August 10th.
It rained this evening heavily, and the night was close and dark. About
ten o’clock, on our return from one of the fashionable tea-houses we
frequent, we arrived--Yves, Chrysantheme and I--at the familiar angle
of the principal street, the turn where we must take leave of the lights
and noises of the town, to climb up the dark steps and steep paths that
lead to our dwelling at Diou-djen-dji.
But before beginning our ascent, we must first buy lanterns from an old
tradeswoman called Madame Tres-Propre, whose regular customers we are.
It is amazing what a quantity of these paper lanterns we consume. They
are invariably decorated in the same way, with painted nightmoths or
bats; fastened to the ceiling at the farther end of the shop, they hang
in enormous clusters, and the old woman, seeing us arrive, gets upon
a table to take them down. Gray or red are our usual choice; Madame
Tres-Propre knows our preferences and leaves the green or blue lanterns
aside. But it is always hard work to unhook one, on account of the
little short sticks by which they are held, and the strings with which
they are tied getting entangled together. In an exaggerated pantomime,
Madame Tres-Propre expresses her despair at wasting so much of our
valuable time: oh! if it only depended on her personal efforts! but ah!
the natural perversity of inanimate things which have no consideration
for human dignity! With monkeyish antics, she even deems it her duty to
threaten the lanterns and shake her fist at these inextricably tangled
strings which have the presumption to delay us.
It is all very well, but we know this manoeuvre by heart; and if the
old lady loses patience, so do we. Chrysantheme, who is half asleep, is
seized with a fit of kitten-like yawning which she does not even trouble
to hide behind her hand, and which appears to be endless. She pulls
a very long face at the thought of the steep hill we must struggle up
tonight through the pelting rain.
I have the same feeling, and am thoroughly annoyed. To what purpose do
I clamber up every evening to that suburb, when it offers me no
attractions whatever?
The rain increases; what are we to do? Outside, djins pass rapidly,
calling out: “Take care!” splashing the foot-passengers and casting
through the shower streams of light from their many-colored lanterns.
Mousmes and elderly ladies pass, tucked up, muddy, laughing nevertheless
under their paper umbrellas, exchanging greetings, clacking their wooden
pattens on the stone pavement. The whole street is filled with the noise
of the pattering feet and pattering rain.
As good luck will have it, at the same moment passes Number 415, our
poor relative, who, seeing our distress, stops and promises to help
us out of our difficulty; as soon as he has deposited on the quay an
Englishman he is conveying, he will come to our aid and bring all that
is necessary to relieve us from our lamentable situation.
At last our lantern is unhooked, lighted, and paid for. There is
another shop opposite, where we stop every evening; it is that of Madame
L’Heure, the woman who sells waffles; we always buy a provision from
her, to refresh us on the way. A very lively young woman is this
pastry-cook, and most eager to make herself agreeable; she looks quite
like a screen picture behind her piled-up cakes, ornamented with little
posies. We will take shelter under her roof while we wait; and, to
avoid the drops that fall heavily from the waterspouts, wedge
ourselves tightly against her display of white and pink sweetmeats, so
artistically spread out on fresh and delicate branches of cypress.
Poor Number 415, what a providence he is to us! Already he reappears,
most excellent cousin! ever smiling, ever running, while the water
streams down his handsome bare legs; he brings us two umbrellas,
borrowed from a China merchant, who is also a distant relative of ours.
Like me, Yves has till now never consented to use such a thing, but
he now accepts one because it is droll: of paper, of course, with
innumerable folds waxed and gummed, and the inevitable flight of storks
forming a wreath around it.
Chrysantheme, yawning more and more in her kitten-like fashion, becomes
coaxing in order to be helped along, and tries to take my arm.
“I beg you, mousme, this evening to take the arm of Yves-San; I am sure
that will suit us all three.”
