What strange and unimagined experiences you must have been passing through. Since the time of the great war between France and Germany, there were never such forces opposed to each other as those that met at Liaoyang. It seems to me a wonderful thing that I am able to send a letter to the place of so vast a contest.
I shall try to send you something to read of the kind you mention. My boys are writing to you—Kazuo in English; Iwao in his native language. May all good fortune be with you is the sincere wish of your friend,
Y. Koizumi.
CONCLUSION
With Mrs. Hearn’s quaint and tender record of Lafcadio Hearn’s last days, his “Life and Letters” may fitly conclude.
About 3 P. M. Sept. 19th, 1904, as I went to his library I found him walking to and fro with his hands upon the breast. I asked him: “Are you indisposed?” Husband: “I got a new sickness.” i: “What is your new sickness?” Husband: “The heart-sickness.” i: “You are always over anxious.” At once I sent for our doctor Kizawa with a jinrikisha furnished with two riksha men. He would not let myself and children see his painful sight, and ordered to leave him. But I stayed by him. He began writing. I advised him to be quiet. “Let me do as I please,” he said, and soon finished writing. “This is a letter addressed to Mr. Ume. Mr. Ume is a worthy man. He will give you a good counsel when any difficulty happen to you. If any greater pain of this kind comes upon me I shall perhaps die,” he said; and then admonished me repeatedly and strongly that I ought to keep myself healthy and strong; then gave me several advices, hearty, earnest, and serious, with regard to the future of children, concluding with the words, “Could you understand?” Then again he said: “Never weep if I die. Buy for my coffin a little earthen pot of three or four cents worth; bury me in the yard of a little temple in some lonesome quarter. Never be sorry. You had better play cards with children. Do not inform to others of my departure. If any should happen to inquire of me, tell him: ‘Ha! he died sometime ago. That will do.’” I eagerly remonstrated: “Pray, do not speak such melancholy things. Such will never happen.” He said: “This is a serious matter.” Then saying “It cannot be held,” he kept quiet.
A few minutes passed; the pain relaxed. “I would like to take bath,” he said. He wanted cold bath; went to the bath-room and took a cold bath. “Strange!” he said, “I am quite well now.” He recovered entirely, and asked me: “Mamma San! Sickness flew away from me. Shall I take some whiskey?” I told him: “I fear whiskey will not be good for heart. But if you are so fond of it I will offer it to you mixed with some water.” Taking up the cup, he said: “I shall no more die.” He then told me for the first time that a few days ago he had the same experience of pain. He lay down upon the bed then with a book. When the doctor arrived at our house, “What shall I do?” he said. Leaving the book, he went out to the parlour, and said “Pardon me, doctor. The sickness is gone.” The doctor found no bad symptom, and jokes and chattering followed between them.
He was always averse to take medicine or to be attended by a doctor. He would never take medicine if I had not been careful; and if I happen to be late in offering him medicine he would say: “I was glad thinking you had forgot.” If not engaged in writing, he used to walk in meditation to and fro in the room or through the corridor. So even in the time of sickness he would not like to remain quiet in confinement.
One day he told me in gladness: “Mamma San! I am very pleased about this.” I asked him what it was. “I wrote this newspaper article: ‘Lafcadio Hearn disappeared from the world.’ How interesting! The world will see me no more—I go away in secret—I shall become a hermit—in some remote mountain, with you and with Kazuo.”