TO PAGE M. BAKER
Kōbe, March, 1896.
Dear Page,—I have your exquisite photo of Constance—like a bit of marble it is.... And I have your letter—a very dear letter, though—excuse me—I cannot help hating the typewriter!
I have been very sick with inflammation of the lungs, and unable to move until recently. But I shall soon, I hope, be able to send you something....
About my name. Koizumi is a family name: I take my wife’s name as her husband by adoption— the only way in which I could become a Japanese citizen. Koizumi means “little spring” or “little source.” The other name means “many clouds,” and is an alternate poetical name for Izumo, the “Place of the Issuing of Clouds.” For I became a citizen of the province of Izumo, where I am officially registered. The word is also the first word of the most ancient poem in the Japanese language—referring to a legend of the sacred records. Please do not publish this! it is a little private matter, and the whole explanation, though read at a glance by a Japanese, would require many pages to make clear. As to your other question, I always wear the Japanese dress at home or in the interior. In Kōbe or the large cities I wear Western clothes when I go on the street; because it does not do there for a man with a long nose to be too “Japanesey”—there has been a surplus of “Japanesey” display on the part of foreigners of the jocose class. I am Japanese only among Japanese....
And you have been very sick too. Do you know that I am often worried by the fear that one of us might die before we meet again? I very often think about you. Please take every care of yourself,—all the outing you can. I think, though, you are a long-lived tough race—you Bakers; and that Page M. Baker will be writing some day an obituary of Lafcadio Hearn that was,—with many pleasant observations which the said Lafcadio never deserved and never will deserve.
You think I am misanthropic—no, not exactly; but I do feel an intense hatred for the business class of Northern mankind. You know I never could learn much about them till I was ass enough to go North.... And you will remember that settled dislikes or likes come to this creature at intervals—never thereafter to depart. My last horror—one that I can scarcely bear—is what is called “business correspondence.” That is why I say that I dislike the sight of typewriting—though I assure you, dear Page, I am glad to get a line from you written or printed in any way, shape, or form.
Ghosts! After getting your letter last night I dreamed. Do you remember that splendid Creole who used to be your city editor—whose voice seemed to come up from a well, a lover of music and poetry and everything nice? John——? Is it not a sin that I have forgotten his name? Next to yourself I see him, however, more distinctly than any other figure of the old days. He recited “The Portrait” of Owen Meredith in that caressing abysmal voice of his. Last night I was talking to him. He sat in a big chair in the old office, and told me wonderful things,—which I could not recall on waking; but I was vaguely annoyed by the fact that he “avoided the point.” So I interrupted, and said: “But you do not tell me—you are dead—is there ...” I only remember saying that. Then the light in his eyes went out, and there was nothing. I woke up in the dark and wondered.
For six years in Japan I have been walking up and down—over matted floors—by myself, just as I used to do in that room you wrote me from. Curiously, my little boy has the same habit. It is very difficult to make him keep still at meal-time. He likes to take a nibble or sup of something, then walk up and down, or run, then another nibble, etc.—I hope the gods will save him from adopting other former habits of mine, which are less innocent, when he grows up:—for example, if he should take a foolish fancy to every damozel in his path. However, I expect that his mother’s strong common-sense, which he seems to inherit, will counterbalance the fantasticalities bequeathed him by me.... It has only been since his entrance into this world that I fully realize what a “disgraceful person” I used to be.
I live pretty much alone—have no foreign friends and very few Japanese friends outside of my family, which numbers, however, a good many dear souls. How isolated I have managed to be you can imagine from the fact that sometimes for months no one sees me except home-folks. I work when I can; and when I cannot I bury myself in studies—philosophical studies: you can scarcely believe how they interest me now, and I find worlds of inspiration in them—new perceptions of commonplace fact. I try not to worry, and let things take their course. Probably next year I shall be leading a busier life; but I don’t know whether Japanese officialism can be endured for any great length of time. I had one dose of it too much already. The people are the best in the world; the military and naval men are men, and generally braves garçons....