The story of Yone Noguchi

Front matter

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THE STORY OF YONE NOGUGHI

Contents

I. How I Learned English 1

II. Some Stories of my Western Life 25

III. Joaquin Miller 55

II I

My new life began when I left Tokyo for California; on the 3rd of November, 1893, my friends saw me off at Shimbashi Station. I felt most ambitious when they wished me godspeed; but my heart soon broke down when my eldest brother, who came to Yokohama to bid me a final farewell, left me alone on the Belgic. That was the name of my steamer, an almost unimaginably small affair for a Pacific liner, being only three thousand tons. I cried when the last bell went ringing round to make the people leave the ship ; I cried more when my brother became invisible among the hurrying crowd and distance ; it was my most bitter experience, as I cannot forget the pain of sadness of that moment even to-day. I stood by an iron rail on the deck, a boy only eighteen years old, alone, friendless, with less than one hundred dollars in my pocket. I immediately grew conscious of the fact that I had to face unknown

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America, a land of angels or devils, the darkness.

It is true that it was my first experience to see such a vastness of water, as 1 was born in a place out of sight of the sea ; and its restless motion made me at once recall my sickness on the water which I had experienced when I joined a fishing party on the river Kiso several years before. The most unagreeable smell that filled the " Chinese steerage " made me already ill, even before the engine began to turn ; I was practically thrown in as if a little bundle of merchandise for America. I could not eat, drink, for many days, and I vomited even what I did not eat, when the ship rolled. I was often obliged to tie me round the iron pole by my canvas bed ; I soon became a thorough sea-hater, as I am still to-day.

The steamer duly reached San Francisco on a certain Sunday morning ; we, I and a few other fellow-passengers, were taken to the Cosmopolitan Hotel, whose shabby appearance looked then palace-like and most wonderful. And within it was not less handsome. The American room was the first thing for us ; even the sheets and the soft pillow, quite strange for the head acquainted only with hard wood, were a novelty. We put all the fruits we had bought (what splendid California fruits I) in a white bowl under the washing table ; when we were told, to our utmost shame, that that bowl was for another purpose, we at once thought that we were, indeed, in a country alien in custom, and had a thousand things to study. We acted even more barbarously at the dinner-table ; we took salt for sugar, and declared the cheese to be something rotten. We did not know which hand, left or right, had to hold a knife ; we used a tablespoon for sipping the coffee, in which we did not know enough to drop a lump of sugar ; we could not understand that those lumps were sugar. I stepped alone out of the hotel into a street and crowd ; what attracted my immediate attention, which soon became admiration, was the American women. " What lovely complexions, what delightfully quick steps," I exclaimed. They were a perfect revelation of freedom and new beauty for my Japanese eye, having no relation whatever with any form of convention with which I was acquainted at home ; it is not strange to say that I could not distinguish their ages, old or young ; they appeared equally young, beautiful, even divine, because my discrimination lost its power at once. True, it took some months, though not one year, before

THE STORY OF YONE NOGUCHl

I could venture to be critical toward their beauty ; for some long time they only looked, all of them, perfectly-raised California poppies. I am happy to say that my first impression never betrayed me during my eleven years of American life ; not only in California, but in any other place, they were my admiration and delight.

Now to return to the adventure of my first day in San Francisco. I again stepped out of the hotel after supper, and walked up and down, turned right, and again left, till the night was growing late. When I felt quite doubtful about my way back to the hotel, I was standing before a certain show window (I believe it was on Market Street), the beauty of which doubtless surprised me ; I was suddenly struck by a hard hand from behind, and found a large, red-faced fellow, somewhat smiling in scorn, who, seeing my face, exclaimed, " Hello, Jap ! " I was terribly indignant to be addressed in such a fashion ; my indignation increased when he ran away, after spitting on my face. I recalled my friend, who said that I should have such a determination as if I were entering among enemies ; I thrilled from fear with the uncertainty and even the darkness of my future. I could not find the way to my hotel, when I felt everything grow sad at once ; in fact, nearly all the houses looked alike. Nobody seemed to understand my English, in the ability of which I trusted ; many of the people coldly passed by even when I tried to speak. I almost cried, when I found one Japanese, fortunately ; he, after hearing my trouble, exclaimed in laughter : " You are standing right before your hotel, my friend ! "

My bed at the hotel was too soft; it even imitated, I fancied, the motion of the sea, the very thought of which made me sleepless. I sat alone on the shaky bed through the silence of midnight, thinking how I should begin my new life in this foreign country. In my heart of hearts, I even acknowledged my dead mistake in coming to America.

