“Nippon Kane!” exclaims 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. 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 a
prolonged 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 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 I, 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.
One amusing recollection comes back to me of that
evening. On our return, we had by mistake turned
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 twelve or fifteen years
of age, who barely reached up to his waist, and were
pulling him by the sleeves, eager 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.
ETEXT editor’s
bookmarks:
Efforts to arrange matters
we succeed often only in disarranging
Irritating laugh which
is peculiar to Japan
Ordinary, trivial, every-day
objects
Seeking for a change
which can no longer be found
By PIERRE LOTI
Happy families!
July 18th.
By this time, four officers of my ship are married
like myself, and inhabiting the slopes of the same
suburb. This arrangement is quite an ordinary
occurrence, and is brought about without difficulties,
mystery, or danger, through the offices of the same
M. Kangourou.
