MY HOLIDAYS IN LONDON
At the same time when I was discharged from the West London Hospital I
was told by my publishers to go to Paris at once to make a book, “The
Color of Paris.” I was still quite weak, and the doctors insisted that I
should go to a seaside at least for a week or two. But I decided to
spend my holidays in London, because I love London so much, and if I go
to any country place I get homesick for London, from the second day.
Once or twice I went out into the country before, but always I was
miserable, and when my train came to the London suburb I always felt so
happy. Perhaps the seaside air might be healthier for me, but I knew
nothing could be better for my health than to feel happy, and I am so
happy in London.
During this short holiday I made a very valuable acquaintance.
As I mentioned in the former chapter, Mr. Spielmann has been always the
custom house of all my English friends. But this was the only one
exception--Mr. Meinertzhagen bought a copy of “The Color of London.” He
wanted to meet me. He went to some picture gallery to get my private
address. The gallery people refused to give him my address. Only if he
had gone to my publishers they would be delighted to do so, but Mr.
Meinertzhagen read my essay in the book. He saw that I said I had a
friend in a little newspaper shop in Chelsea. Poor Mr. Meinertzhagen
walked all over Chelsea to inquire every newspaper shop. He had nearly
two hours’ walk, and at last he found out the one. The shopman said,
“Yes, a Japanese gentleman comes to my place every day, sir, but I don’t
know his address. He always comes from the direction of Sydney Street.”
Mr. Meinertzhagen asked a telegraph boy who was walking in Sydney
Street, and so found me out.
When Confucius was asked what was the happiest thing in his life, he
replied, “Friends come to seek me from the far away distance. Could it
not be the happiest thing?”
Strange to say my tailor’s son, Fred, was working under Mr.
Meinertzhagen at the Chelsea Conservative Club. So I often visited that
Club. I don’t know much about the political sects, but I was delighted
to meet with those Conservative peoples because they all looked so
Briton! And I felt so flattered to be called a Chelsea Conservative.
This was the reason I called the first chapter of my Chelsea life
“Chelsea Conservative.”
While I was in Paris I had dreams and reveries of London most every day.
On June 23rd, 1908, I left Paris. When I arrived at “New Heaven” once
more, the first thing I noticed was a policeman in his uniform, who was
standing on the wharf. My tears came out to see the real Briton again.
My publishers knew I loved Chelsea, and they engaged a room at Markham
Square in Chelsea for me. I had awfully jolly time meeting with all my
old Briton friends again.
But I think I was such a funny fool! Although I myself used to talk
against many things in Paris, I got angry at once if my English friends
talked badly against Paris. Every time when they talked in that way, I
recollected all my dear French friends. How could I make double faces
for them!
During this holiday I got a letter from some old Irish lady in Dublin.
First of all she mentioned that she was delighted with my essay in “The
Color of London,” and she said, “I am an old lady, but remember, I never
show the linings all round my skirt on wet days, so I hope you would not
be shocked at me.” Then she wrote that she wanted me to do a London
sketch for her. She particularly mentioned that she was not an
extravagant art collector, so she could not afford to pay me a big
price. “Will you let me know your usual price?”
At first I thought I could give my sketch at any price, or even as a
present for such a sweet lady. Then I rethought that if that lady was a
rich aristocratic lady, she might think I was insulting her.
Therefore I answered her like this. “Now I am having holidays in London,
and I am making studies of London sketches. For those studies I don’t
mind the prices at all. If you send me £6, that will pay me quite well,
but the highest price I ever got for my sketches was £20. Whether you
pay me £6 or £20 my work will be exactly same, because I cannot regulate
my art study according to the price.”
To my delighted surprise, she sent me a cheque of £20 on the return
post. Now my feeling is not about the money matter. I am sure she could
not imagine how I was appreciating her generosity, and that how her
generosity made me feel comfortable in my English life.
It seemed to me that I was not born to be perfectly happy. For as I
began to have less hard-up life, I was caught by a bad brain illness and
I had to pass terrible life for some weeks. But once more I was floated
on the surface of a bright life, when I was told to go to Rome with my
best friends.
From October, 1908, to May, 1909, I was in Rome, in order to illustrate
“The Color of Rome.” On June 4th I came back to London, and on the first
day I had a dinner at the Imperial Restaurant of S. Kensington Station
Building. I saw on the top of the menu “Imperial Restaurant and Hotel.”
I knew this restaurant for some ages, but never knew it was “Hotel.” I
asked the manager if I could stay here, and he made a special
arrangement for my room. The peoples in this restaurant are all
Italians, and I made friendship with them all at once.
From the middle of September, 1909, to December, 1909, I was sent to
Oxford to illustrate “Oxford From Within,” and only lately I came back
to my restaurant, which I call “Ye Olde Neste” because it is so
comfortable to me. How delighted I was to enjoy myself every day in this
old nest of mine again.
