This morning we have had a visit from mother-in-law and the little monkey
of an Aki. It appears that Kotmasu has told her—and what is more, has
made her at last believe—that we are really going away to England.
Mother-in-law is unlearned except in the housekeeper’s art, and this
conveys nothing very definite as regards locality to her mind. England,
Europe even, is as indefinite a place as the Shinto heaven. Somewhere
out beyond the harbour, which she can see from our verandah, even
beyond green-wooded Hoyaki and Cape Nomo, but that is all she knows or
can imagine. We are going away, therefore she will not be the further
recipient of the “handsome presents” in which her soul delights. I quite
comprehend that this is the direction her thoughts will take, and it is
really to assure herself that Kotmasu’s statement is absolutely true that
she has toiled up the hillside in the hot sun so early in the day.
Why she has brought Aki to the family council I cannot conceive; but Aki
has brought a tortoise about the size of a silver dollar, with which he
contentedly plays in the sun on the verandah, where I can see his funny
little shaven head, with its tufts of black hair, bobbing about, above
the edge of the lower half of our sliding-panel window as we talk. No
doubt he has brought some fantastically shaped and gorgeously coloured
doughtoy out from the folds of his outer garment to keep the tortoise
company.
“So you are going away?” says mother-in-law in Japanese, Mousmé’s efforts
to teach her even a few words of English having proved quite unavailing.
“Yes,” I reply; “we are going to England soon.”
I somehow feel as though I were committing a robbery; and her next remark
serves rather to deepen my disquietude.
“You are going to take my daughter with you, honourable sir?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you would only require her whilst you remained in Nagasaki.”
I have never yet succeeded in making my mother-in-law understand the
permanency of my attachment, and I do not hope to accomplish the feat
now; but I explain, hinting that there will be “handsome presents” to all
the members of her (for me inconveniently large) household when we take
our departure.
This, if nothing else, she comprehends; and she offers no further
objection to Mousmé’s accompanying me.
In many respects I like this queer little painted doll of a
mother-in-law, who has really wonderfully beautiful brown hair, and
a childish way and smile, notwithstanding her seven children, and
underlying native rapacity on a small and engagingly frank scale. So
I suggest that Mousmé and I shall give a farewell entertainment to my
Japanese relations, and this idea meets with her most cordial approval.
I smile to myself at having mollified her so easily, and reflect that, as
Kotmasu once philosophically remarked, marriage was cheaper after all,
and I should have no cash payment to make for permission to take Mousmé
with me.
Mother-in-law is quite content now, and as firmly convinced as ever that
I am a “velly much rich honourable English sir,” for thus Oka always
describes me. She insists upon prostrating herself most outrageously, to
the disarrangement of her _obi_, on the end of which she unfortunately
steps when she takes her leave, which she does as soon as she is
satisfied that it is really my intention to ask all my relations to a
farewell _fête_.
Mousmé is, I fancy, a little alarmed at the prospect; for as soon as her
mother has gone with Aki weeping at her side, and apparently refusing
to be comforted by his mother’s more or less specious promises, because
of the disappearance of his tortoise, which has doubtless fallen down
amongst Oka’s progeny through a crack in the verandah floor, she exclaims
in an awe-struck voice:
“Cy-reel, do you know how many there are?”
“No,” I am forced to admit.
“They are as numerous as the bees in the garden.”
“Very well,” I answer resignedly; “we must do our best.”
“They are very strange, some of them, very strange persons indeed,” she
continues, with a look of surprise that I am not frightened.
“The more bees, the greater the honey,” I reply, quoting a maxim that may
be hers, or her mother’s, or one of national adoption.
Her little face—perhaps she is dreading all the fuss and bother and pain
of taking leave of people she may care for—becomes more sober than ever.
“But there is a barber!”
I exhibit no surprise.
She takes my hand to prepare me for the last and greatest shock of all.
“Cy-reel, I am afraid that there may be a _sampan_ boy.”
This is coming down in the world with a vengeance. But what are the odds?
So I reassure her.
“Mother is sure to let it be known. Perhaps, even, people who are not
relations may come, people I should not care to know,” resumed Mousmé,
drawing herself up, and looking ridiculously funny in her sudden
affectation of pride—and after the _sampan_ man, too!
I shall have a queer party, it is certain. Never mind. Only, I must
caution Mousmé not to mention her uncle the barber to Lou when we get to
England, nor refer even casually to the brother-in-law who earns a living
as a _sampan_ rower.
During the next few days Mousmé is very busy. She knows, if I do not,
what a superior and lavish entertainment will be expected of the “very
much rich English sir;” men and women from the town seem to be clicking
our wicket gate after them all day long, and walking up the path to the
house interminably.
Mousmé has ordered everything which can in any way assist in confirming
their belief in my importance and wealth. The _piéces de résistance_ of
the feast are different sorts of Huntley and Palmer’s biscuits. I know
well how little Aki’s eyes will gleam at the mere sight of the sugared
ones.
