Madame Chrysantheme by Pierre Loti

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* * * * *

With the exception of three or four mousmes at the further end who are
practicing with bows and arrows, we are to-day the only people in the
garden, and the mountain round about is silent.

Having finished her cigarette and her cup of tea, Chrysantheme also
wishes to exert her skill; for archery is still held in honor among
the young women. The old man who keeps the range, picks out for her
his best arrows tipped with white and red feathers,--and she takes aim
with a serious air. The mark is a circle, traced in the middle of a
picture on which is painted in flat gray tones, terrifying chimera
flying through the clouds.

Chrysantheme is certainly an adroit markswoman, and we admire her as
much as she expected.

Then Yves, who is usually clever at all games of skill, wishes to try
his luck, and fails. It is amusing to see her, with her mincing ways
and smiles, arrange with the tips of her little fingers, the sailor's
broad hands, placing them on the bow and the string in order to teach
him the proper manner. Never have they seemed to get on so well
together, Yves and my dolly, and I might even feel anxious, were I
less sure of my good brother, and if, moreover, it were not a matter
of perfect indifference to me.

* * * * *

In the stillness of the garden, mid the balmy peacefulness of these
mountains, a loud noise suddenly startles us; a unique, powerful,
terrible sound, which is prolonged in infinite metallic vibrations. It
begins again sounding more appalling: _Boum!_ borne to us by the
rising wind.

"_Nippon Kane!_" explains 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. Well, 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 an endless 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 of 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 myself, 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.

* * * * *

Just one funny recollection comes back to me of that evening. On our
return, we had by mistake got 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 some
twelve or fifteen years of age, who barely reached up to his waist,
and were pulling him by the sleeves, anxious 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.

XII.

_July 18th_.

There are now four of us, four officers of my ship, married like
myself, and inhabiting the slopes of the same suburb. It is quite an
ordinary occurrence, and is arranged without difficulties, mystery or
danger, through the negotiations of the same M. Kangourou.

As a matter of course, we are on visiting terms with all these ladies.

First there is our very merry neighbor Madame Campanule, who is little
Charles N----'s wife; then Madame Jonquille, who is even merrier than
Campanule, like a young bird and the daintiest fairy of the whole lot:
she has married X----, a fair northerner who adores her; they are a
loverlike and inseparable pair, the only one that will probably weep
when the hour of parting comes. Then Sikou-San with Doctor Y----; and
lastly the midshipman Z---- with the tiny Madame Touki-San, no taller
than a boot: thirteen years old at the outside and already a regular
woman, full of her own importance, a petulant little gossip. In my
childhood, I was sometimes taken to the _Learned Animals_ Theater, and
I remember a certain Madame de Pompadour, a principal role, filled by
a gayly dressed-up old monkey; Touki-San reminds me of her.

In the evening, all these folk generally come and fetch us for a long
processional walk with lighted lanterns. My wife, more serious, more
melancholy, perhaps even more refined, and belonging, I fancy, to a
higher class, tries when these friends come to us to play the part of
the lady of the house. It is comical to see the entry of these
ill-matched couples, partners for a day, the ladies with their
disjointed bows falling on all fours before Chrysantheme, the queen of
the establishment. When we are all assembled, we start off, arm in
arm, one behind the other, and always carrying at the end of our short
sticks little white or red paper lanterns;--it seems it is pretty.

We are obliged to scramble down the kind of street, or rather
goat's-path, which leads to the Japanese Nagasaki,--with the prospect,
alas! of having to climb up again at night; clamber up all the steps,
all the slippery slopes, stumble over all the stones, before we shall
be able to get home, go to bed, and sleep. We make our descent in the
darkness, under the branches, under the foliage, betwixt dark gardens
and venerable little houses that throw but a faint glimmer on the
road; and when the moon is absent or clouded over, our lanterns are
by no means unnecessary.

When at last we reach the bottom, suddenly, without transition, we
find ourselves in the very heart of Nagasaki and its busy throng in a
long illuminated street, where vociferating djins hurry along and
thousands of paper lanterns swing and gleam in the wind. It is life
and animation, after the peace of our silent suburb.

Here, decorum requires we should separate from our wives. All five
take hold of each others' hands, like a batch of little girls out
walking. We follow them with an air of indifference. Seen from behind,
our dolls are really very dainty, with their back hair so tidily done
up, their tortoiseshell pins so coquettishly arranged. They shuffle
along, their high wooden clogs making an ugly sound, striving to walk
with their toes turned in, according to the height of fashion and
elegance. At every minute they burst out laughing.

Yes, seen from behind, they are very pretty; they have, like all
Japanese women, the most lovely turn of the head. Moreover, they are
very funny, thus drawn up in line. In speaking of them, we say: "Our
little dancing dogs," and in truth they are singularly like them.