I had one introductory letter to Mr. Den Sugawara, of the Aikoku Domei, or " Patriot Union," a political league, whose principal object was to reform the bureaucracy at home, to speak more directly, to put an end to the Government of the Satsuma and Choshu Clans, by demonstration with the publication of free speech. I called on him next evening at the back of O'Farrell Street ; the house, this Aikoku Domei, was wooden and dirty. I really wondered at the style of Japanese living in San Francisco ; I cannot forget my first impression of the house where 1 made my call. It reminded me, I thought then, of something I had read about the Russian anarchists ; I confess that my feeling was gloomy. The narrow pathway led me to the house of two stories ; the lamplight from within made the general aspect still worse. I climbed up the steps which could not be wholly trusted ; when I entered within, 1 smelled at once fishes and even Japanese sake ; the clapping hands and noisy chattering from another room made me quite inquisitive. I presented my letter to the said Sugawara, an office boy to a certain doctor in those days, one of the prominent members of Parliament to-day ; and was soon admitted into the room of discussion. My boyish blood, with love of adventure and romance, began to rise when I found out that the people, most of them young and dauntless, were discussing how to help the Hawaiian kingdom. I looked round the room over each face of the people ; and was arrested by a face of different race, swarthy and large, doubtless a Kanaka, who was, I immediately found out, no other than Mr. Robert Wilcox, the Hawaiian patriot. I had already read about him a good deal ; but I had never dreamed I should see him within

a few steps. When the talk came to a close, it was decided that three members of the Aikoku Domei should return home for advocating the independence of the Sandwich Islands ; to live in history as a Japanese La Fayette was no small matter at all. I contributed all the money I could spare (every cent I gladly parted with) on the spot for the Hawaiian cause and her Majesty Queen Lilliokauani ; it was partly from my little vanity not to be taken for a mere boy, but one worthy to be taken account of. Vanity is always expensive.

The League was then publishing a daily paper called the Soko Shimbun or the San Francisco News, for which I was engaged as a carrier ; the paper had only a circulation of not over two hundred. I did not enter into any talk about payment ; I soon discovered it was perfectly useless when we hardly knew how to get dinner every day. You can imagine how difficult it was for five or six people to make a living out of a circulation of two hundred ; I believe it was Mr. Crocker's kindness (the house belonged to him) that we could stay there without regular payment of rent. When he decided to put up new houses, he only begged us to move away, not saying anything about the payment. By

turns, we used to get up and build a fire and prepare big pancakes, you understand, with no egg or milk, just with water. And a cupful of coffee was all we had for our breakfast. When we had no money to make supper, we often went to a Chinese restaurant on Dupont Street, or somewhere, to eat for the payment of his advertisement in our paper. " Oh, such a life," I exclaimed, finding it unbearable at the beginning ; but I became soon satisfied, even glad, as I could have plenty of time for my own reading. I assure you that I was quite a reader, and proud of my being advanced in my taste with literature, particularly poetry.

There was no bed in the house ; we used to sleep upon a large table, a mass of newspapers serving as mattresses. I took down a volume of the Encyclopcedia Biitannica, which, I am sure, contained Macaulay's essay on Byron ; I made a nightly habit of reading it before I went to sleep, using the book as my pillow. Lord Byron was my favourite in those days, as with any other boy ; that was long before my days of Keats and Shelley. There was a man called AVatari, who acted toward me rather fatherly; it was one of my delights to talk with him, more often listen to him, every morning, while still in bed, on poetry

and politics ; I cannot forget how he tired me with his Darwinism, which I little understand even to-day. It was about that time I began, little by little, to read Hamlet; once I decided to remember every word of his famous soliloquy, and having my mind fully occupied with the recitation of it, I forgot for some time to leave my best wishes with the papers which I had to hand in to Japanese readers at each place.

