LI.

_September 17th_.

During the hour of siesta, the abrupt order arrives to start to-morrow

for China, for Tchefou (a horrid place in the gulf of Pekin). It is

Yves who comes to wake me in my cabin to bring me the news.

"I must positively get leave to go on shore this evening," he says,

while I endeavor to shake myself awake, "if it is only to help you to

dismantle and pack up there."

He gazes through my port-hole, raising his glance towards the green

summits, in the direction of Diou-djen-dji and our echoing old

cottage, hidden from us by a turn of the mountain.

It is very nice of him to wish to help me in my packing; but I think

he also counts upon saying farewell to his little Japanese friends up

there, and I really cannot find fault with that.

He gets through his work, and does in fact get leave without help from

me, to go on shore at five o'clock, after drill and manœuvres.

As for myself, I start off at once, in a hired sampan. In the vast

flood of midday sunshine, to the quivering noise of the cicalas, I

mount up to Diou-djen-dji.

The paths are solitary, the plants drooping in the heat. Here,

however, is Madame Jonquille, taking the air, in the bright sunshine

of the grasshoppers, sheltering her dainty figure and her charming

face under an immense paper parasol, a huge circle, closely ribbed and

fantastically striped.

She recognizes me from afar, and laughing as usual, runs to meet me.

I announce our departure, and a tearful pout suddenly contracts her

childish face. After all, does this news grieve her? Is she going to

shed tears over it? No! it turns to a fit of laughter, a little

nervous perhaps, but unexpected and disconcerting,--dry and clear,

pealing through the silence and warmth of the narrow paths, like a

cascade of little mock pearls.

Ah, there indeed is a marriage tie which will be broken without much

pain! But she fills me with impatience, poor empty-headed linnet, with

her laughter, and I turn my back upon her to continue my journey.

Up above, Chrysanthème sleeps, stretched out on the floor; the house

is wide open, and the soft mountain breeze rustles gently through it.

That same evening we had intended to give a tea-party, and by my

orders flowers had already been placed in every nook and corner of the

house. There were lotus in our vases, beautiful rose-colored lotus,

the last of the season, I verily believe. They must have been ordered

from a special gardener, out yonder near the Great Temple, and they

will cost me dear.

With a few gentle taps of a fan I awake my surprised mousmé; and,

curious to catch her first impressions, I announce my departure. She

starts up, rubs her eyelids with the back of her little hands, looks

at me, and hangs her head: something like an expression of sadness

passes in her eyes.

This little sinking at the heart is for Yves, no doubt.

The news spreads through the house.

Mdlle. Oyouki dashes upstairs, with half a tear in each of her babyish

eyes; kisses me with her full red lips, which always leave a wet ring

on my cheek; then quickly draws from her wide sleeve a square of

tissue-paper, wipes away her stealthy tears, blows her little nose,

rolls the bit of paper in a ball, and throws it into the street on the

parasol of a passer-by.

Then Madame Prune makes her appearance; in an agitated and discomposed

manner she successively adopts every attitude expressive of utter

dismay. What on earth is the matter with the old lady, and why will

she keep getting closer and closer to me, till she is almost in my

way?

It is wonderful all I still have to do this last day, and the endless

drives I have to make to the old curiosity shops, to my tradespeople,

and to the packers.

Nevertheless before my rooms are dismantled, I intend making a sketch

of them, as I did formerly at Stamboul. It really seems to me as if

all I do here is a bitter parody of all I did over there.

This time, however, it is not that I care for this dwelling; it is

only because it is pretty and uncommon, and the sketch will be an

interesting souvenir.

I fetch, therefore, a leaf out of my album, and begin at once, seated

on the floor and leaning on my desk, ornamented with grasshoppers in

relief, while behind me, very, very close to me, the three women

follow the movements of my pencil with an astonished attention.

