourhood, I have become
also rather _henjin_. But I have written half a new book. I am not able
to say now what it will be like: for the things I most wish to put into
it--stories of real life--have not yet been written. I have finished
only the philosophical chapters. One subject is "Nirvana," and another
the study of matter in itself as unreality,--or at least as a temporary
apparition only. Then I have taken up the defence of Japanese methods of
drawing, under the title of "Faces in the Old Picture-Books." My public,
however, is not all composed of thinkers; and I have to please the
majority by telling them stories sometimes. After all, every public more
or less resembles a school-class. They say, just like my students always
used to say when they felt very tired or sleepy, hot days,--"Teacher, we
are tired: please tell us some extraordinary story."
I can't just now remember when--at Matsue--a man came into the classroom
to watch my teaching. He came from some little island. I have quite
forgotten the name. He looked a little like Mr. Takahashi;--but there
was something different in his face,--a little sad, perhaps. When the
class was over he came to me and said something very good and kind,
and pressed my hand and went away to his island. It is a queer thing
that experiences of this kind are often among the most vivid of one's
life--though they are so short. I have often dreamed of that man. Often
and often. And the dream is always the same. He is the director of a
beautiful little school in a very large garden, surrounded by high white
walls. I go into that garden by an iron gate. It is always summer. I
teach for that man; and everything is gentle and earnest and pleasant
and beautiful, just as it used to be in Matsue,--and he always repeats
the nice things he said long ago. If I can ever find that school, with
the white walls and the iron gate,--I shall want to teach there, even
if the salary be only the nice things said at the end of the class. But
I fear the school is made of mist, and that teacher and pupils are only
ghosts. Or perhaps it is in _Hōrai_.
Ever with best regards from all of us, faithfully,