This great Nagasaki is the same from one end to another, with its
numberless petroleum lamps burning, its many-colored lanterns
flickering, and innumerable panting djins. Always the same narrow
streets, lined on each side with the same low houses, built in paper
and wood. Always the same shops, without glass windows, open to all
the winds, equally rudimentary whatever may be sold or made in them;
whether they display the finest gold lacquer ware, the most marvelous
china jars, or old worn-out pots and pans, dried fish, and ragged
frippery. All the salesmen are seated on the ground in the midst of
their valuable or trumpery merchandise, their legs bared nearly to the
waist. And all kinds of queer little trades are carried on under the
public gaze, by strangely primitive means, by workmen of the most
ingenuous type.

Oh! what wonderful goods are exposed for sale in those streets! what
whimsical extravagances in those bazaars!

No horses, no carriages are ever seen in the town; nothing but people
on foot, or the comical little carts dragged along by the runners.
Some few Europeans straggling hither and thither, wanderers from the
ships in harbor; some Japanese (fortunately as yet but few in number)
dressed up in coats; other natives who content themselves with adding
to their national costume the pot hat, from which their long sleek
locks hang down; and all around, eager haggling, bargaining,--and
laughter.

In the bazaars every evening our mousmes make endless purchases; like
spoilt children they buy everything they fancy: toys, pins, ribbons,
flowers. And then they prettily offer each other presents, with
childish little smiles. For instance, Campanule buys for Chrysantheme
an ingeniously contrived lantern on which, set in motion by some
invisible machinery, Chinese shadows dance in a ring round the flame.
In return, Chrysantheme gives Campanule a magic fan, with paintings
that change at will from butterflies fluttering round cherry-blossoms,
to outlandish monsters pursuing each other across black clouds. Touki
offers Sikou a cardboard mask representing the bloated countenance of
Dai-Cok, god of wealth; and Sikou replies by a long crystal trumpet,
by means of which are produced the most extraordinary sounds, like a
turkey gobbling. Everything is uncouth, fantastical to excess,
grotesquely lugubrious; everywhere we are surprised by
incomprehensible conceptions, which seem the work of distorted
imaginations.

In the fashionable tea-houses where we finish up our evenings, the
little servant-girls now bow to us, on our arrival, with an air of
respectful recognition, as belonging to the fast set of Nagasaki.
There we carry on desultory conversations, full of misunderstandings
and endless _quid pro quo's_ of uncouth words,--in little gardens
lighted up with lanterns, near ponds full of gold fish, with little
bridges, little islets and little ruined towers. They hand us tea and
white and pink-colored sweetmeats flavored with pepper that taste
strange and unfamiliar, and beverages mixed with snow tasting of
flowers or perfumes.

* * * * *

To give a faithful account of those evenings, would require a more
affected style than our own; and some kind of graphic sign would have
also to be expressly invented and scattered at haphazard amongst the
words, indicating the moment at which the reader should laugh,--rather
a forced laugh, perhaps, but amiable and gracious. The evening at an
end; it is time to return up there.

Oh! that street, that road, that we must clamber up every evening,
under the starlit sky, or the heavy thunder-clouds, dragging by the
hand our drowsy mousme in order to regain our home perched on high
half-way up the hill, where our bed of matting awaits us.

XIII.

The cleverest amongst us has been Louis de S----. Having formerly
inhabited Japan, and made a marriage Japan fashion there, he is now
satisfied to remain the friend of our wives, of whom he has become the
_Komodachi taksan takai, the very tall friend_ (as they say on account
of his excessive height and slenderness). Talking Japanese more freely
than we can, he is their confidential adviser, disturbs or reconciles
at will our households, and has infinite amusement at our expense.

This _very tall friend_ of our wives enjoys all the fun that these
little creatures can give him, without any of the worries of domestic
life. With brother Yves, and little Oyouki (the daughter of Madame
Prune, my landlady,) he makes up our incongruous party.

XIV.

M. Sucre and Madame Prune,[D] my landlord and wife, two perfectly
unique personages but recently escaped from the panel of some screen,
live below us on the ground floor; and very old they seem to have this
daughter of fifteen, Oyouki, who is Chrysantheme's inseparable friend.

[Footnote D: In Japanese: _Sato-san_ and _Oume-San_.]

Both of them are entirely absorbed in the practices of Shintoist
devotion: perpetually on their knees before their family altar,
perpetually occupied in murmuring their lengthy orisons to the
Spirits, and clapping their hands from time to time to recall around
them the inattentive essences floating in the atmosphere;--in their
spare moments they cultivate in little pots of gayly-painted
earthenware, dwarf shrubs and unheard-of flowers which smell
deliciously in the evening.