Japanese art being entirely conventional, they have never before seen

anyone draw from nature, and my style delights them. I may not perhaps

possess the steady and nimble touch of M. Sucre, as he groups his

charming storks, but I am master of a few notions of perspective which

are wanting in him; and I have been taught to draw things as I see

them, without giving them ingeniously distorted and grimacing

attitudes; and the three Japanese are amazed at the air of _reality_

thrown in my sketch.

With little shrieks of admiration, they point out to each other the

different things, as little by little their shape and form are

outlined in black on my paper. Chrysanthème gazes at me with a new

kind of interest: "_Anata itchi-ban_!" she says (literally "Thou

first!" meaning: "You are really quite a swell!") Mdlle. Oyouki is

carried away by her admiration and exclaims in a burst of enthusiasm:

_"Anata bakari!"_ ("Thou alone!" that is to say: "There is no one like

you in the world, all the rest are mere rubbish!")

Madame Prune says nothing, but I can see that she does not think the

less; her languishing attitudes, her hand that at each moment gently

touches mine, confirm the suspicions that her look of dismay a few

moments ago awoke within me: evidently my physical charms speak to her

imagination, which in spite of years has remained full of romance! I

shall leave with the regret of having understood her too late!!

If the ladies are satisfied with my sketch, I am far from being so. I

have put everything in its place most exactly, but as a whole, it has

an ordinary, indifferent, French look which does not suit. The

sentiment is not given, and I almost wonder whether I should not have

done better in falsifying the perspective,--Japanese style--and

exaggerating to the very utmost the already abnormal outlines of what

I see before me. And then the pictured dwelling lacks the fragile look

and its sonority, that reminds one of a dry violin. In the penciled

delineation of the woodwork, the minute delicacy with which it is

wrought is wanting; neither have I been able to render the extreme

antiquity, the perfect cleanliness, nor the vibrating song of the

cicalas that seems to have been stored away within it, in its

parched-up fibers, during some hundreds of summers. It does not either

convey the impression this place gives of being in a far-off suburb,

perched aloft among trees, above the drollest of towns. No, all this

cannot be drawn, cannot be expressed, but remains undemonstrable,

undefinable.

Having sent out our invitations, we shall in spite of everything, give

our tea-party this evening,--a parting tea, therefore, in which we

will display as much pomp as possible. It is, moreover, rather my

custom to wind up my exotic existences with a fête; in other countries

I have done the same.

Besides our usual set, we shall have my mother-in-law, my relatives,

and all the mousmés of the neighborhood. But, by an extra Japanese

refinement, we shall not admit a single European friend,--not even the

_amazingly tall_ one. Yves alone shall be admitted, and even he shall

be hidden away in a corner behind some flowers and works of art.

In the last glimmer of twilight, by the first twinkling star, the

ladies, with many charming curtseys, make their appearance. Our house

is soon full of the little crouching women, with their tiny slit eyes

vaguely smiling; their beautifully dressed hair shining like polished

ebony; their fragile bodies lost in the many folds or the exaggerated

wide garments, that gape as if ready to drop from their little

tapering backs and reveal the exquisite napes of their little necks.

Chrysanthème, with somewhat a melancholy air; my mother-in-law

Renoncule, with many affected graces, busy themselves in the midst of

the different groups, where ere long the miniature pipes are lighted.

Soon there arises a murmuring sound of discreet laughter, expressing

nothing, but having a pretty exotic ring about it, and then begins a

harmony of _pan! pan! pan!_ sharp, rapid taps against the edges of the

finely lacquered smoking-boxes. Pickled and spiced fruits are handed

round on trays of quaint and varied shapes. Then transparent china

tea-cups, no larger than half an egg-shell, make their appearance, and

the ladies are offered a few drops of sugarless tea, poured out of toy

kettles, or a sip of _saki_--(a spirit made from rice which it is the

custom to serve hot, in elegantly shaped vases, long-necked like a

heron's throat).

Several mousmés execute, one after the other, improvizations on the

_chamécen_. Others sing in sharp high voices hopping about

continually, like cicalas in delirium.