There was another club or league, mainly social, but not less political, called the Enseisha, or " Expedition Club," which always acted differently from our Aikoku Domei, and often expressed even open enmity toward us. Truth to say, we had not one day when we did not fight in the papers. Enseisha was then publishing its own daily (the Golden Gate News), which was not better off financially than our paper. And not only with pen, our hands, too, helped to settle our troubles ; when we called its members cowards, they gave us the name of liars. And we got still more angry. I can say, when I reflect on the Japanese life in San Francisco seventeen years ago, that we had at least one pride, not to move from commercial motives ; we never thought about money and fortune. Really, I was surprised to observe such a great change in the general aspect of Japanese life Avhen I stopped in San Francisco on my way home in 1904 ; it made me rather sad to know that money was the reigning power. It was regarded as fooHsh, even harmful, to talk on politics, which was the only one subject for the Japanese of the old days. A great fight suddenly ensued between the Aikoku Domei and Enseisha from the suspicion that two members of the former were connected with the dirty work of Tanaka, who robbed in one way or another the money of Japanese labourers in Idaho while he was their manager ; we tried to prove the probity of our friends, while the others blackened us. It was when we held an open debate to explain the whole affair at St. George Hall, Market Street, in January of 1894, that one of my dear friends in those days, Terutake Hinata, beat a member of the Enseisha in the hall, who attempted to disturb the meeting, and wounded him with an iron bar, which he hid under his coat ; as a consequence he was arrested. It took some time before a peaceful settlement was brought about between the two parties. Mr. Hinata is to-day one of the figures in the Japanese Parliament. Whenever I see him, we talk on the old days in California, and sigh in

reminiscent mood from the feeling of sadness mingled with a sort of joy which only belongs to the memory of a younger day.

When I began to reflect on what I had come to America for, to ask myself how far my English had improved, and what American life I had seen, I regretted my mistake in associating with the Aikoku Domei, and put an advertisement as a " schoolboy " in the Chronicle, following the way of many other Japanese boys. AVhat domestic work has that " schoolboy" to do? The work is slight, since the wages are little — one dollar and a half a week. We have to leave our bed before six, and build a fire for breakfast. Don't throw in too much coal, mind you ; your Mrs. Smith or Mrs. Brown will be displeased with you, surely. She can hear every noise you make in the kitchen, she can see how lazy you are as clear as can be, no matter if she be busy with her hair upstairs. " Charlie, isn't the water boiling ? " she will cry down. Charlie ! Your father didn't give the name to you, did he ? A great pile of dirty dishes will welcome you from the sink when you return from your school about four o'clock. Immediately, a basketful of peas will be ready to be shelled. You must go without dessert, if you eat the strawberries too often while picking. Saturday

was our terror-day. We had to work all day beginning with the bathroom. Your lady will let her finger go over the furniture when you finish. " See ! " she will show you her finger marked with dust. Patience ! What a mighty lesson for the youth ! You must not forget to wash your stockings before you go to bed, and hang them on a chair. How could we afford two pair of stockings in our schoolboy days ? What a farce we enacted in our first encounter with an American family ! Even a stove was a mystery to us. One of my friends endeavoured to make a fire by burning the kindling in the oven. Another one was on the point of blowing out the gaslight. One fellow terrified the lady when he began to take off his shoes, and even his trousers, before scrubbing the floor. It is true, however fantastic it may sound. It was natural enough for him, since he regarded his American clothes as a huge luxury. Poor fellow ! He was afraid he might spoil them. I rushed into my Madam's toilet-room without knocking. The American woman took it good-naturedly, as it happened. She pitied our ignorance, but without any touch of sarcasm. Japanese civilisation, if it was born in America, certainly was born in her household — in some well-to-do San Francisco family, rather than in Yale or

Harvard.

The work of " schoolboy," which I took up with much enthusiasm, served for some time as a deHghtful break in my American Hfe ; but its monotony soon became unbearable, and I decided to go on foot to Palo Alto, as I thought (as in a Japanese proverb, " The children who live by the temple learn how to read a sutra") I might learn something there. I slipped out of my employer's house one early morning from the window, as I was afraid the lady would not let me go if I asked my wages. When I reached the Stanford University ground, it was near evening; I

called at the house of Prof. G , where my

friend was working while he attended the lecture courses. I was permitted to stay with him till I found some way to support myself. Through the kindness of the wife of Prof.

G I got a job at Mrs. C 's to work

morning and evening, and by turns I found a place at the Manzanita Hall (a sort of preparatory school for Stanford), where I was admitted to appear at the school for my service in cleaning the classrooms and waiting on table for the student-boarders. There were less than twenty students then ; the work was not heavy, but if I remember rightly, I received no payment. I do not remember

now how long I stayed there, what knowledge

I picked up in the classroom ; one thing I remember is that I read Irving's Sketch Book there for the first time, in which the description of Westminster Abbey incited my sudden desire for England. The general influence of Stanford, silent, not unkind, courteous, encouraging, that I felt from the buildings, the surrounding view with trees, even the group of students, was, I confess, far deeper than my first impression of Harvard, or even Oxford of England ; after all, the library and lectures are not the main things. As I said, I worked without payment at the Manzanita Hall ; I began to feel uncomfortable in course of time, with my heelless shoes and dirty coat. I decided to work at the Menlo Park Hotel, Menlo Park, as a dish-washer, till 1 could put myself in a respectable shape.

