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.”