Madame Chrysantheme by Pierre Loti

P >> Pierre Loti >> Madame Chrysantheme

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12

My memoirs,--composed of incongruous details, minute observations of
colors, shapes, scents, and sounds.

It is true that a complete imbroglio, worthy of a romance, seems ever
threatening to appear upon my monotonous horizon; a regular intrigue
seems ever ready to explode in the midst of this little world of
mousmes and grasshoppers: Chrysantheme in love with Yves; Yves with
Chrysantheme; Oyouki with me; I with no one. We might even find here,
ready to hand, the elements of a fratricidal drama, were we in any
other country than Japan; but we are in Japan, and under the narrowing
and dwarfing influence of the surroundings, which turn everything into
ridicule, nothing will come of it all.

XXXVIII.

There is, in this good town of Nagasaki, towards five or six o'clock
in the evening, one hour of the day more comical than any other. At
this moment every living being is naked: children, young people, old
people, old men, old women, every one is seated in a tub of some sort,
taking a bath. This takes place no matter where, without the slightest
screen, in the gardens, the courtyards, in the shops, even upon the
thresholds, in order to give greater facility for conversation among
the neighbors from one side of the street to the other. In this
situation visitors are received; and the bather, without any
hesitation, leaves his tub, holding in his hand his little towel
(invariably blue), to offer the caller a seat, and to exchange with
him some amiable remarks. Nevertheless, neither the mousmes nor the
old ladies gain anything by appearing in this primeval costume. A
Japanese woman, deprived of her long dress and her huge sash with its
pretentious bows, is nothing but a diminutive yellow being, with
crooked legs and flat, unshapely bust; she has no longer a remnant of
her artificial little charms, which have completely disappeared in
company with her costume.

There is yet another hour, at once joyous and melancholy, a little
later when twilight falls, when the sky seems one vast veil of yellow,
against which stand the clear-cut outlines of jagged mountains and
lofty, fantastic pagodas. It is the hour at which, in the labyrinth of
little gray streets down below, the sacred lamps begin to twinkle in
the ever-open houses, in front of the ancestors' altars and the
familiar Buddhas; while outside, darkness creeps over all, and the
thousand and one indentations and peaks of the old roofs are depicted,
as if in black festoons, on the clear golden sky. At this moment,
there suddenly passes over merry, laughing Japan a somber shadow,
strange, weird, a breath of antiquity, of savagery, of something
indefinable, which casts a gloom of sadness. And then the only gayety
that remains is the gayety of the population of young children, of
little mouskos and little mousmes, who spread themselves like a wave
through the streets filled with shadow, as they swarm out from schools
and workshops. On the dark background of all these wooden buildings,
the little blue and scarlet dresses stand out in startling
contrast,--drolly bedizened, drolly draped; and the fine loops of the
sashes, the flowers, the silver or gold top-knots stuck in these baby
chignons, add to the vivid effect.

They amuse themselves, they chase each other, their great pagoda
sleeves fly widely open, and these tiny little mousmes of ten, of five
years old, or even younger still, have lofty head-dresses and imposing
bows of hair arranged on their little heads, like grown-up women. Oh!
what loves of supremely absurd dolls at this hour of twilight gambol
through the streets, in their long frocks, blowing their crystal
trumpets, or running with all their might to start their fanciful
kites. This juvenile world of Japan--ludicrous by birth, and fated to
become more so as the years roll on--starts in life with singular
amusements, with strange cries and shouts; its playthings are somewhat
ghastly, and would frighten the children of other countries; even the
kites have great squinting eyes and vampire shapes.

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.

In a side temple near the entrance is enthroned a colossal Buddha
seated in his lotus--a gilded idol some forty-five or sixty feet high,
mounted on an enormous pedestal of bronze.

At length appears the last doorway with the two traditional giants,
guardians of the sacred court, which stand the one on the right hand,
the other on the left, shut up like wild beasts each one in a cage of
iron. They are in attitudes of fury, with fists upraised as if to
strike, and features atrociously fierce and distorted. Their bodies
are covered all over with bullets of crumbled paper which have been
aimed at them through the bars, and which have stuck to their
monstrous limbs like a white leprosy: this is the manner in which the
faithful strive to appease them, by conveying to them their prayers
written upon delicate leaflets by the pious bonzes.

