Madame Chrysantheme | Page 7

and will go at once in search of him; and the elder of
the waiting-maids gets ready for the purpose her wooden clogs and her
paper umbrella.
Next I demand a well-served repast, composed of the greatest
delicacies of Japan. Better and better, they rush to the kitchen to order
it.
Finally, I beg they will give tea and rice to my djin, who is waiting for
me below;--I wish, in short, I wish many things, my dear little dollies,
which I will mention by degrees and with due deliberation, when I shall
have had time to assemble the necessary words. But, the more I look at
you the more uneasy I feel as to what my fiancée of to-morrow may be
like. Almost pretty, I grant you, you are,--in virtue of quaintness,
delicate hands, miniature feet, but ugly after all, and absurdly small.
You look like ouistitis, like little china ornaments, like I don't know
what. I begin to understand that I have arrived at this house at an
ill-chosen moment. Something is going on which does not concern me,
and I feel that I am in the way.
From the beginning I might have guessed as much, notwithstanding the
excessive politeness of my welcome; for I remember now, that while
they were taking off my boots downstairs, I heard a murmuring chatter
overhead, then a noise of panels moved quickly along their grooves,
evidently to hide from me something I was not intended to see; they
were improvising for me the apartment in which I now am--just as in
menageries they make a separate compartment for some beasts when
the public is admitted.
Now I am left alone while my orders are being executed, and I listen
attentively, squatted like a Buddha on my black velvet cushion, in the
midst of the whiteness of the walls and mats.
Behind the paper partitions, worn-out voices, seemingly numerous, are
talking in low tones. Then rises the sound of a guitar, and the song of a
woman, plaintive and gentle in the echoing sonority of the bare house,

in the melancholy of the rainy weather.
What one can see through the wide-open verandah is very pretty, I will
admit; it resembles the landscape of a fairy tale. There are admirably
wooded mountains, climbing high into the dark and gloomy sky, and
hiding in it the peaks of their summits, and, perched up among the
clouds--a temple. The atmosphere has that absolute transparency, the
distance that clearness which follows a great downpour of rain; but a
thick pall, still heavy with moisture, remains suspended over all, and on
the foliage of the hanging woods still float great flakes of gray fluff,
which remain there, motionless. In the foreground, in front of and
below all this almost fantastic landscape, is a miniature garden where
two beautiful white cats are taking the air, amusing themselves by
pursuing each other through the paths of a Lilliputian labyrinth,
shaking from their paws the sand, which is still wet. The garden is as
conventional as possible: not a flower, but little rocks, little lakes,
dwarf trees cut in a grotesque fashion; all this is not natural, but it is
most ingeniously arranged, so green, so full of fresh mosses!
In the rain-soaked country below me, to the very furthest end of the
vast scene, reigns a great silence, an absolute calm. But the woman's
voice, behind the paper wall, continues to sing in a key of gentle
sadness, and the accompanying guitar has somber and even gloomy
notes.
Stay though! Now the music is somewhat quicker--one might even
suppose they were dancing!
So much the worse! I shall try to look between the fragile divisions,
through a crack which has revealed itself to my notice.
What a singular spectacle it is; evidently the gilded youth of Nagasaki
holding a great clandestine orgy! In an apartment as bare as my own,
there are a dozen of them, seated in a circle on the ground, attired in
long blue cotton dresses with pagoda sleeves, long, sleek and greasy
hair surmounted by European pot hats; and beneath these, yellow, worn
out, bloodless, foolish faces. On the floor are a number of little
spirit-lamps, little pipes, little lacquer trays, little tea-pots, little

cups--all the accessories and all the remains of a Japanese feast,
resembling nothing so much as a doll's tea-party. In the midst of this
circle of dandies are three over-dressed women, one might say three
weird visions, robed in garments of pale and undefinable colors,
embroidered with golden monsters; and their great chignons arranged
with fantastic art, stuck full of pins and flowers. Two are seated and
turn their back to me: one is holding the guitar, the other singing with
that soft and pretty voice;--thus seen furtively, from behind, their