Over this poor Number 415 my friends on board crack
no end of jokes—one in particular, who,
less than any one has the right to make them, little
Charles N-----, for his mother-in-law was once a concierge,
or something of the kind, at the gateway of a pagoda.
I, however, who have a great respect for strength
and agility, much appreciate this new relative of
mine. His legs are undoubtedly the best in all
Nagasaki, and whenever I am in haste, I always beg
Madame Prune to send down to the djin-stand and engage
my cousin.
A DEAD FAIRY
Today I arrived unexpectedly at Diou-djen-dji, in
the midst of burning noonday heat. At the foot
of the stairs lay Chrysantheme’s wooden shoes
and her sandals of varnished leather.
In our rooms, upstairs, all was open to the air; bamboo
blinds hung on the sunny side, and through their transparency
came warm air and golden threads of light. Today
the flowers Chrysantheme had placed in the bronze
vases were lotus, and as I entered, my eyes fell upon
their wide rosy cups.
According to her usual custom, Chrysantheme was lying
flat on the floor enjoying her daily siesta.
What a singular originality these bouquets of Chrysantheme
always have: a something, difficult to define,
a Japanese slightness, an artificial grace which we
never should succeed in imparting to them.
She was sleeping, face down, upon the mats, her high
headdress and tortoise-shell pins standing out boldly
from the rest of the horizontal figure. The train
of her tunic appeared to prolong her delicate little
body, like the tail of a bird; her arms were stretched
crosswise, the sleeves spread out like wings, and
her long guitar lay beside her.
She looked like a dead fairy; still more did she resemble
some great blue dragon-fly, which, having alighted
on that spot, some unkind hand had pinned to the floor.
Madame Prune, who had come upstairs after me, always
officious and eager, manifested by her gestures her
sentiments of indignation on beholding the careless
reception accorded by Chrysantheme to her lord and
master, and advanced to wake her.
“Pray do nothing of the kind, my good Madame
Prune; you don’t know how much I prefer her
like that!” I had left my shoes below, according
to custom, beside the little shoes and sandals; and
I entered on the tips of my toes, very, very, softly
to sit awhile on the veranda.
What a pity this little Chrysantheme can not always
be asleep; she is really extremely decorative seen
in this manner—and like this, at least,
she does not bore me. Who knows what may be passing
in that little head and heart! If I only had
the means of finding out! But strange to say,
since we have kept house together, instead of advancing
in my study of the Japanese language, I have neglected
it, so much have I felt the impossibility of ever
interesting myself in the subject.
