night bell rings out, I will loosen and let fall all my reserves; it is the time when my head will turn towards my interlocutor. I will burn the incense which should rise as the silken folds of the world-wearied courtesy; under them the ego in myself intent but aloof, will put a proper presentation or emphasis on my life’s page. Come, my friend, at such an hour, as my own respect for myself will then be the very respect for my art and song, I will show you my best; if you do not know how to come, my friend, I will tell you that you should ride on the cool breeze, or step on the shadow of the moon.
Someone exclaimed to me the other day: “You are so awfully Japanese and so awfully English!” That was good indeed. When I am so awfully Japanese, I might be a slave to my emotion; but without my being so awfully English, my record of artistic development would not become visible. I confess, however, that I have a moment sometimes when I feel a secret regret at my being so awfully English; is it not the reason why I, seeing greatness right before myself, cannot get it?
