The noise of the innumerable wooden panels which at the fall of night
are pulled and shut in every Japanese house, is one of the
peculiarities of the country which will remain longest imprinted on my
memory. From our neighbors' houses, floating to us over the green
gardens, these noises reach us one after the other, in series, more or
less deadened, more or less distant.
Just below us, those of Madame Prune move very badly, creak and make a
hideous noise in their worn-out grooves.
Ours are somewhat noisy too, for the old house is full of echoes, and
there are at least twenty to run over long slides in order to close in
completely the kind of open hall in which we live. Generally it is
Chrysanthème who undertakes this piece of household work, and a great
deal of trouble it gives her, for she often pinches her fingers in the
singular awkwardness of her too tiny hands, which have never been
accustomed to do any work.
Then comes her toilette for the night. With a certain grace she lets
fall the day-dress, and slips on a more simple one of blue cotton,
which has the same pagoda sleeves, the same shape all but the train,
and which she fastens round her waist by a sash of muslin of the same
color.
The high head-dress remains untouched, it is needless to say; all but
the pins which are taken out and laid beside her in a lacquer box.
Then there is the little silver pipe that must absolutely be smoked
before going to sleep; this is one of the customs which most provokes
me, but has to be borne.
Chrysanthème, like a gypsy, squats before a particular square box,
made of red wood, which contains a little tobacco jar, a little
porcelain stove full of hot embers, and finally a little bamboo pot
serving at the same time as ash-tray and spittoon. (Madame Prune's
smoking-box downstairs, and every smoking-box in Japan, both of men
and women, is exactly the same, and contains precisely the same
objects, arranged in precisely the same manner; and wherever it may
be, whether in the house of the rich or the poor, it always lies
about somewhere on the floor.)
The word "pipe" is at once too trivial and too big to be applied to
this delicate silver tube, which is perfectly straight and at the end
of which, in a microscopic receptacle, is placed one pinch of golden
tobacco, chopped finer than silken thread.
Two puffs, or at most three; it lasts scarcely a few seconds, and the
pipe is finished. Then _pan, pan, pan, pan,_ the little tube is struck
smartly against the edge of the smoking-box to knock out the ashes,
which never will fall; and this tapping, heard everywhere, in every
house, at every hour of the day or night, quick and droll as the
scratching of a monkey, is in Japan one of the noises most
characteristic of human life.
"Anata nominasé!" ("You must smoke too!") says Chrysanthème.
Having again filled the vexatious little pipe, she puts the silver
tube to my lips with a bow. Courtesy forbids my refusal; but I find it
detestably bitter.
Now, before laying myself down under the blue mosquito-net, I open two
of the panels in the room, one on the side of the silent and deserted
footpath, the other one on the garden side, overlooking the terraces,
so that the night air may breathe upon us, even at the risk of
bringing us the company of some belated cockchafer, or more giddy
moth.
Our wooden house, with its thin old walls, vibrates at night like a
great dry fiddle; the slightest noises grow great in it, become
disfigured and positively disquieting.
Beneath the verandah are hung two little Æolian harps, which at the
least ruffle of the breeze running through their blades of grass, emit
a gentle tinkling sound, like the harmonious murmur of a brook;
outside, to the very furthest limits of the distance, the cicalas
continue their great and everlasting concert; over our heads, on the
black roof, is heard passing like a witch's sabbath, the raging battle
to the death of cats, rats and owls.
Presently, when in the early dawn, a fresher breeze, mounting upwards
from the sea and the deep harbor, reaches us, Chrysanthème will slyly
get up and shut the panels I have opened.
Before that, however, she will have risen at least three times to
smoke: having yawned like a cat, stretched herself, twisted in every
direction her little amber arms, and her graceful little hands, she
sits up resolutely, with all the waking groans and half words of a
child, pretty and fascinating enough: then she emerges from the gauze
tent, fills her little pipe, and breathes a few puffs of the bitter
and unpleasant mixture.
Then comes _pan, pan, pan, pan,_ against the box to shake out the
ashes. In the resounding sonority of the night it makes quite a
terrible noise, which wakes Madame Prune. This is fatal. Madame Prune
is at once seized also with a longing to smoke which may not be
denied; then, to the noise from above, comes an answering _pan, pan,
pan, pan,_ from below, exactly like it, exasperating and inevitable as
an echo.