Madame Prune, no longer able to make a mystery of the long-pent up

feelings that agitate her, pays me the most marked and tender

attentions, and begs my acceptance of a quantity of little souvenirs:

an image, a little vase, a little porcelain goddess of the Moon in

Satsuma ware, a marvelously grotesque ivory figure;--I tremblingly

follow her into the dark corners whither she calls me to give me these

presents in a _tête-à-tête_.

At about nine o'clock, with a silken rustling, arrive the three

guéchas in vogue in Nagasaki: Mdlles. Pureté, Orange, and Printemps,

whom I have hired at four dollars a head,--an enormous price in this

country.

These three guéchas are indeed the very same little creatures I heard

singing on the rainy day of my arrival, through the thin paneling of

the _Garden of Flowers_. But as I have now become thoroughly

_Japanized_, to-day they appear to me more diminutive, less

outlandish, and in no way mysterious. I treat them rather as dancers

that I have hired, and the idea that I had ever thought of marrying

one of them now makes me shrug my shoulders,--as it formerly did M.

Kangourou.

The excessive heat caused by the respiration of the mousmés and the

burning lamps, brings out the perfume of the lotus, which fills the

heavy-laden atmosphere; and the scent of the camelia-oil the ladies

use in profusion to make their hair glisten, is also strong in the

room.

Mdlle. Orange, the youngest guécha, tiny and dainty, her lips outlined

with gilt paint, executes some delightful steps, donning the most

extraordinary wigs and masks in wood or cardboard. She has masks

imitating old noble ladies which are valuable works of art, signed by

well-known artists. She has also magnificent long robes, fashioned in

the old style, and trains trimmed at the bottom with thick pads, in

order to give to the movements of the costume something rigid and

unnatural which, however, is becoming.

Now the soft balmy breezes blow through the room, from one verandah to

the other, making the flames of the lamps flicker. They scatter the

lotus flowers faded by the artificial heat, which, falling in pieces

from every vase, sprinkle the guests with their pollen and large pink

petals, looking like bits of broken opal-colored glass.

The sensational piece, reserved for the end, is a trio on the

_chamécen_, long and monotonous, that the guéchas perform as a rapid

_pizzicato_ on the highest strings, very sharply struck. It sounds

like the very quintescence, the paraphrase, the exasperation if I may

so call it, of the eternal buzz of insects, which issues from the

trees, old roofs, old walls, from everything in fact, and which is the

ground-work of all Japanese sounds.

Half-past ten! The program has been carried out, and the reception is

over. A last general _pan! pan! pan!_ the little pipes are stowed away

into their chased sheaths, tied up in the sashes, and the mousmés rise

to depart.

They light, at the end of short sticks, a quantity of red, gray or

blue lanterns, and after a series of endless bows and curtseys, the

guests disperse themselves in the darkness of the lanes and trees.

We also go down to the town,--Yves, Chrysanthème, Oyouki, and

myself,--in order to conduct my mother-in-law, sisters-in-law, and

youthful aunt, Madame Nénufar, to their house.

We want to take one last stroll together in our old familiar pleasure

haunts, drink one more iced sherbet at the house of the _Indescribable

Butterflies_, buy one more lantern at Madame Très-Propre's, and eat

some parting waffles at Madame L'Heure's!

I try to be affected, moved, by this leave-taking, but without

success. In this Japan, as with the little men and women who inhabit

it, there is something decidedly wanting; pleasant enough as a mere

pastime, it begets no feeling of attachment.

On our return, when I am once more with Yves and the two mousmés

climbing up the road to Diou-djen-dji, which I shall probably never

see again, a vague feeling of melancholy pervades my last stroll.

It is, however, but the melancholy inseparable from all things that

are about to end without possibility of return.

Moreover, this calm and splendid summer is also drawing to a close for

us,--since to-morrow we shall go forth to meet the autumn, in Northern

China. I am beginning, alas! to count the youthful summers I may still

hope for; I feel more gloomy each time another fades away, and flies

to rejoin the others already disappeared in the dark and bottomless

abyss, where all past things lie buried.