On Christmas Eve I walked all round the streets, and was so excited with
Christmas shops and jolly peoples. Everywhere was so crowded and it was
such a good study. My landlord gave me box of a hundred nice Egyptian
cigarettes, the same ones he charges 1d. each for. I was so pleased, and
at night he offered me port wine for my dinner. He is quite a darling.
I had such a jolly Christmas. The restaurant was closed all day, and all
the lodgers were gone. I was only the one left. They cleared out all
those small tables and made one large table. All the landlord’s family
and waiters and I had such a big Italian dinner at two o’clock. Then
they had dances, Neapolitan songs, and all sorts of Italian games. It
was just like “Est-Est-Est” or “Uomo piccolo.” I had so many cups of
champagne and Italian wines for luck and I was too jolly, like a pigest
pig!
On New Year’s Eve I went to St. Paul’s. It was very different from my
imagination; far, far more crowds were there. The manager of this
restaurant said, “It will be too rough for you to go there alone,” and
he took me there at 10.30. I took a sketch book with me. But lo! it was
absolutely impossible to sketch. For one hour and half we were just like
sardines! More than once I thought I might be flattened like a kipper!
Only the manager stretched his arms and protected me, so I could
breathe.
It was a great fun and I was awfully amused, but not at all good for
art. I saw some peoples peeping from those windows of the surrounding
houses. I envied them very much. If I could be in one of those windows I
am sure I could make a very good sketch.
About 11.15 one night, not long after the New Year’s Day, I was having a
little glass of brandy in the restaurant. A man came in. He was well
dressed; evidently he must be a gentleman. I judged him as a sportsman.
But his head was bleeding, and he was rather too jolly. The manager was
frightened. The man was repeating same thing over again and again,
saying he had been knocked by a taxicab, but he did not like to accuse
the driver.
At first I did not take any notice. He ordered some whiskey, and was
talking with the waiters. Then he turned his face to me and said, “You
are Japanese?”
I only nodded my head.
He said he knew the Japanese Military Attaché in Paris.
I only nodded my head again. I was rather frightened to get trouble with
“too jolly” people.
Then he said:
“Do you know a very well-known Japanese artist called Yoshio Markino?”
I only smiled.
Then he said, “Ah, you have a splendid brother; you must be proud of
him. You know, I always admire his works very much, and he writes most
interesting thing. Last time he published ‘The Color of Rome’ with Miss
Olave Potter. O, such a splendid book! I bought three copies--one for
myself, and two for two of my lady friends as Christmas presents.”
I walked to his table and took out my card-case
[Illustration: EMPIRE BALLET.]
and put my card on his table, and came back to my table again.
He was so surprised. Although he was so drunken he tried to be as
serious as he could, and expressed his delight. He said, “You may don’t
believe me, because you know ... I am not ... quite ri’ to-night. But
believe me, I am a grea’ ’mirer of that book.”
Then he said, “Didn’t you shay Markino an’ Facchino, an’ you pre-ferred
Newcasshle-'n-Tyne, an’ tha’ English morals ish beautiful box
well-locked?”
O, he remembered everything quite well. So I began to trust him, and
talked to him.
It was one of those idle evenings I went to the Empire Theater to see
the Ballet which my friend Mr. Wilhelm had arranged. Before the ballet I
saw a man who imitated many well-known peoples. At the end he gave an
imitation of King Edward. All the auditors so gracefully stood up and
paid their homage. It struck my feelings very much indeed. It was
neither the King himself nor his real portrait; it was only a music hall
artist. But for his imitation, all the British auditors paid all their
homage! I remember when I was in Japan some seventeen years ago, those
ignorant American missionaries were so foolishly preaching that “the
real Christian” should not worship any person--even the Emperor. There
was one Japanese (only one among 45,000,000 population), who was foolish
enough to take the missionaries’ word so seriously and refuse to bow
down before our Emperor’s portrait. All the newspapers discussed him
very much. I don’t know how the Japanese Christians are getting on
nowadays, as I have never gone back to my country since then. But if the
foreign missionaries must be sent to Japan, I sincerely hope they should
be from those refined Britons who worship even the imitation of the
King.
Just lately I passed the under-passage from the S. Kensington Museum to
the District Railway station. The passage is curved at the bottom. There
is an illuminated lettering, “To the Railway Station. Keep to the
Right.” And moreover, there is an index, pointing to the Right, as if
only the lettering alone were not enough. Why, there is no other way!
One who comes to this way is obliged to go to the right. Then, what for
is this? This is awfully Briton and I love it.
I am at present enjoying the London fogs ever so much, especially after
missing two London winters.
Lately my Japanese friend opened a Japanese shop just near my place, and
he is a frequent visitor. We have talks together as I used to have with
my other Japanese friends some three years ago. One day he said to me,
“Whatever is your idea and wherever have you got it? Certainly it is not
Japanese idea, and is not English either, what shall I call it? Pray
don’t call your book ‘Japanese Impressions,’ or else the public may be
puzzled.”
I answered him, “Amen! I myself don’t know what I am now!”