[Hearn] was again in New York in 1889, occupied with the final proofs of “Chita” before its appearance in book form, preparing the West Indian book for the press, but in sore distress for money, and making a translation of Anatole France’s “Le Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard” in a few weeks by Herculean labour, in order to exist until he could earn something by his original work. . . . [A]n arrangement was entered into with Harper and Brothers to go to Japan for the purpose of writing articles from there . . . later to be made into a book. . . .

[In] 1890, he left for the East—never again to return.

~ Elizabeth Bisland’s The Life and Letters of Lafcadio Hearn,
Volumes 1 and 2 (1906)

Koizumi Setsu: (1868–1932)

KOIZUMI SETSU

(1868–1932)

. . . .

TOKYO, 1909

Yakumo, the children miss you.

They bid, “Pleasant dreams, Papa,” to your photograph every night. They say it first in Japanese and then in English, even little Suzuko. I insist upon it.

The butsudan resides in your writing room now. The scent of your pipe tobacco is no longer here, departing after the second autumn without you. It is the fifth autumn now, and as the days grow cooler the bush clovers in the garden are beginning to show their white petals or, as you would say, they are snowing.

I know you think it inappropriate for a family altar, but I have placed the photographs here, yours at the center and foster Grandfather’s and foster Father’s to the left and to the right. In front of foster Father is his preferred wagashi, the small crab-apple-shaped one that you were also partial to when we were all in Matsue. It breaks with tradition to offer him a confection every day, but that was his preference in life. But, Yakumo, what is tradition in this novel house of Koizumi? Foster Grandfather has his daily bowl of rice and you your daily bread.

I still order a loaf twice weekly from Takoya, the Occidental restaurant at Shimbashi Station, for Kazuo, Iwao, and Kiyoshi. Unlike her elder brothers, Suzuko has not developed a taste for toasts and soft eggs in the mornings. The two younger boys follow Kazuo’s lead in every respect, and he at fifteen now has an appetite that astonishes me. Iwao at twelve is growing taller by the day. Kiyoshi at nine remains my dear one, a tender shoot. Suzuko is six and remembers you only as her “photograph Papa.” I tell her that for the first year of her life you called her “Aba, Aba,” followed by kisses on both cheeks. She looks very much like me these days, Yakumo, except that she has your nose. The boys all wear theirs well, and perhaps Suzuko will grow into hers. “If your husband’s nose was good enough for him,” foster Mother reminds me, “then it is good enough for the children.” She misses you too, Yakumo.

I hesitate each time. I know that you disapprove.