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.