Herself

by Hortense Calisher

  Thence to dinner at a private home in Kobe, Mr. Will Rogers—home approached through walled hillside path rather like that outside some villas in Italy, etc. Large group of Jap.-American cultural soc. I was infinitely weary, still suffering from diarrhea—had had a Jap. lunch—no more of that. (I know why the whole land smells of fish—after all, it is an island—but I shall have no more.)

  Discussion of the position of women—marriage in Japan—etc. (Sat next to Mr. Baker, consul, an amiable Southerner who made amusing comments—which nettled the serious younger Americans, on our own civ.) I too, am now less eager to project our Amer. attitudes, particularly re women—than I wd have been yrs ago. Spoke with Joan Greenwood, doing her Ph.D. with Stegner and now teaching in Kobe Co., for women—she very hot over the injustices of J. women, but less eager to admit our women were not all rosy-happy. Very bright girl. Baker, on my right, explaining meanwhile that the J.’s here constituted perhaps 1% of all J.—this group mostly being men and women who had had some college training in U.S. Such girls, returning, found it difficult to marry here, even to their opposites, the men who have also been to U.S. Americans in group asked abt arranged marriages etc., etc. I made Baker ask a q. for me—were all the J. women anxious to exchange their. “feudal yoke” for Amer. female attitudes? A beautiful and intelligent J. girl spoke up—said she thought things were happier in the home if the man had a certain “dominance.” (B. said she was one of the ones who was finding it difficult to marry.)

  Sad, what we are doing to them—I think often of Mark Twain’s essay on missionaries, which applies as much to the eager-beaver mod. American emissary as it did to his 19th century missionary counterpart. The USIS people all extremely good types however—Baskin and others I heard speak—also their wives—Mrs. B. very charming and intelligent—this unusual as embassy wives go—but they are different from straight For. Service wives I fancy. Thence I was to go to the train—when lo—it was found that all trains wd be delayed owing to a great accident—after much back-and-forth, it was arranged that I stay here in Kobe instead of having to bear the train again, and take the plane in morning. Unless the plane falls down, the gods are with me, for my weariness had begun to be serious, and my mental state poor. Heat, as I know, always makes me hypochondriacal—the heat has lessened, but I still have all the symptoms—maybe it’s the stomach etc.—mal de peche, etc. Anyway, looking in the mirror—drawn face, skin broken out, and insides melancholy, I told myself that the East was indeed hard on a white woman—what wd C. think if I deplaned looking and feeling like this? At dinner, when someone asked me the ages of my children, and on hearing, made the accustomed remarks on the unbelievability of same, I thought they must be out of their heads, since I looked to myself like that woman in Lost Horizon at the moment just before she crumbled with the weight of centuries of age, into dust.

  Sunday, Sept. 21, Hakata Imperial Hotel, Fukuoka

  I am somewhat recovered, thanks to an evening of rest in the Kobe Hotel, where I wrote the above, just before embarking for here on the JAL plane. And thanks to a pleasant day spent here, which I shall “presently recount.” To date I have written this journal without even glancing up to correct the typos, much less read back. It is a curious experience for a writer accustomed, as I am, to mandarin concentration on every word. Perhaps I could not have done this straight from the short story, but the necessary telescoping of that impulse, which has gradually crept on me during the writing of the novel, has helped.

  Yesterday, George Iseki of the Kobe A.C.C. came early to drive me to Itami airfield, some 40 minutes drive, and we had a pleasant drive through the rice paddies (Agricultural note for C.—they alternate rice and wheat; G. said he thought they had always done, though not sure.) He had had a year in the U.S., at Northwestern and U. of Texas, has less accent than most of the other men, many of whom have also been—but he is considerably younger—looks like a young football player, stocky, with carefully crewed hair. I had impression I was talking to someone far more westernized inside than most. Itami air terminal, small and handsomer than any of ours I have seen, even Seattle-Tacoma, which still funs to dull green and henna chairs and sofas of the “public room” variety. The seats in Itami are the brilliant J. yellow, backed with royal blue—imperial colors?—the wood smooth and handsome.

