Yves comes up to us whenever he is free, in the evening
at five o’clock, after his work on board.
He is our only European visitor, and with the exception
of a few civilities and cups of tea, exchanged with
our neighbors, we lead a very retired life. Only
in the evenings, winding our way through the precipitous
little streets and carrying our lanterns at the end
of short sticks, we go down to Nagasaki in search
of amusement at the theaters, at the “tea-houses,”
or in the bazaars.
Yves treats this wife of mine as if she were a plaything,
and continually assures me that she is charming.
Myself, I find her as exasperating as the cicalas
on my roof; and when I am alone at home, side by side
with this little creature twanging the strings of
her long-necked guitar, in front of this marvelous
panorama of pagodas and mountains,—I am
overcome by a sadness full of tears.
July 13th.
Last night, as we lay under the Japanese roof of Diou-djen-dji,—under
the thin and ancient wooden roof scorched by a hundred
years of sunshine, vibrating at the least sound, like
the stretched-out parchment of a tamtam,—in
the silence which prevails at two o’clock in
the morning, we heard overhead a regular wild huntsman’s
chase passing at full gallop:
“Nidzoumi!” ("the mice!"), said Chrysantheme.
Suddenly, the word brings back to my mind yet another,
spoken in a very different language, in a country
far away from here: “Setchan!” a
word heard elsewhere, a word that has likewise been
whispered in my ear by a woman’s voice, under
similar circumstances, in a moment of nocturnal terror—“Setchan!”
It was during one of our first nights at Stamboul
spent under the mysterious roof of Eyoub, when danger
surrounded us on all sides; a noise on the steps of
the black staircase had made us tremble, and she also,
my dear little Turkish companion, had said to me in
her beloved language, “Setchan!” ("the
mice!").
At that fond recollection, a thrill of sweet memories
coursed through my veins; it was as though I had been
startled out of a long ten years’ sleep; I looked
down upon the doll beside me with a sort of hatred,
wondering why I was there, and I arose, with almost
a feeling of remorse, to escape from that blue gauze
net.
I stepped out upon the verandah, and there I paused,
gazing into the depths of the starlit night.
Beneath me Nagasaki lay asleep, wrapt in a soft light
slumber, hushed by the murmuring sound of a thousand
insects in the moonlight, and fairylike with its roseate
hues. Then, turning my head, I saw behind me
the gilded idol with our lamps burning in front of
it; the idol smiling its impassive Buddha smile; and
its presence seemed to cast around it something, I
know not what, strange and incomprehensible.
Never until now had I slept under the eye of such
a god.
