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.