  Very bright weather. Followed the map provided, on from the rt side of the plane, seeing the inland sea. Mountains on left. A J. next me, who spoke some Eng. pointed out first Shodo Is., then Inno and Eda—one or the other a shipbuilding base and a naval academy—no doubt I have got them wrong—but sufficient to remind one—if the omnipresent and fresh fish had not—how maritime a nation they are. Near Kure, I had half-hoped, half-dreaded, to look down on Hiroshima, fancying that from the air I might still see that historic and dreadful crater, but H. is inland.

  The stewardess announced it, as she did all pts of interest, meanwhile serving us with cake and éclairs. Someone here has told me (an Amer. of course—perhaps Baker) that the J. at Hiroshima are proud of their distinction in being “the first to be atom bombed.” Part of the insistent J. reliance on prestige, perhaps?—Thence we landed at Itazuke airfield, about 40 minutes out of Fukuoka, the inevitable A.C.C. truck meeting me, Mr. Kuriya in command. Left me at the Hakata, to repair myself until 2 P.M. when the talk is scheduled—mostly professors, he told me.

  The A.C.C, housed in the same building as the consulate, was a surprise. Downstairs, I stopped to note several books enclosed in a case on the wall near the elevator, J. and Eng. among them. And there, staring at me, was Curt’s name and mine—on a copy of the O. Henry collection. K explained that 2 other J’s were to talk at this meeting—we evolved a scheme whereby I say a few words first, then the other two wd deliver their papers, then I and my questions and answers.

  First paper was delivered, in English (at some pains to compliment me I’m afraid)—on James’s Portrait of a Lady. Beforehand we were each given a mimeographed paper containing, first, the Oxford D. of E. Lit’s synopsis of the book, a historical acct of the pub. from Leavis, etc. The speech was in effect, merely a going over of the printed matter (though it is probable it wd have been more expanded in Japanese). But emphasis was placed on Henry James having had a “success” with his bk. The prof. (name not caught) did speak of the ending, left up in the air—why was Isabel Archer left to return to Europe?—this not explained by James, etc. I have always felt this abt the ending also, and later said so.

  It was opportune to have something to say, since the lecture was primitive, and this not entirely owing to language—although it was sometimes difficult not to laugh when I finally translated such a sentence as fell on my ear thus: “Isahbel Ochah’s seedpod, o, razzer, hah rubber”—as “Isabel Archer’s sweetheart, or, rather, her lover.” I am beginning to be slightly more deft with J. names and syllables and used to their accent: “In leeding the lurks of,” for “in reading the works of,” now strikes me as quite natural, and nothing to be reported really. An advance.

  The next speech concerned mass-culture in the U.S., a very young and eager-beaver prof. who had lifted some stuff I saw in the U.S.—lists of the popular best-sellers since the 1880s with some interpretations of popular tastes, etc., nothing more than statistics really.

  Sakae Murioka, pres. of the society, invited me to a party for the consul Mr. and Mrs. Herndon, there at the lecture, and just returned from leave, and for a Mr. Gardiner who has been teaching here and goes to Ochanimasu (U. for girls in Tokyo). The Herndons drove me back to the hotel—he a former language-school grad in Fr., she from the South, plump and talky, rather bright or merely pleasant. She sweet-talks the J. men—this goes down very well with them.

  Party was a dinner really, in an impressive walled villa—later the Herndons said they did not know to whom it belonged and may well have been a restaurant. (Now I remember what G. Iseki and I discussed—:the reluctance of the J.’s to entertain in their homes, he said, is not due to any large sense of personal privacy, as w
ith the French, but because they feel that their homes may not be elaborate enough, problems of service etc. also being easier in many ways. How like us they are in this, as in their sense of the future, and mechanical talents, though they have infinitely more talent for painstaking handicrafts than we—this because we are at farther distance from our handcraft era?)