The work was not light ; I had to rise every morning before four o'clock, and my work was never finished till ten o'clock at night. It was about the time when Japan declared war with China ; what a delight it was to read the paper with the battle news in my spare time ! When the war was quite advanced, almost reaching the zenith of interest as Li Hang Chang, the appointed Chinese Special Envoy, had already left home for Bakan to meet Ito, my mind

grew restless from a sudden burst of desire to see my friends at San Francisco, and talk over the war, if it were necessary, even to fight with them. I dismissed myself from the hotel, and hurried back again to the San Fi^ancisco News. I thought I was quite rich, as I had more than thirty dollars for my savings, while my compatriots at the office were in the same condition as before ; I could not help feeling sorry for them, and then I bought a pair of shoes for A, a new shirt for B, and played a philanthropist for a short time. When I awoke from a few occasions of extravagance, I found myself again penniless as my friends. The paper needed somebody who could translate from the English papers ; and I was asked to help it, even for a short time. As I had no particularly bright job before me, I consented to stay ; under any circumstances, I thought I must put my fingers into their former order, as they had become swollen from the dirty dish-water with much soda. Even in America it is not easy to earn money.

Joaquin Miller was regarded most reverentially by Japanese as a sennin^ or " hermit who lived on dews." His great personality, it was said, was in his denying of the modern civilisation ; his only joy of life was to raise roses and carnations. I believe it was with more than curiosity that I climbed up the hills behind Oakland to see him at the " Heights," where he sang :

" Come under my oaks, oh, drowsy dusk ! The wolf and the dog ; dear incense hour, When Mother Earth hath a smell of musk. And things of the spirit assert their power — When candles are set to burn in the West — Set head and foot to the day at rest."

It was the ideal spot on earth with balmy air, such a wonder of view at your feet ; I fell in love with the place at once, and I thought I could get plenty of the rest which was beyond my reach during two years and seven months that I had already spent in America. More than the place itself, I fell in love with Mr. Miller, whose almost archaic simplicity in the way of living and speech was indeed prophetlike; he said he would be glad to have me stay with him. I decided to do so on the spot.

He said that he had no lesson or teaching to give me, or if he had any, it was about the full value of silence, without the understanding of which one could never read the true heart of Mother Nature ; and the heart of Nature, he said, was Love.

" Silence, Love — and simplicity," he exclaimed.

When I retired in the house right next to 40 his own to sleep that night, I secretly decided that I would become a poet.

II

I was hoeing round and watering the flowers in the plum orchard at the " Heights," when I received a letter from Gelett Burgess, then the editor of the Lark, the now famous, though short-lived, California magazine, saying : " I have several notices of your poems from the Eastern papers, and your work has been very well received." The July of 1896, when my five English poems (let me call them poems) were first printed by Mr. Burgess in the JLark, was certainly the dawn of my new page of American life ; with his letter my heart jumped high in joy. Indeed, I confess that the joy I felt then was the greatest of joys, and I never felt anything like it again ; to have it once in a lifetime may be said to be lucky enough. Before I sent my poems to the Lark, I submitted one poem to the editor of the Chap Book, Chicago, who wrote, when he printed it : " The current issue of the Lark contains some few pages of verses by Yone Noguchi, and 1 find that the pleasant opportunity I thought to have of first printing his writing is denied me. Perhaps I am a little envious." And the poem beginning, " Mystic spring of vapour," which was pubHshed in the Philistine in September, was bitterly attacked by a certain Mr. Hudson, of Oakland, as a plagiarism from Poe. I was a devout reader of Poe's poems ; it was the only book, beside the work of our famous kokku poet, Basho Matsuo, and a book on Zen Buddhism by Kochi, that I brought to the "Heights." My name began to be known ; newspaper men of San Francisco came up the hill to interview me. It was the Eocaminei^ that wished me to stand before a camera ; alas, I had no decent white shirt to wear then. I borrowed one from my friend, which was two sizes too large ; I found, when the picture was taken, that even my clenched fist might easily go in at the neck.

I published my own attitude toward Hudson's attack in the following fashion : " Let critics say what they please ! Poetry is sacred to me. It is not art for me, but feeling. My poems are simply my own journal of feeling — the footmark of my experience. I can stand anything but deceiving myself. I am not sorry a bit, if there be an exact correspondence in shape. I am thankful to God for giving me the moment when I felt the same thing with Poe. I cannot understand why you could not feel the same thing with Poe if you want to.

