"Play, play on for me; I shall remain here all the evening and listen
to you."
Astonished to find me in so amiable a mood, she requires pressing a
little, and with almost a bitter curve of triumph and disdain about
her lips, she seats herself in the attitude of an idol, raises her
long, dark-colored sleeves, and begins. The first hesitating notes are
murmured faintly and mingle with the music of the insects humming
outside, in the quiet air of the warm and golden twilight. First she
plays slowly, a confused medley of fragments which she does not seem
to remember perfectly, of which one waits for the finish and waits in
vain; while the other girls giggle, inattentive, and regretful of
their interrupted dance. She herself is absent, sulky, as though she
were performing a duty only.
Then by degrees, little by little, it becomes more animated, and the
mousmés begin to listen. Now, tremblingly it grows into a feverish
rapidity, and her gaze has no longer the vacant stare of a doll. Then
the music changes again; in it there is the sighing of the wind, the
hideous laughter of ghouls; tears, heartrending plaints, and her
dilated pupils seem to be directed inwardly in settled gaze on some
indescribable _Japanesery_ within her own soul.
I listen, lying there with eyes half shut, looking out between my
drooping eyelids which are gradually lowering, in involuntary
heaviness, upon the enormous red sun dying away over Nagasaki. I have
a somewhat melancholy feeling that my past life and all other places
in the world are receding from my view and fading away. At this moment
of nightfall I feel almost at home in this corner of Japan, amidst the
gardens of this suburb; I have never had such an impression before.