_September 18th_.
I had planned to sleep late this morning, in order to make up for my
lost sleep of last night.
But behold, at eight o'clock, three persons of the most singular
appearance, led by M. Kangourou, present themselves with endless bows
at the door of my cabin. They are dressed in long robes bedizened with
dark patterns; they have the flowing locks, high foreheads and pallid
countenances of persons too exclusively devoted to the fine arts; and,
perched on the top of their chignons, they wear sailor hats of English
shape stuck jauntily on one side. Under their arms, they carry
portfolios filled with sketches; in their hands, boxes of
water-colors, pencils, and, tied together like fasces, a bundle of
fine stylets the sharp points of which glitter ostensibly.
At the first glance, even in the bewilderment of waking, I gather from
their appearance what their errand is, and guessing with what visitors
I have to deal, I say:--"Come in, Messieurs the tattooers!"
These are the specialists most in renown in Nagasaki; I had engaged
them two days ago, not knowing that we were about to leave, and since
they are come I will not turn them away.
My friendly and intimate relations with primitive man, in Oceania and
elsewhere, have imbued me with a deplorable taste for tattoo work; and
I had wished to carry away on me, as a curiosity, an ornament, a
specimen of the work of the Japanese tattooers, who have a delicacy of
finish which is unequaled.
From their albums spread out upon my table I make my choice. There are
some remarkably odd designs amongst them, appropriate to the different
parts of the human body: emblems for the arms and legs, sprays of
roses for the shoulders, great grinning faces for the middle of the
back. There are even, to suit the taste of their clients who belong to
foreign navies, trophies of arms, American and French flags entwined,
a "God Save the Queen" amid encircling stars, and figures of women
taken from Grévin's sketches in the _Journal Amusant_.
My choice rests upon a singular blue and pink dragon a couple of
inches long, which will have a fine effect upon my chest on the side
opposite the heart.
Then follows an hour and a half of irritation and positive pain.
Stretched out on my bunk and delivered over to the tender mercies of
these personages, I stiffen myself and submit to the million
imperceptible pricks they inflict. When by chance a little blood
flows, confusing the outline by a stream of red, one of the artists
hastens to staunch it with his lips, and I make no objections, knowing
that this is the Japanese manner, the method used by their doctors for
the wounds of both man and beast.
A piece of work as minute and fine as that of an engraver upon stone
is slowly executed on my person; and their lean hands harrow and worry
me with automatic precision.
At length it is finished, and the tattooers, falling back with an air
of satisfaction to contemplate their work, declare it will be lovely.
I dress myself quickly to go on shore, and take advantage of my last
hours in Japan.
The heat is fearful to-day: the powerful September sun falls with a
certain melancholy upon the yellowing leaves; it is a day of clear
burning heat after an almost chilly morning.
Like yesterday, it is during the drowsy noon that I ascend to my lofty
suburb, by deserted pathways filled only with light and silence.
I noiselessly open the door of my dwelling, and enter cautiously on
tiptoe, for fear of Madame Prune.
At the foot of the staircase, upon the white mats, by the side of the
little clogs and little sandals which are always lying about the
vestibule, there is a great array of luggage ready for departure,
which I recognize at a glance,--pretty dark-colored dresses, familiar
to my sight, carefully folded and wrapped in blue towels tied at the
four corners. I even fancy I feel a little sad when I catch sight of a
corner of the famous box of letters and souvenirs peeping out of one
of these bundles, in which ray portrait by Uyeno now reposes among
divers photographs of mousmés. A sort of long-necked mandolin, also
ready for departure, lies on the top of the pile in its case of
figured silk. It resembles the flitting of some gypsy, or rather it
reminds me of an engraving in a book of fables I owned in my
childhood: the whole thing is exactly like the slender wardrobe and
the long guitar which the Cicala who had sung all the summer, carried
upon her back when she knocked at the door of her neighbor the ant.
Poor little gypsy!
I mount the stairs on tiptoe, and stop at the sound of singing that I
hear up in my room.
It is undoubtedly Chrysanthème's voice and the song is a cheerful one!
This chills me and changes the current of my thoughts. I am almost
sorry I have taken the trouble to come.
Mingled with the song is a noise I cannot understand: _dzinn! dzinn!_
a clear metallic ring as of coins being flung vigorously on the floor.
I am well aware that this vibrating house exaggerates every sound
during the silence of night; but all the same, I am puzzled to know
what my mousmé can be doing. _Dzinn! dzinn!_ is she amusing herself
with quoits, or the _jeu du crapaud_, or pitch and toss?
Nothing of the kind; I fancy I have guessed, and I continue my upward
progress still more gently, on all fours, with the precautions of a
Red Indian, to give myself for the last time the pleasure of
surprising her.
She has not heard me come in. In our great white room, emptied and
swept out, where the clear sunshine pours in, and the soft wind, and
the yellowed leaves of the garden; she is sitting all alone, her back
turned to the door: she is dressed for walking, ready to go to her
mother's, her rose-colored parasol beside her.
On the floor are spread out all the fine silver dollars which,
according to our agreement, I had given her the evening before. With
the competent dexterity of an old money-changer she fingers them,
turns them over, throws them on the floor, and armed with a little
mallet _ad hoc,_ rings them vigorously against her ear, singing the
while I know not what little pensive bird-like song which I daresay
she improvises as she goes along.
Well, after all, it is even more completely Japanese than I could
possibly have imagined it--this last scene of my married life! I feel
inclined to laugh. How simple I have been, to allow myself to be taken
in by the few clever words she whispered yesterday, as she walked
beside me, by a tolerably pretty little phrase embellished as it was
by the silence of two o'clock in the morning, and all the wonderful
enchantments of night.
Ah! not more for Yves than for me, not more for me than for Yves, has
any feeling passed through that little brain, that little heart.