‘The stupid thing was, I was surprised! Oh, stupid me! True, I had not been long in London and, for the most part, I had not been abused or insulted before. But, on a couple of occasions, I had found myself the subject of conversation and speculation: a woman remarking “least-poor Chinese” as she passed me in the street, a couple in a park arguing whether I was “a Chinaman or a Jap”. So I did not deceive myself; I knew the majority of people simply took no notice of me, did not even see me, their thoughts consumed with making money, with no time to stop and jeer at the likes of a little yellow dog like me. Yet that night, in the bright lights of that public house, I had exposed myself, naked and in plain sight. In the English gaze, to the English hate: “Are you deaf, are you dumb,” barked the barman. “Get out of ’ere, you dirty little Chink …”
‘I turned to leave, to push the door, and as I turned, as I left, the laughter returned, the songs resumed, aroused and louder than before, the dirty little yellow stain removed, all now restored and as it was, as it was before.
‘Back outside in the crushing gloom, on the broken paving, I had never felt so alone, so very far from home. Oh, how I dearly, dearly wished to be somehow, somehow lifted up off this street, carried on the wind and dropped safely, softly back in Japan. But one will never find a sen-nin even in the Workshop of the World, no matter how hard one wishes. And so I started to walk again, but to walk without a care, hoping only for an early death under the hooves of a runaway horse. Yet the only sounds were the soles of shoes, out of the silence, in the darkness, to the right, approaching then gone again, in the darkness, in the silence, the soles of shoes, to the left now, approaching from behind, approaching, still approaching, closer and closer still –
‘A hand on my shoulder, a voice at my side: “I’m sorry.”
‘I jumped in fright and stopped, I turned in fear and saw: a tall man – they were all so tall, I know – yet made taller by his hat, dressed all in black, with a long face and a serious brow, older and more senior than myself, I guessed, standing there in that street, on the border between night and fog, but with a kindness in his eyes, a kindness on his lips: “I am a stranger here myself, though I’ve lived here many years. But I was not English-born and so know well how cruel this place, how spiteful these people can sometimes sadly be. Would this world be otherwise, but here we are …”
‘Yes, I said. Here we are.
‘The man smiled, the man said, “Well then, would you allow one stranger to show a little hospitality to another?”
‘Truly, these were the kindest words I had heard since I had first set foot on English soil. I smiled, I said, That would be very kind of you, thank you.
‘The man put out his hand. “Then let us not be strangers any more. My name is Nemo. It’s Latin, you know.”
‘For “no man”, I said.
‘“Forgive me,” he said, and I did, I did. This land seemed overrun with amateur schoolmasters and mistresses, ever ready to assume the ignorance of the Little Yellow Chap. But apart from my brief and ill-fated visit to Cambridge upon my arrival, and my weekly lessons with Professor Craig, my immediate impression was that here was a rare Man of Culture. I smiled again. I shook his hand and said, A pleasure to meet you, sir. My name is Natsume.
‘Nemo gave a little bow: “How do you do, Natsume-san. It is a pleasure to meet you, too. But may I ask what brings you from the land of the cherry blossoms to these dark, satanic isles?”
‘I replied I had been sent by our Ministry of Education, in order to research and study English Literature. But reluctant to discuss my own situation further, I asked if he knew Japan.
‘“Sadly, only from books and pictures,” he said. “The words of the Goncourt brothers first opened my eyes, and then when I saw for myself the prints of Hiroshige and Kunisada, I was enchanted. However, you are the first son of Japan I have had the opportunity and honour to meet.”
‘My first impression of a Man of Culture was thus confirmed, and while I hate to be questioned myself, loathing as I do this detective age in which we live, I could not contain my curiosity, and I said, Forgive my impertinence, but may I ask your profession, sir?
‘“I am a painter. But not a decorator.”
‘Of which school?
‘“Ah-ha! Which school indeed? Well, if Monsieur Baudelaire declared Guys to be the Painter of Modern Life, then I declare myself the Painter of Modern Death!”
‘Of Modern Death?
‘He laughed. “Whatever does he mean, you wonder, and with good reason. Well, and please in no way feel obliged, but you would be most welcome to visit my humble studio, for I would rather show than tell. A good sketch is worth a long speech, as a little corporal once said.”
‘I was intrigued, could not resist, and said, I would be honoured, and delighted, thank you. As Turgenev wrote, the drawing shows at a glance what may take ten pages of prose to write.
“‘Splendid,” said Nemo. “The rooms are nothing much but, for all her faults, my landlady can prepare an adequate if simple supper. That is, if you have the time and would care to join me now?”
‘I nodded. I would be delighted, I said. Thank you.
‘“I am to the north of here, but the hour is not yet too late and, if we take the Underground,
