August 2nd.
Down below in the town, a street singer had established
herself in a little thoroughfare; people had collected
around her to listen to her singing, and we three—that
is, Yves, Chrysantheme and I—who chanced
to be passing, stopped like others.
Quite young, rather fat, fairly pretty, 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
from whence it would be impossible to say (this is
the best stage manner, the final word of art, for
the interpretation of tragic pieces).
Yves cast an indignant glance upon her:
“Good gracious,” said he, “it’s
the voice of a—” (words failed him,
in his astonishment) “it’s the voice of
a—a monster!”
And he looked at me, almost frightened by this little
being, and anxious to know what I thought of it.
My poor 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.
“It suits you remarkably well, Yves, I assure
you.”
“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 towards 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 personage 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 by!
I had almost lost sight of the fact, so little does
this recall it.
The procession will climb high up, far away above
Nagasaki, into the heart of the green mountain all
peopled 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 the poor defunct will lie in a charming
spot commanding a lovely view.
They will now return half laughing, half sniveling,
and to-morrow no one will think of it again.