M. Sucre is taciturn, dislikes society, looks like a mummy in his blue
cotton dress. He writes a great deal, (his memoirs, I fancy) with a
paint-brush held in his finger-tips, on long strips of rice-paper of a
faint gray tint.

Madame Prune is eagerly attentive, obsequious and rapacious; her
eye-brows are closely shaven, her teeth carefully lacquered with black
as befits a lady of gentility, and at all and no matter what hours,
she appears on all fours at the entrance of our apartment, to offer us
her services.

As to Oyouki, she rushes upon us ten times a day,--whether we are
sleeping, or dressing,--like a whirlwind on a visit, flashing upon us,
a very gust of dainty youthfulness and droll gayety,--a living peal of
laughter. She is round of figure, round of face; half baby, half girl;
and so affectionate that she bestows kisses on the slightest occasion
with her great puffy lips,--a little moist, it is true, like a
child's, but nevertheless very fresh and very red.

XV.

In our dwelling, open as it is all the night through, the lamps
burning before the gilded Buddha procure us the company of the insect
inhabitants of every garden in the neighborhood. Moths, mosquitoes,
cicalas, and other extraordinary insects of which I don't even know
the names,--all this company assembles around us.

It is extremely funny, when some unexpected grasshopper, some
free-and-easy beetle presents itself without invitation or excuse,
scampering over our white mats, to see the manner in which
Chrysantheme indicates it to my righteous vengeance,--merely pointing
her finger at it, without another word than "Hou!" said with bent
head, a particular pout, and a scandalized air.

There is a fan kept expressly for the purpose of blowing them out of
doors again.

XVI.

Here, I must own, that to the reader of my story it must appear to
drag a little.

In default of exciting intrigues and tragic adventures, I would fain
have known how to infuse into it a little of the sweet perfumes of the
gardens which surround me, something of the gentle warmth of the
sunshine, of the shade of these graceful trees. Love being wanting, I
should like it to breathe of the restful tranquillity of this far-away
suburb. Then, too, I should like it to reecho the sound of
Chrysantheme's guitar, in which I begin to find a certain charm, for
want of something better, in the silence of the lovely summer
evenings.

All through these moonlit nights of July, the weather has been calm,
luminous and magnificent. Ah! what glorious clear nights, what
exquisite roseate tints beneath that wonderful moon, what mystery of
blue shadows in the thick tangle of trees. And, from the heights
where stood our verandah, how prettily the town lay sleeping at our
feet!

After all, I do not positively detest this little Chrysantheme, and
when there is no repugnance on either side, habit turns into a
make-shift of attachment.

XVII.

Always, over, in, and through everything, rises day and night from
this Japanese landscape the song of the cicalas, ceaseless, strident,
and prodigious. It is everywhere, and never-ending, at no matter what
hour of the burning day, what hour of the cool and refreshing night.
In the midst of the roads, as we approached our anchorage, we had
heard it at the same time from the two shores, from both walls of
green mountains. It is wearisome and haunting; it seems to be the
manifestation, the noise expressive of the special kind of life
peculiar to this region of the world. It is the voice of summer in
these islands; it is the song of unconscious rejoicing, always content
with itself and always appearing to inflate, to rise upwards, in a
greater and greater exultation at the sheer happiness of living.

It is to me the noise characteristic of this country,--this, and the
cry of the falcon, which had in like manner greeted our entry into
Japan. Over the valleys and the deep bay sail these birds, uttering
from time to time their three cries, "Han! han! han!" in a key of
sadness, which seems the extreme of painful astonishment. And the
mountains around re-echo their cry.

XVIII.

Yves, Chrysantheme, and little Oyouki have struck up a friendship so
great that it amuses me: I even think, that in my home life, this
intimacy is what affords me the greatest entertainment. They form a
contrast which gives rise to the most absurd jokes, and most
unforeseen situations. He brings into this fragile little paper house,
his sailor's freedom and ease of manner, and his Breton accent; side
by side with these tiny mousmes of affected manners and bird-like
voices, who, small as they are, rule the big fellow as they please;
make him eat with chopsticks; teach him Japanese "_pigeon-vole_,"--and
cheat him, and quarrel, and almost die of laughter over it all.

Certainly he and Chrysantheme take a pleasure in each other's company.
But I remain serenely undisturbed, and cannot imagine that this
little chance doll with whom I play at married life, could possibly
bring a serious trouble between this "brother" and myself.

XIX.

My family of Japanese relations, very numerous and very conspicuous,
is a great source of diversion to those of my brother officers who
visit me in my villa on the hill,--most especially to _komodachi
taksan takai (the immensely tall friend)_.

