A FANTASTIC FUNERAL
Below, in the town, a street-singer had established herself in a little
thoroughfare; people had gathered around her to listen to her singing,
and we three--that is, Yves, Chrysantheme, and I--who happened to be
passing, stopped also.
She was quite young, rather fat, and fairly pretty, and she strummed her
guitar and sang, rolling her eyes fiercely, like a virtuoso executing
feats of difficulty. She lowered her head, stuck her chin into her neck,
in order to draw deeper notes from the furthermost recesses of her body;
and succeeded in bringing forth a great, hoarse voice--a voice that might
have belonged to an aged frog, a ventriloquist's voice, coming whence it
would be impossible to say (this is the best stage manner, the last touch
of art, in the interpretation of tragic pieces).
Yves cast an indignant glance upon her.
"Good gracious," said he, "she has the voice of a----" (words failed him,
in his astonishment) "the voice of a--a monster!"
And he looked at me, almost frightened by this little being, and desirous
to know what I thought of it.
Yves was out of temper on this occasion, because I had induced him to
come out in a straw hat with a turned-up brim, which did not please him.
"That hat suits you remarkably well, Yves, I assure you," I said.
"Oh, indeed! You say so, you. For my part, I think it looks like a
magpie's nest!"
As a fortunate diversion from the singer and the hat, here comes a
cortege, advancing toward us from the end of the street, something
remarkably like a funeral. Bonzes march in front, dressed in robes of
black gauze, having much the appearance of Catholic priests; the
principal object of interest of the procession, the corpse, comes last,
laid in a sort of little closed palanquin, which is daintily pretty. This
is followed by a band of mousmes, hiding their laughing faces beneath a
kind of veil, and carrying in vases of the sacred shape the artificial
lotus with silver petals indispensable at a funeral; then come fine
ladies, on foot, smirking and stifling a wish to laugh, beneath parasols
on which are painted, in the gayest colors, butterflies and storks.
Now they are quite close to us, we must stand back to give them room.
Chrysantheme all at once assumes a suitable air of gravity, and Yves
bares his head, taking off the magpie's nest.
Yes, it is true, it is death that is passing!
I had almost lost sight of the fact, so little does this procession
recall it.
The procession will climb high above Nagasaki, into the heart of the
green mountain covered with tombs. There the poor fellow will be laid at
rest, with his palanquin above him, and his vases and his flowers of
silvered paper. Well, at least he will lie in a charming spot commanding
a lovely view.
Then they will return half laughing, half snivelling, and tomorrow no one
will think of it again.