These biscuits, strange to say, will stamp the entertainment as one of
superior character. They are, of course, very dear, and Mousmé knows they
will be duly appreciated.
She tells me in an awed voice that her numerous relatives will come early
and depart late.
“Will, perhaps, not go until all these wonderful biscuits have
disappeared.”
I smilingly pretend to be very terrified.
* * * * *
We have entertained our vast collection of relatives; and possibly more
than one stranger unawares.
What a quaint conglomeration they proved! How they all could be related
still puzzles me; but related undoubtedly most of them were, from “gilded
youths” (some of Mousmé’s numerous cousins-in-law) in their bowler hats
and other pseudo-European garments, with the silly faces of idlers, to
the much-feared _sampan_ rower, who proved quite a gentleman in manners.
Mousmé and I received them, and listened to their profuse compliments,
whilst I, at least, was inwardly amused at their salutations and
kow-towing, performed even by the ladies on all-fours.
Oka and his wife hand round tiny cups of tea, equally minute plates
of candied beans, plums in sugar, and cherries in vinegar; and as our
guests’ tastes are satisfied, they pass out into the garden, gay with
lanterns, and full of music performed by some strolling _samisen_ players
whose services I secured.
These really play well. If only they would not sing!
My numerous relatives are in no hurry to go. But at length, quite late,
the last family has left us, with their lanterns in their hands and
reiterated good wishes and compliments on their lips; and the garden
is again silent save for the chirruping cicalas, who, like the poor,
are indeed always with us, the splash of the fountains, and the hoarse,
sepulchral croak, croak of awakened frogs.
We linger, Mousmé and I, a little while in the garden, which at the end
of the month we shall give over into other hands, and then we go in, and
Mousmé smokes a little pipe ere retiring to rest. It took me some time to
get accustomed to the habit, which seems to afford her such unqualified
delight, but now I am resigned. The tobacco is so mild, and the little
silver pipe with its thimble-sized bowl looks so toy-like and innocent;
and now I find, from the papers and magazines Lou sends me, that it is
becoming quite the fashion for women and girls in England to smoke mild
and scented cigarettes _sub rosa_.
Mousmé knocks out the ashes from her pipe on the edge of her little ember
bowl, with a metallic pin, pin, pan, and then, taking off her day garment
of plum-coloured brocade, slips into a dressing-gown robe of blue linen,
with wide sleeves and an _obi_ of powder-blue muslin, which she knots in
the inevitable exaggerated butterfly bow round her supple waist.
I shall, after all, be sorry to leave this strange Eastern home of mine,
with its queer noises at the dead of night, and its fragrant garden, the
sweet perfume from which drifts in and even penetrates through our blue
mosquito-curtain of stout gauze, when we leave, as we frequently do, the
panels of our outer wall pushed back for air.
Then there is the trouble of packing; the bother of going through all
the letters and papers which I at first, when home-sick, commenced to
keep because they came from home, and afterwards because I was too
indolent to destroy them. All this must be done now, however; must indeed
be begun to-morrow. There are Mousmé’s belongings, too, which she is
already packing in her mind’s eye in ridiculous little lacquer boxes,
which would be battered into matchwood ere they were stowed in the hold.
I lie awake for some time thinking over all this, and watching the big
night-moths come in through the open panel of the window, and then
flutter round the idol’s head for a moment ere singeing their poor soft
wings at the flame of the lamp burning before its placid features. Some
of them are so big that they make quite an appreciable noise on the white
matting floor when they fall headlong on to it. I fall asleep watching—
“the deadly gyrations of the poor fascinated things, on suicide intent,”
and dream that I am pursued by huge monsters of moths with heads like the
awful masks I see every day in the curio shops. And I frighten little
Mousmé nearly out of her wits, just as it is getting light, by my frantic
attempts to escape from my dream-bred horrors, and the environment of the
mosquito-curtain.
When I am fully awake we sit bolt upright on our mattress bed, and
laugh just like children; I because Mousmé, with face screwed up in
half-laughter, half-tears, looks so comical with her eyes blinking at the
light; and she because it is such a relief for her to find that “Cy-reel
is not gone mad after all.”
Mousmé and I spent the first part of the day shopping, buying Japanese
curios and native silks and embroideries for those at home, a very
expensive cabinet with whole nests of tiny drawers for Lou—frankly, to
propitiate her—and European articles when and where we could get them for
the “handsome presents” of which my mother-in-law and Mousmé’s numerous
brothers and sisters are so fond.
Mousmé’s dress is an ideal one for such an amusement as shopping. It is
simply astounding how much she can stow away mysteriously in the many
pockets of her wide sleeves alone.
Down at Ako San’s, the jeweller, near the quay, whose shop is a general
_dépôt_ for things European, she packs away, I can scarce conceive where,
half the numerous little purchases we make. I take the rest; and then
loaded, both of us, arms, pockets and all, we slowly climb the hill to
our home, which is already partially dismantled in view of our departure.
