In my cabin, one evening, in the midst of the Yellow Sea, my eyes
chance to fall upon the lotus brought from Diou-djen-dji;--they had
lasted for two or three days; but now they have faded, and pitifully
strew my carpet with their pale pink petals.
I, who have carefully preserved so many faded flowers, fallen, alas!
into dust, stolen here and there, at moments of parting in different
parts of the world; I who have kept so many, that the collection is
now almost a herbarium, ridiculous and incoherent--I try hard, but
without success, to get up a sentiment for these lotus--and yet they
are the last living souvenirs of my summer at Nagasaki.
I pick them up, however, with a certain amount of consideration, and I
open my port-hole.
From the gray misty sky a livid light falls upon the waters; a wan and
gloomy kind of twilight creeps down, yellowish upon this Yellow Sea.
We feel that we are moving northwards, that autumn is approaching.
I throw the poor lotus into the boundless waste of waters, making them
my best excuses for giving to them, natives of Japan, a grave so
solemn and so vast.