  The Dinner. Long table, oblong, at which about 18 of us sat, Mr. Gardiner, a rather typical Anglo-Irishman of a certain sort, at my left. He loved being intime with the J.’s, not particularly interest in talking to me, altho his teaching will be Lit (Eng.). May not like women. Not interested in talking abt London—I careful not to pursue. But the young Amer. and Eng. who stay out here (Burton Martin at Waseda is a prime example) interest one, since one always suspects—at least Americans do—the expatriate. And it is true that many of these (like the rather-dreadful and pathetic S. K. who spoke to me after the lecture at Kyoto—who has left U.S. because “poetry should not be in the marketplace,” who published works of bad poets and probably writes poetry himself—gave me a thin folio by Theodore Enslin) have the flavor of the intellectual remittance man. Undoubtedly, I suspect, many of them stay or return because homosexuality is easy, etc.—Though not all. The foreign service people here, for instance, return for many tours, and obviously love it.—I speak of the single men, teaching at a university, and with a certain air of entente with the Japanese, which seems more than superficial—to them.

  But the dinner. First taste of saké, clear, warm—was told it might make me sleepy but not drunk—it did relax, poured from a tiny-mouthed small urn. And getting used to the tidbits one dips in soy (latter first mixed with a mustard—nothing like ours—this is a chopped green smoothness, rather like mashed avocado), then in the main dish that comes swimming in clear sauce. Main dish, kept in a chafing-dish at either end, was chicken giblets etc., particular dish of this region. At intervals, serving maids brought other things to be dropped in the simmering sauce along with the chicken—crinkled Chinese cabbage, which was delicious, not stewed a la the West—and a kind of white, jellied consistency, in squares, which might be fish, might be part of an animal, quien sabe—very good. Not bean curd. Had had a delicately salted fish of some sort before, cold, not salmon not crab, but in between, pink—to be dipped in soy. Several chestnuts.

  The idea of the J. meal is of course “several”—not too much of anything, a taste here and there, except for the rice, which melds all. Rather a little like Fr. cuisine in that—they of course are sympathetic, very, to Fr. culture, and some of this may come from a natural, native resemblance in the spirit of the two styles of life. Certainly it was a relaxing and civilized way to spend an evening.

  The men assume the lotus, position, legs crossed in front, but often vary this with one knee raised, or other casual positions, feet stretched under table. I contented myself with kneeling on haunches, luckily, since I am such a floor-sitter, and still fairly supple, this not hard for me, though tiresome. Murioka came over and teased me: why did I continue to sit in the proper position for ladies. Glad I had instinctively assumed same—although it is apparently O.K. to sit sideways, as I then thankfully did, though never, for a woman, to cross legs. My sheath dress, which happens to look so Oriental had saved me from this anyway. The dinner had started somewhat before 6, ended a little before nine, with a J. fruit, nameless to me still, a cross between apple and pear. We all exchanged our flowery compliments—I am getting fairly good at this, in fact enjoy it, having an initial taste for formalities and flowerinesses hardly satisfied by life in America. Murioka in particular went into a long speech, describing how, before meeting me, he had wondered was I young or old, now he was infinitely happy to discover that I was young, might he call the hotel tomorrow?—I thought he perhaps might have been a little saké-ed—also the men had had whisky from complimentary bottles of VERY OLD RARE LIQUEUR Sun-Tory brand—anyway I repeated my promise to leave my copy of Keenes’ Intro to J. Lit for him, and to send him a copy of my book.

  Talked quite a bit with Gunther Rosinus, the dir. of the A.C.C.—Harvard Edct, German background I think, mother a child psychologist—he brought me home and we had a brandy in the bar. All the liquor, western and J., that one wants—I had not happened to want any to date, but may be sorry for this, as about the fish, when I reach Tabriz.

  A wonderful night’s sleep at last, stayed in bed until after 9, had breakfast; it is now 1 P.M. Like many hotels in J., Rosinus said, this one is built into a dep’t store—I may investigate—they are open Sun. and closed Mon.—tried to get a yakata (cotton bath-kimono) in Kyoto, but they are out of season. Driver commented they w’dn’t be able to fit me anyway. Hardly worth having made up, but I w’d rather have these than anything elaborate. Fun to get one for C. too, if I cd. Rosinus said that the tanzen, winter kimono with lining, has a wonderfully pleasing texture to wear, warm and comfortable.