I have a charming mother-in-law--quite a woman of the world,--little
sisters-in-law, little cousins, and aunts who are still quite young.

I have even a poor cousin, twice removed, who is a djin. There was
some hesitation in owning this latter to me; but, behold! during the
ceremony of introduction, we exchanged a smile of recognition, it was
number 415.

Over this poor 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 porter, 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 a hurry, I always beg
Madame Prune to send down to the djin stand, and engage my cousin.

XX.

I arrived unexpectedly to-day at Diou-djen-dji, in the midst of a
burning noonday heat. At the foot of the stairs lay Chrysantheme's
wooden clogs and her sandals of varnished leather.

In our rooms, up above, all was open to the air; bamboo blinds lowered
on the sunny side, and through their transparency came warm air and
golden threads of light. To-day, the flowers Chrysantheme had placed
in our bronze vases were lotus, and my eyes fell, as I entered, upon
their great rosy cups.

According to her usual custom, she 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 slimness, a
mannered grace which we should never succeed in imparting to them.

She was sleeping flat on her face upon the mats, her high headdress
and tortoiseshell pins standing out boldly from the rest of the
horizontal figure. The train of her tunic prolonged 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; or 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, by the side of the little clogs and sandals; and I entered on
the tips of my toes, very, very softly, to go and sit awhile under the
verandah.

What a pity this little Chrysantheme cannot 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 perchance be going on
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
pushing my studies in the Japanese language further, I have neglected
them, so much have I felt the utter impossibility of ever interesting
myself in the subject.

Seated under my verandah, my eyes wandered over the temples and
cemeteries spread at my feet, over the woods and green mountains, over
Nagasaki lying bathed in the sunlight. The cicalas were chirping their
loudest, the strident noise trembling feverishly in the hot air. All
was calm, full of light and full of heat.

Nevertheless, to my taste, it is not yet enough so! What then can have
changed upon the earth? The burning noon-days of summer, such as I can
recall in days gone by, were more brilliant, more full of sunshine;
Nature seemed to me in those days more powerful, more terrible. One
would say this was only a pale copy of all that I knew in early
years,--a copy in which something is wanting. Sadly do I ask
myself,--Is the splendor of the summer only this? _was it_ only this?
or is it the fault of my eyes, and as time goes on shall I behold
everything around me paling still more?

Behind me a faint and melancholy strain of music,--melancholy enough
to make one shiver,--and shrill, shrill as the song of the
grasshoppers, began to make itself heard, very softly at first, then
growing louder and rising in the silence of the noonday like the
diminutive wail of some poor Japanese soul in pain and anguish; it was
Chrysantheme and her guitar awaking together.

It pleased me that the idea should have occurred to her to greet me
with music, instead of eagerly hastening to wish me "Good morning."
(At no time have I ever given myself the trouble to pretend the
slightest affection for her, and a certain coldness even has grown up
between us, especially when we are alone.) But to-day I turn to her
with a smile, and wave my hand for her to continue. "Go on, it amuses
me to listen to your quaint little impromptu." It is singular that the
music of this essentially merry people should be so plaintive. But
undoubtedly that which Chrysantheme is playing at this moment is worth
listening to. Whence can it have come to her? What unutterable dreams,
forever hidden from me, fly through her yellow head, when she plays or
sings in this manner?

Suddenly: Pan, pan, pan! Some one knocks three times, with a harsh
and bony finger against one of the steps of our stairs, and in the
aperture of our doorway appears an idiot, clad in a suit of gray
tweed, who bows low. "Come in, come in, M. Kangourou. How well you
come, just in the nick of time! I was actually becoming enthusiastic
over your country!"

It was a little washing bill, which M. Kangourou respectfully wished
to hand to me, with a profound bend of the whole body, the correct
pose of the hands on the knees, and a long snake-like hiss.

XXI.

Following the road which climbs past the front of our dwelling, one
passes a dozen or more old villas, a few garden walls, and then there
is nothing but the lonely mountain side, with little paths winding
upwards towards the summit through plantations of tea, bushes of
camellias, underwood and rocks. The mountains round Nagasaki are
covered with cemeteries; for centuries and centuries past it is up
here they have brought their dead.

But there is neither sadness nor horror in these Japanese sepulchers;
it would seem as if among this frivolous and childish people, death
itself could not be taken seriously. The monuments are either Buddhas,
in granite, seated on lotus, or upright funereal stones with an
inscription in gold; they are grouped together in little enclosures in
the midst of the woods, or on natural terraces delightfully situated,
and are generally reached by long stairways of stone carpeted with
moss; from time to time, these pass under one of the sacred gateways,
of which the shape, always the same, rude and simple, is a smaller
reproduction of those in the temples.

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