It has that terrible, painful vacancy of a house half-deserted. It seems
no longer to belong to us, as though the ghosts of possible future
tenants already possessed it. Poor tiny house, which will probably know
Mousmé’s laugh no more!
Whilst Mousmé is wrapping up our presents in soft, silky textured
rice-paper ready for their recipients, I get together some of my things.
Alas! when I come to sort my clothing, I am made painfully aware that
when I land in England I shall be shabby and out-of-date.
There is a whole pile of European clothing on the floor near my
writing-table, the sunlight cruelly exposing all its shabbinesses;
but little of it will be of use. I shall give some of the best of the
garments remaining when I have selected mine, to Mousmé’s two elder
brothers. They will be delighted even if the things don’t fit. They
possess minds happily unvexed by such momentous questions as “bagging at
the knees” and “a bad fit about the back and shoulders.” Happy Japanese
mashers!
At last I have persuaded Mousmé that her toy trunks and lacquer boxes are
no use for travelling to England. She has never had anything else, and
can scarcely understand why they will not do.
I have bought her, through the kind agency of Kotmasu (who is up with
us nearly all day long, now that we are going to leave so soon), a big
trunk—a veritable Saratoga, I fondly believe—which had belonged to a
deceased lady missionary. Into this trunk, with infinite care, Mousmé
is placing all her little belongings, packed for double security in the
lacquer boxes, with storks, frogs and fishes decorating them, which I had
condemned.
Really, Mousmé has quite a respectable amount of luggage.
This will be something in her favour at any rate in sister Lou’s eyes.
What a gorgeous little fairy she will look in all her fantastic finery!
A possible new owner of the house has been here this morning; and
although he was terribly polite and ridiculous in his lengthy-phrased
humility and repeated prostrations, he did not succeed in dispelling the
impression all possible new owners seem to create, namely, that the old
owner is an intruder whose presence is only by sufferance, though his
lease may not have actually expired. This attitude of this one—the man
about to take possession—is a bit of human nature; the same, I found, in
Japan as elsewhere.
We finish our packing at sunset.
Nothing now remains visible in our bare-stripped home except the things
we retain for our use, which will be packed in confusion at the moment of
departure.
We fully intended to go down to the great tea-house to-night for the
last time; but although we both say we are too tired, we are in truth
both aware that we have no heart for mixing with the merry throng, or for
watching the _geishas_ dancing. So we go to rest.
“Our last night here,” as Mousmé says, with a little choked sob.
Everything is now described as “last.”
It is terribly melancholy.
In the morning we go round the garden, and Mousmé gathers a posy of the
choicest flowers, pink-cupped lotus, gardenias and roses; she buries her
face in it to hide the tears I know are falling in salt dew upon the
fragrant blossoms. Then we feed the gold-fish, and watch them poke their
red-gold heads just above the surface, making rippling circles which
widen and rock the lily-leaves and lotus blossoms. And whilst we are
doing all this in the sunlit garden of our late home, we can hear Oka’s
deep, gruff voice giving directions to the men who, with dilapidated
_rikishas_ now turned into hand-trucks, are loading up our luggage to
take it down to the quay and on board the steamer.
“That is the last,” we hear Oka say in gruff tones; “mind that the
honourable English sir’s effects are not damaged.”
“Yes, that is the last,” says one of the porters.
“This is the last,” says Mousmé, opening her hand over the gold-fish pond.
We go up the path to the house in silence; look sorrowfully into each
of the bare, empty rooms; take leave of Oka, and Oka’s wife, who is in
tears; press a shining new _yen_ into each of the innumerable children’s
hands, even into that of the brown baby in Oka’s wife’s arms, whose tiny
fist is not large enough to hold the shining silver, in which it sees
only a new plaything; and then walk away out of the garden of sweet
flowers to follow our porters with the luggage.
Next morning we are to sail soon after sunrise, and we get up to see the
last of Nagasaki and our home, now a mere matchbox-looking villa (when
seen from the deck of our steamer down here in the harbour) perched high
up on the hillside, in company with scores of other similar abodes.
As we drift out from our moorings in mid-harbour, we catch sight of it
for the last time, and Mousmé through her tears kisses her fingers to it.
We wave our hands and handkerchiefs to those on shore, to Kotmasu, a
tiny figure on the quay, and to the men who have congregated in their
_sampans_, like a flock of water-fowl, to see the great _jokisen_ off.
Then we pass through the narrow neck of the harbour, with the towering
green slopes of the hills seeming almost about to fall on top of us,
past Hoyaki, out into the ocean beyond.
Mousmé, who stands by my side all the time, her hand clutching my arm,
gives a shuddering little sob.
Who can blame her?
With every throb of the engines, every heave of the huge vessel to the
ocean swell, we are carried farther and farther into the—for her—unknown.
And it is only the unknown which is terrible.