It is not poetry at all, if you must express yourself in some other fashion when you think of one thing."

When he again attacked me on " On the Heights" in the September Lark, he made himself a subject of laughter, even to the editor of the Examiner, who said : *' The occurrence of the word ' window ' in the first line of Noguchi's and the seventh line of the quoted section from Poe is, of course, a damaging affair for both, and when it is reinforced by the damning fact that 'beauty' is mentioned in the third verse of Noguchi and the fifth verse of the quotation from Poe, the candid reader must admit that the two writers spell according to the same dictionary. It is to be feared, however, that Poe's claims to originality are not on a much better foundation than those of Noguchi, Noah Webster had already published all the words of The Sleeper before Poe, and Dr. Johnson before Webster, and still others before Dr. Johnson."

Most of the Eastern literary magazines did not take Hudson's attack seriously ; I was defended by many of them, the Book Buyer, for instance, who remarked : " He has originality enough, if that were the full equipment of a great writer. Beauty and delicacy of

thought are in his work, and imagination to spare. But the imagery is often so exotic as to perplex, as when Oriental music falls on Western ears. But he did not steal his cadences from Poe, nor from anybody else."

I found in the various papers and weeklies poems or other writings addressed to me, mostly in kind and often humorous vein ; let me quote one of them as a specimen :

YONE NOGUCHI

(To the tune of" Ws No Farmer")

" Yone !—

As critics lift their carping bray.

Pretend thy hair is full of hay.

With other Poe its odds and orts, And ravelin shreds — they also say : Homer is not awake alway, Shakespeare caught flukes i' his bright sword-play.

Wordsworth is solemn at his sports, (He is, Yone !)

But thou, train ever round thy lay

Some fragrant wilding of the May :

Graft not its stem with borrowed thoughts. Nor trim the spray — it bloom aborts —

For public, Publishers Pay :

Then blossoms, clustering thick thy bay,

Shall crown thee, Yone ! "

The death of the Lark, after a brilliant course of two years, was much lamented

through the country ; the Chap Book ended its note on the passing of the Lark with the following words : " And now it is dead. Les Jeunes, taken doubtless with an affection similar to the gold fever of the Klondyke, are striking out for the East, where the nuggets of recognition and encouragement are to be picked up in the fertile fields of literature and art. Gelett Burgess and Ernest Peixotto are in New York, Bruce Potter and Florence Lundborg are headed toward Europe, and ' the Homeless Snail,' Yone Noguchi, alone remains :

' Standing like a ghost in the smiling mysteries of the moon garden.' "

Indeed, I was left alone at Miller's " Heights "

sadly or happily. It was happy to lie on the

top of the hill when the poppies covered it in

spring, where I often dreamed death would be,

if I could be buried in such a place overlooking

the bay (the Golden Gate), sweeter than life ;

it was happier still to rest by a brook in the

canyon, with whose song I could send my

mind far into the Unknown and Eternal.

My life of seclusion was not without a happy

break in meeting celebrities now and then.

My passion for wandering, that seemed to

have ceased temporarily its flight (I was quite

a traveller already in my boyhood at home), began to blaze up again ; I felt it almost impossible not to heed the calling voice of trees, hills, waters, and skies in the far distance. I have read the romantic story of Goldsmith in his vagabondising in European villages, with only his beloved little flute ; and the travelling note that was written by Basho, poet of moon and wind, impressed my mind, which only aspired to become a real poet. And the true poetry is not in writing, but in the union with nature. I decided to experience a "tramp life " in poetical fashion ; I thought it was the first step for my idea. I did not see at all the hard side of it ; the romantic aspect of parting with the world and society, the perfect freedom, the having all airs and flowers on equal terms, was brighter. It was the month of April when I started on my lone pilgrimage (with a book of poems instead of a holy staff) toward the Yosemite Valley ; my tramp life commenced at Stockton, which I reached by a river boat from San Francisco. I remember clearly, as it were yesterday, that it was already dark, a few stars sparkling in the high sky, as if a guiding spirit for a pilgrim, when I passed through Chinese Camp, the once famous place I had read of in Harte's stories of a mining camp. I felt extremely sad, the wind blowing from behind, at not finding a right place to sleep, and finally I camped under the trees, by a brook whose silver song still remains in my ears. I could not fall asleep because my blanket was so light, and I remember I put many little stones and twigs on it, that I gathered under the starlight. It was the first time that I felt such a great love in that light, which I never felt before ; I thank my tramp life, which revealed many new beauties of nature, above all, how to appreciate it. I wrote down my feeling of that night in The Night Reverie in the Forest; in one part I sang :