* * * *
*
In the stillness of the garden, mid the balmy peacefulness
of these mountains, a loud noise suddenly startles
us; a unique, powerful, terrible sound, which is prolonged
in infinite metallic vibrations. It begins again
sounding more appalling: Boum! borne to
us by the rising wind.
“Nippon Kane!” explains Chrysantheme,—and
she again takes up her brightly-feathered arrows.
“Nippon Kane (the Japanese brass); it
is the Japanese brass that is sounding!” It
is the monstrous gong of a monastery, situated in
a suburb beneath us. Well, it is powerful indeed
“the Japanese brass!” When the strokes
are ended, when it is no longer heard, a vibration
seems to linger among the suspended foliage, and an
endless quiver runs through the air.
* * * *
*
I am obliged to admit that Chrysantheme looks very
charming shooting her arrows, her figure well bent
back the better to bend her bow; her loose-hanging
sleeves caught up to her shoulders, showing the graceful
bare arms polished like amber and very much of the
same color. Each arrow whistles by with the rustle
of a bird’s wing,—then a short sharp
little blow is heard, the target is hit, always.
At nightfall, when Chrysantheme has gone up to Diou-djen-dji,
we cross, Yves and myself, the European concession,
on our way to the ship, to take up our watch till
the following day. The cosmopolitan quarter exhaling
an odor of absinthe, is dressed up with flags, and
squibs are being fired off in honor of France.
Long lines of djins pass by, dragging as fast as their
naked legs can carry them, the crew of the Triomphante,
who are shouting and fanning themselves. The
“Marseillaise” is heard everywhere; English
sailors are singing it, gutturally with a dull and
slow cadence like their own “God Save.”
In all the American bars, grinding organs are hammering
it with many an odious variation and flourish, in
order to attract our men.
* * * *
*
Just one funny recollection comes back to me of that
evening. On our return, we had by mistake got
into a street inhabited by a multitude of ladies of
doubtful reputation. I can still see that big
fellow Yves, struggling with a whole band of tiny
little mousmes of some twelve or fifteen years of
age, who barely reached up to his waist, and were
pulling him by the sleeves, anxious to lead him astray.
Astonished and indignant he repeated as he extricated
himself from their clutches: “Oh, this
is too much!” So shocked was he at seeing such
mere babies, so young, so tiny, already so brazen and
shameless.
July 18th.
There are now four of us, four officers of my ship,
married like myself, and inhabiting the slopes of
the same suburb. It is quite an ordinary occurrence,
and is arranged without difficulties, mystery or danger,
through the negotiations of the same M. Kangourou.