And there they go, she, tiny figure, hanging on to the big fellow, and
so they climb up. I lead the way, carrying the lantern that lights
our steps, whose flame I protect as well as I can under my fantastic
umbrella. On each side of the road is heard the roaring torrent of
stormy waters rolling down from the mountain-side. To-night the way
seems long, difficult, and slippery; a succession of interminable
flights of steps, gardens, and houses piled up one above another; waste
lands, and trees which in the darkness shake their dripping foliage on
our heads.
One would say that Nagasaki is ascending at the same time as ourselves;
but yonder, and very far away, is a vapory mist which seems luminous
against the blackness of the sky, and from the town rises a confused
murmur of voices and laughter, and a rumbling of gongs.
The summer rain has not yet refreshed the atmosphere. On account of the
stormy heat, the little suburban houses have been left open like sheds,
and we can see all that is going on. Lamps burn perpetually before the
altars dedicated to Buddha and to the souls of the ancestors; but all
good Nipponese have already lain down to rest. Under the traditional
tents of bluish-green gauze, we can see whole families stretched out in
rows; they are either sleeping, or hunting the mosquitoes, or fanning
themselves. Nipponese men and women, Nipponese babies too, lying side by
side with their parents; each one, young or old, in his little dark-blue
cotton nightdress, and with his little wooden block on which to rest the
nape of his neck.
A few houses are open, where amusements are still going on; here and
there, from the sombre gardens, the sound of a guitar reaches our ears,
playing some dance which gives in its weird rhythm a strange impression
of sadness.
Here is the well, surrounded by bamboos, where we are wont to make a
nocturnal halt for Chrysantheme to take breath. Yves begs me to throw
forward the red gleam of my lantern, in order to recognize the place,
for it marks our halfway resting-place.
And at last, at last, here is our house! The door is closed, all is
silent and dark. Our panels have been carefully shut by M. Sucre and
Madame Prune; the rain streams down the wood of our old black walls.
In such weather it is impossible to allow Yves to return down hill, and
wander along the shore in quest of a sampan. No, he shall not return
on board to-night; we will put him up in our house. His little room has
indeed been already provided for in the conditions of our lease, and
notwithstanding his discreet refusal, we immediately set to work to make
it. Let us go in, take off our boots, shake ourselves like so many cats
that have been out in a shower, and step up to our apartment.
In front of Buddha, the little lamps are burning; in the middle of the
room, the night-blue gauze is stretched.
On entering, the first impression is favorable; our dwelling is pretty
this evening; the late hour and deep silence give it an air of mystery.
And then, in such weather, it is always pleasant to get home.
Come, let us at once prepare Yves’s room. Chrysantheme, quite elated at
the prospect of having her big friend near her, sets to work with a good
will; moreover, the task is easy; we have only to slip three or four
paper panels in their grooves, to make at once a separate room or
compartment in the great box we live in. I had thought that these panels
were entirely white; but no! on each is a group of two storks painted
in gray tints in those inevitable attitudes consecrated by Japanese
art: one bearing aloft its proud head and haughtily raising its leg, the
other scratching itself. Oh, these storks! how tired one gets of them,
at the end of a month spent in Japan!
Yves is now in bed and sleeping under our roof.
Sleep has come to him sooner than to me to-night; for somehow I fancy I
had seen long glances exchanged between him and Chrysantheme.
I have left this little creature in his hands like a toy, and I begin to
fear lest I should have caused some perturbation in his mind. I do not
trouble my head about this little Japanese girl. But Yves--it would be
decidedly wrong on his part, and would greatly diminish my faith in him.
We hear the rain falling on our old roof; the cicalas are mute; odors
of wet earth reach us from the gardens and the mountain. I feel terribly
dreary in this room to-night; the noise of the little pipe irritates
me more than usual, and as Chrysantheme crouches in front of her
smoking-box, I suddenly discover in her an air of low breeding, in the
very worst sense of the word.
I should hate her, my mousme, if she were to entice Yves into committing
a fault--a fault which I should perhaps never be able to forgive.