The clouds, impossible, sad, had at last broken last night; thank God, the rainy season is over. I agree with one who says that the true Japanese atmosphere, intensely grey, soft like a tired breath of ageless incense, is to be found in the rainy season; but like anyone who is rebellious (to be rebellious is quite Japanese-like), I always objected to seeing its beauty. This morning the sunlight is so golden, but, I say, not too harsh; I doubted my own eye and even thought if this were not somewhere in Hawaii or the Philippines. It is the fact that 1 was in Tokyo, taking a street car towards my college at Mita. The car was crowded with people who, as it was already in the hot summer, had decided—all of them—without any discussion, to act barbarously and wear the thinnest kimono just for an excuse; many of them even exposed their naked legs. But their barbarism did not wound my mind, which had seen enough of Wester customs; and it appeared quite striking and romantic, like Hokusai’s pictures. I
