L.

_September 16th_.

Seven o'clock in the evening. We shall not go down into the town

to-day; but, like good Japanese citizens, remain in our loftly suburb.

In undress uniform we shall go, Yves and I, in a neighborly way, as

far as the fencing gallery, which is only two steps off, just above

our villa, and almost abutting on our fresh and scented garden.

The gallery is closed already and a little mousko seated at the door,

explains with many low bows that we come too late, all the amateurs

are gone; we must come again to-morrow.

The evening is so mild and so fine, that we remain out of doors,

following without any definite purpose the pathway which rises ever

higher and higher, and loses itself at length in the solitary regions

of the mountain among the upper peaks.

For an hour at least we wander on,--an unintended walk,--and finally

find ourselves at a great height commanding an endless perspective

lighted by the last gleams of daylight; we are in a desolate and

mournful spot, in the midst of the little Buddhist cemeteries, which

are scattered over the country in every direction.

We meet a few belated laborers, who are returning from the fields with

bundles of tea upon their shoulders. These peasants have a half savage

air, half naked too, or clothed only in long robes of blue cotton; as

they pass, they salute us with humble bows.

No trees in this elevated region. Fields of tea alternate with tombs:

old granite statues which represent Buddha in his lotus, or else old

monumental stones on which gleam remains of inscriptions in golden

letters. Rocks, brushwood, uncultivated spaces, surround us on all

sides.

There are no more passers-by, and the light is failing. We will halt

for a moment, and then it will be time to turn our steps downwards.

But, close to the spot where we stand, a box in white wood provided

with handles, a sort of sedan-chair, rests on the freshly disturbed

earth, with its lotus of silvered paper, and the little incense-sticks

burning yet, by its side; clearly someone has been buried here this

very evening.

I cannot picture this personage to myself; the Japanese are so

grotesque in life, that it is almost impossible to imagine them in the

calm majesty of death. Nevertheless, let us move further on, we might

disturb him; he is too recently dead, his presence unnerves us. We

will go and seat ourselves on one of these other tombs, so unutterably

ancient that there can no longer be anything within it but dust. And

there, seated yet in the dying sunlight, while the valleys and plains

of the earth below are already lost in shadow, we will talk together.

I wish to speak to Yves about Chrysanthème; it is indeed somewhat in

view of this that I have persuaded him to sit down; but how to set

about it without hurting his feelings, and without making myself

ridiculous, I hardly know. However, the pure air playing round me up

here, and the magnificent landscape spread beneath my feet, impart a

certain serenity to my thoughts which makes me feel a contemptuous

pity, both for my suspicions and the cause of them.

We speak, first of all, of the order for departure which may arrive at

any moment, for China or for France. Soon we shall have to leave this

easy and almost amusing life, this Japanese suburb where chance has

installed us, and our little house buried among flowers. Yves perhaps

will regret all this more than I shall, I know that well enough; for

it is the first time that any such interlude has broken the rude

monotony of his hard-worked career. Formerly, when in an inferior

rank, he was scarcely more often on shore, in foreign countries, than

the sea-gulls themselves; whilst I have, from the very beginning, been

spoilt by residence in all sorts of charming spots, infinitely

superior to this, in all sorts of countries, and the remembrance

pleasurably haunts me still.

In order to discover how the land lies, I risk the remark:

"You will perhaps be more sorry to leave this little Chrysanthème than

I am?"

Silence reigns between us.

After which I pursue, and, burning my ships, I add:

"You know, after all, if you have such a fancy for her, I haven't

really married her; one can't really consider her my wife."

In great surprise he looks in my face:

"Not your wife, you say? But, by Jove, though, that's just it; she is

your wife."

There is no need of many words at any time between us two; I know

exactly now, by his tone, by his great good-humored smile, how the

case stands; I understand all that lies in the little phrase: "That's

just it, she is your wife." If she were not, well then he could not

answer for what might happen,--notwithstanding any remorse he might

have in the depths of his heart, since he is no longer a bachelor and

free as air, as in former days. But he considers her my wife, and she

is sacred. I have the fullest faith in his word, and I experience a

positive relief, a real joy, at finding my staunch Yves of bygone

days. How could I have so succumbed to the demeaning influence of my

surroundings as to suspect him even, and invent for myself such a

mean, petty anxiety?

We will never even mention that doll again.

We remain up there very late, talking of other things, gazing the

while at the immense depths below our feet, at the valleys and

mountains as they become one by one indistinct and lost in the

deepening darkness. Placed as we are at an enormous height, in the

wide free atmosphere, we seem already to have quitted this miniature

country, already to be freed from the impression of littleness which

it has given us, and from the little links by which it was beginning

to bind us to itself.

Seen from such heights as these, all the countries of the globe bear a

strong resemblance to each other; they lose the imprint made upon them

by man, and by races; by all the atoms swarming on the surface.

As of old, in the Breton marshes, in the woods of Toulven, or at sea

in the night-watches, we talk of all those things to which thoughts

naturally revert in darkness; of ghosts, of spirits, of eternity, of

the great hereafter, of chaos--and we entirely forget little

Chrysanthème!

When we arrive at Diou-djen-dji in the starry night, it is the music

of her _chamécen_, heard from afar, which recalls to us her existence;

she is studying some vocal duet with Mdlle. Oyouki, her pupil.

I feel myself in very good humor this evening, and, relieved from any

absurd suspicions about my poor Yves, am quite disposed to enjoy

without reserve my last days in Japan, and derive therefrom all the

amusement possible.

Let us then stretch ourselves out on the dazzling white mats, and

listen to the singular duet sung by these two mousmés: a strange

musical medley, slow and mournful, beginning with two or three high

notes, and descending at each couplet, in almost an imperceptible

manner, into actual solemnity. The song keeps its dragging slowness;

but the accompaniment becoming more and more accentuated, is like the

impetuous sound of a far-off hurricane. At the end, when these girlish

voices, generally so soft, give out their hoarse and guttural notes,

Chrysanthème's hands fly wildly and convulsively over the quivering

strings. Both of them lower their heads, pout their under-lips in the

effort of bringing out these astonishingly deep notes. And at these

moments, their little narrow eyes open and seem to reveal an

unexpected something, almost a soul, under these trappings of

marionnettes.

But it is a soul which more than ever appears to me of a different

species to my own; I feel my thoughts to be far removed from theirs,

as from the flitting conceptions of a bird, or the dreams of a monkey;

I feel there is betwixt them and myself a great gulf, mysterious and

awful.

Other sounds of music, wafted to us from the distance outside,

interrupt for a moment that of our mousmés. From the depths below,

down in Nagasaki, arises a sudden noise of gongs and guitars; we rush

to the balcony of the verandah to hear it better.

It is a _matsouri_, a fête, a procession passing through the quarter

which is not so virtuous as our own, so our mousmés tell us, with a

disdainful toss of the head. Nevertheless, from the heights on which

we dwell, seen thus in a bird's-eye view, by the uncertain light of

the stars, this district has a singularly chaste air, and the concert

going on therein, purified in its ascent from the depths of the abyss

to our lofty altitudes, reaches us confusedly, a smothered, enchanted,

enchanting sound.

Then it diminishes, and dies away into silence.

The two little friends return to their seats on the mats, and once

more take up their melancholy duet. An orchestra, discreetly subdued

but innumerable, of crickets and cicalas, accompanies them in an

unceasing tremolo,--the immense far-reaching tremolo, which, gentle

and eternal, never ceases on Japanese land.