At midnight we return home, and my removal begins; while on board the

_amazingly tall friend_ kindly takes my watch.

It is a nocturnal, rapid, stealthy removal,--_"dorobo_ (thieves)

fashion" remarks Yves, who in frequenting the mousmés has picked up a

smattering of the Niponese language.

Messrs, the packers have, at my request, sent in the evening several

charming little boxes, with compartments and false bottoms, and

several paper bags (in the untearable Japanese paper), which close of

themselves and are fastened by strings, also in paper, arranged

beforehand in the most ingenious manner,--quite the cleverest and most

handy thing of its kind; for little useful trifles these people are

unrivaled.

It is a real treat to pack them, and everybody lends a helping

hand,--Yves, Chrysanthème, Madame Prune, her daughter, and M. Sucre.

By the glimmer of the reception-lamps, which are still burning, every

one wraps, rolls, and ties up expeditiously, for it is already late.

Although Oyouki has a heavy heart, she cannot prevent herself from

indulging in a few bursts of childish laughter while she works.

Madame Prune, bathed in tears, no longer restrains her feelings; poor

lady, I really very much regret....

Chrysanthème is absent-minded and silent.

But what a fearful amount of luggage! Eighteen cases or parcels,

containing Buddhas, chimeras, and vases, without mentioning the last

lotus that I carry away tied up in a pink cluster.

All this is piled up in the djins' carts, hired at sunset, which are

waiting at the door, while their runners lie asleep on the grass.

A starlit and exquisite night. We start off with lighted lanterns,

followed by the three sorrowful ladies who accompany us, and by abrupt

slopes, dangerous in the darkness, we descend towards the sea.

The djins, stiffening their muscular legs, hold back with all their

might the heavily loaded little cars which would run down by

themselves if let alone, and that so rapidly, that they would rush

into empty space with my most valuable chattels. Chrysanthème walks by

my side, and expresses, in a soft and winning manner, her regret that

the _wonderfully tall friend_ did not offer to replace me for the

whole of my night-watch, as that would have allowed me to spend this

last night, even till morning, under our roof.

"Listen," she says, "come back to-morrow in the daytime, before

getting under way, to bid me good-by; I shall only return to my mother

in the evening; you will find me still up there."

And I promise.

They stop at a certain turn, from whence we have a bird's-eye view of

the whole roadstead; the black stagnant waters reflect innumerable

distant fires, and the ships--tiny immovable little objects, which

seen from our point of view take the shape of fish, seem also to

slumber,--little objects which serve to bear us _elsewhere_, to go far

away, and to forget.

The three ladies are going to turn back home, for the night is

already far advanced, and lower down, the cosmopolitan quarters near

the quays are not safe at this unusual hour.

The moment has therefore come for Yves--who will not land again--to

make his last tragic farewells to his friends the little mousmés.

Now I am very curious to see the parting between Yves and

Chrysanthème; I listen with all my ears, I look with all my eyes, it

takes place in the simplest and quietest fashion: none of that

heartbreaking which will be inevitable between Madame Prune and

myself; I even notice in my mousmé an indifference, an unconcern which

puzzles me; I positively am at a loss to understand what it all means.

And I muse to myself as I continue to descend towards the sea. "Her

appearance of sadness was not, therefore, on Yves' account. On whose,

then?" and the phrase runs through my head:

"Come back to-morrow before setting sail, to bid me good-by; I shall

only return to my mother in the evening; you will find me still up

there."

Japan is indeed most delightful this evening, so fresh and so sweet;

and little Chrysanthème was very charming just now, as she silently

walked beside me through the darkness of the lane.

It is about two o'clock when we reach the _Triomphante_ in a hired

sampan, where I have heaped up all my cases till there is danger of

sinking. The _very tall friend_ gives over to me the watch that I must

keep till four o'clock; and the sailors on duty, but half awake, make

a chain in the darkness, to haul on board all my fragile luggage.