  I am still a little dizzy and suffering from that other woe, but not as hysterically tired as I know I must have been. Fukuoka from above—my room on the 8th floor has fine view of rooftops and distant mountains, has a distinctly seaside air—the bay can be seen from the restaurant where I had lunch yesterday. Two J. boys were playing catch with a ball and mitts, on the rooftop of a building just below eye-level, when I lunched. City seems cosmopolitan on a small scale geared to visitors—the way Atlantic City might though it is not a cosmopolis, and Fukuoka of course is at the top end of Kyushu. (How proud I am of my geography!)

  I have time to think of C. now—or rather again, for when I felt ill this was part of it—as well as homesickness. I have put his picture out—though Dita in enlarging has hexed it and it does not look as I remember him best—it is nice to see. Perhaps there will be mail when I return to Tokyo tomorrow. I concentrate hopefully on the day we shall meet, in Tabriz, or Teheran. We have had so many partings—the way I see him best is the way he always comes forward as we meet, his face eager and somehow questioning, as if he is asking himself:

  (The telephone has just rung. Mail for me at desk!)

  Alas, I went down in hopes of mail forwarded from embassy—nothing but a note from Kuriya, saying Mon., is their holiday, so no one may escort me to plane—suggests I ask JAL office downstairs. So I did—although I feel competent enough to get on airport bus which after all starts in front of hotel, there is always the language difficulty—and besides one gets rather used to being shepherded about, things made easy, as a state visitor. Sic transit amor democratiae.

  This diary is getting far too extensive, but it serves as a companion too, and C. won’t mind my maunderings. I wonder what his will be like—far more pulled together—plus no climatic or other troubles I hope. And perhaps not so subjective. When I was interrupted, I was about to say, almost to see his face coming toward me. He always looks as if he is asking himself: Are we still together? Do we still love? Is she as she was, for me? Am I still, for her? But always the same interest in what will be—in that we are very alike. At the core of each of us, something anxious to know, not unfeeling but always accompanying feeling—it is this in us that must sometimes make others think us hard at the core, that he and I, understanding, know is not, but recognize. …

  I did go down to the JAL office, queried the girl about yakatas—she insisted on accompanying me to the Haikata Daimaru store next door, where, after pricing “Reblon” lipsticks—they hadn’t the color. I wanted anyway, I bought a J. one. Not as many colors as ours, but quite good I’m sure. Smells of that insistent perfume, which may turn nostalgic when not so pervasive, and which C. may taste. As I suspected no yakatas made up. Contented myself with the lipstick and some razor blades for C, then walked down the main street. Foggy and dusty today, small resemblance to yesterday’s seaside Dufy air, when I cd see a distant white lighthouse on a prong of land in the blue bay. Nipped into various shops—a record place crammed with our cheap jazz—it plays all the time in the restaurant here—a food shop and wine shop where they have many familiar brands—Hennessy cognac t
empted me but they had no small bottles. Bought cheese crackers—bad reproductions.

  All this sounds transitory indeed, but I am rather certain that by walking in streets and shops, making little random purchases, etc., I already know a bit more about J. life, (though very little) than I might if I had done the routine bit to Nikko. And now, I shall read—alas I thought I had brought Under the Volcano, but have left it with baggage checked at Imperial—nothing except K.’s book which I finished this morning in order to give Murioka—and my own! Well, I shall muse. Empty Sunday, rather nice Sunday. Still Saturday in New York, just beginning to be so in Tabriz?? Not sure.

  Wednesday—returned to the Imperial on Monday—this is 9/24/58.

  After last entry went and blew myself to an enormous dinner—ordered vodka, glass was enormous even after I had extracted all the ice, a huge steak, and Marron à la creme—which I thought wd be a tiny taste of, as it is in France. The most enormous pile came—a cone-shaped child’s dream of an ice-cream pagoda—cake, piles of ground chestnut, and such festoonings of whipped cream as must have occupied the happy cook with a pastry tube for quite a while. Then sogged off to bed. Since I have read C.’s journal, it is quite apparent we are both drugging ourselves with food.