And every evening, in the little dark streets, bursts
forth this overflow of joyousness, fresh, childish,
but withal grotesque to excess. It would be difficult
to have any idea of the incredible things which, carried
by the wind, float in the evening air.
XXXIX.
Little Chrysantheme is always arrayed in dark colors,
a sign here of aristocratic distinction. While
her friends Oyouki-San, Madame Touki and others delight
in loud-striped stuffs, and stick gorgeous ornaments
in their chignons, she always wears navy-blue or neutral
gray, fastened round her waist with great black sashes
brocaded in tender shades, and puts nothing in her
hair but amber-colored tortoise-shell pins. If
she were of noble descent she would wear embroidered
on her dress in the middle of the back a little white
circle looking like a postmark with some design in
the center of it—the leaf of a tree generally;
and this would be her coat of arms. There is
really nothing wanting but this little heraldic blazon
on the back to give her the appearance of a lady of
the highest position.
In Japan the smart dresses of bright colors shaded
in clouds, embroidered with monsters of gold or silver,
are reserved by the great ladies for home use on state
occasions; or else they are used on the stage for
the dancers and the courtesans.
Like all Japanese women, Chrysantheme carries a quantity
of things in her long sleeves, in which pockets are
cunningly hidden. There she keeps letters, various
notes written on delicate sheets of rice-paper, prayer
amulets drawn up by the bonzes; and above all a number
of squares of a silky paper which she puts to the
most unexpected uses,—to dry a tea-cup,
to hold the damp stalk of a flower, or to blow her
quaint little nose, when the necessity presents itself.
After the operation she at once crumples up the piece
of paper, rolls it into a ball, and throws it out
of the window with disgust.
The very smartest people in Japan blow their noses
in this manner.
XL.
September 2nd.
Chance has favored us with a friendship as singular
as it is rare: that of the head bonzes of the
temple of the Jumping Tortoise, where we had
witnessed last month such a surprising pilgrimage.
The approach to this place is as solitary now as it
was thronged and bustling on the evenings of the festival;
and in broad daylight one is surprised at the deathlike
decay of the religious surroundings which at night
had seemed so full of life. Not a creature to
be seen on the time-worn granite steps; not a creature
beneath the vast sumptuous porticoes; the colors,
the gold-work are dim with dust. To reach the
temple one must cross several deserted courtyards terraced
on the mountain side, pass through several solemn
gateways, and up and up endless stairs, rising far
above the town and the noises of humanity into a sacred
region filled with innumerable tombs. On all the
pavements, in all the walls, lichen and stonecrop;
and over all the gray tint of extreme age spreads
everywhere like a fall of ashes.
Copyrights
Madame Chrysantheme from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
