Madame Chrysantheme | Page 6

and my djin, with many smiles and
precautions lest any fresh rivers should stream down my back, lowers
the hood of the cart; there is a break in the storm, and the rain has
ceased. I had not yet seen his face; by exception to the general rule, he
is good-looking;--a young man of about thirty years of age, of
intelligent and strong appearance, and an open countenance. Who could
have foreseen that a few days later this very djin.--But no, I will not
anticipate, and run the risk of throwing beforehand any discredit on

Chrysanthème.
We had therefore reached our destination, and found ourselves at the
foot of a tall overhanging mountain; probably beyond the limits of the
town, in some suburban district. It apparently became necessary to
continue our journey on foot, and climb up an almost perpendicular
narrow path. Around us, a number of small country houses, garden
walls, and high bamboo palisades closed in the view. The green hill
crushed us with its towering height; the heavy, dark clouds lowering
over our heads seemed like a leaden canopy confining us in this
unknown spot; it really seemed as though the complete absence of
perspective inclined one all the better to notice the details of this tiny
corner, muddy and wet, of homely Japan, now lying before our eyes.
The earth was very red. The grasses and wild flowers bordering the
pathway were strange to me;--nevertheless, the palings were covered
with convolvuli like our own, and I recognized in the gardens, china
asters, zinnias, and other familiar flowers. The atmosphere seemed
laden with a curiously complicated odor, something besides the
perfume of the plants and soil, arising no doubt from the human
dwelling-places,--a mingled smell, I fancied, of dried fish and incense.
Not a creature was to be seen; of the inhabitants, of their homes and life,
there was not a vestige, and I might have imagined myself anywhere in
the world.
My djin had fastened up his little cart under a tree, and together we
clambered the steep path on the slippery red soil.
"We are going to the Garden of Flowers, are we not?" I inquired,
anxious to ascertain if I had been understood.
"Yes, yes," replied the djin, "it is up there, and quite near."
The road turned, steep banks hemming it in and darkening it. On one
side, it skirted the mountain all covered with a tangle of wet ferns; on
the other appeared a large wooden house almost devoid of apertures
and of evil aspect; it was there that my djin halted.
What, that sinister-looking house was the Garden of Flowers? He

assured me that it was, and seemed very sure of the fact. We knocked at
a big door which opened immediately, slipping back in its groove.
Then two funny little women appeared, oldish-looking, but with
evident pretensions to youth: exact types of the figures painted on vases,
with their baby hands and feet.
On catching sight of me, they threw themselves on all fours, their faces
touching the floor. Good gracious! what can be the matter? Nothing at
all, it is only the ceremonious salute to which I am as yet unaccustomed.
They rise, and proceed to take off my boots (one never keeps on one's
shoes in a Japanese house), wiping the bottom of my trousers and
feeling my shoulders to see if I am wet.
What always strikes one on first entering a Japanese dwelling is the
extreme cleanliness, and white and chilling bareness of the rooms.
Over the most irreproachable mattings, without a crease, a line, or a
stain, I am led upstairs to the first story and ushered into a big empty
room, absolutely empty! The paper walls are mounted on sliding panels,
which fitting into each other, can be made to disappear entirely,--and
all one side of the apartment opens like a verandah on to the green
country and the gray sky beyond. By way of a chair, I am given a
square piece of black velvet, and behold me seated low, in the middle
of this large empty room, which by its very vastness is almost chilly.
The two little women (who are the servants of the house and my very
humble servants too), await my orders, in attitudes expressive of the
profoundest humility.
* * * * *
It seemed extraordinary that the quaint words, the curious phrases I had
learnt during our exile at the Pescadores Islands--by sheer dint of
dictionary and grammar book, without attaching the least sense to
them--should mean anything. But so it seemed, however, for I was at
once understood.
* * * * *

I wish in the first place to speak to one M. Kangourou, who is
interpreter, washerman, and matrimonial agent. Nothing could be better:
they know him