A FANTASTIC FUNERAL
Below, in the town, a street-singer had established
herself in a little thoroughfare; people had gathered
around her to listen to her singing, and we three—that
is, Yves, Chrysantheme, and I—who happened
to be passing, stopped also.
She was quite young, rather fat, and fairly pretty,
and 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 whence it would
be impossible to say (this is the best stage manner,
the last touch of art, in the interpretation of tragic
pieces).
Yves cast an indignant glance upon her.
“Good gracious,” said he, “she has
the voice of a——” (words failed
him, in his astonishment) “the voice of a—a
monster!”
And he looked at me, almost frightened by this little
being, and desirous to know what I thought of it.
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.
“That hat suits you remarkably well, Yves, I
assure you,” I said.
“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 toward 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 object of interest 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!
I had almost lost sight of the fact, so little does
this procession recall it.
The procession will climb high above Nagasaki, into
the heart of the green mountain covered 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 he will lie
in a charming spot commanding a lovely view.