Passing between these alarming scarecrows one reaches the innermost
court. The residence of our friends is on the right, the great hall of
the pagoda is before us.

In this paved court are bronze torch-holders as high as turrets. Here
too stand, and have stood for centuries, cyca palms with fresh green
plumes, their numerous stalks curving with a heavy symmetry, like the
branches of massive candelabra. The temple, which is open along its
entire length, is dark and mysterious, with touches of gilding in
distant corners melting away into the gloom. In the very remotest part
are seated idols, and from outside one can vaguely see their clasped
hands and air of rapt mysticism; in front are the altars, loaded with
marvelous vases in metal-work, whence spring graceful clusters of gold
and silver lotus. From the very entrance one is greeted by the sweet
odor of the incense-sticks unceasingly burnt by the priests before the
gods.

To penetrate into the dwelling of our friends the bonzes, which is
situated on the right hand side as you enter, is by no means an easy
matter.

A monster of the fish tribe, but having claws and horns, is hung over
their door by iron chains; at the least breath of wind he swings
creakingly. We pass beneath him and enter the first immense and lofty
hall, dimly lighted, in the corners of which gleam gilded idols, bells
and incomprehensible objects of religious use.

Quaint little creatures, choir boys or pupils, come forward with a
doubtful welcome to ask what is wanted.

"_Matsou-San!! Donata-San!!_" they repeat, much astonished, when they
understand to whom we wish to be conducted. Oh! no, impossible, they
cannot be seen; they are resting or are in contemplation. "_Orimas!
Orimas!_" say they, clasping their hands and sketching a genuflection
or two to make us understand better. (They are at prayer! the most
profound prayer!)

We insist, speak more imperatively; even slip off our shoes like
people determined to take no refusal.

At last Matsou-San and Donata-San make their appearance from the
tranquil depths of their bonze-house. They are dressed in black crape
and their heads are shaved. Smiling, amiable, full of excuses, they
offer us their hands, and we follow with our feet bare like theirs to
the interior of their mysterious dwelling, through a series of empty
rooms spread with mats of the most unimpeachable whiteness. The
successive halls are separated one from the other only by bamboo
curtains of exquisite delicacy, caught back by tassels and cords of
red silk.

The whole wainscoting of the interior is of the same wood, of a pale
yellow color joinered with extreme nicety, without the least ornament,
the least carving; everything seems new and unused, as though it had
never been touched by human hand. At distant intervals in this studied
bareness, costly little stools, marvelously inlaid, uphold some
antique bronze monster or a vase of flowers; on the walls hang a few
masterly sketches, vaguely tinted in Indian ink, drawn upon strips of
gray paper most accurately cut but without the slightest attempt at a
frame; this is all: not a seat, not a cushion, not a scrap of
furniture. It is the very acme of studied simplicity, of elegance made
out of nothing, of the most immaculate and incredible cleanliness. And
while following the bonzes through this long suite of empty halls, we
are struck by their contrast with the overflow of knick-knacks
scattered about our rooms in France, and we take a sudden dislike to
the profusion and crowding delighted in at home.

The spot where this silent march of barefooted folk comes to an end,
the spot where we are to seat ourselves in the delightful coolness of
a semi-darkness, is an interior verandah opening upon an artificial
site; we might suppose it were the bottom of a well; it is a miniature
garden no bigger than the opening of an _oubliette_, overhung on all
sides by the crushing height of the mountain and receiving from on
high but the dim light of dream-land. Nevertheless here is simulated a
great natural ravine in all its wild grandeur: here are caverns,
abrupt rocks, a torrent, a cascade, islands. The trees, dwarfed by a
Japanese process of which we have not the secret, have tiny little
leaves on their decrepit and knotty branches. A pervading hue of the
mossy green of antiquity harmonizes all this medley, which is
undoubtedly centuries old.

Families of gold-fish swim round and round in the clear water, and
tiny tortoises (_jumpers_ probably) sleep upon the granite islands
which are of the same color as their own gray shell.

There are even blue dragon-flies which have ventured to descend,
heaven knows from whence, and alight with quivering wings upon the
miniature water-lilies.

Our friends the bonzes, notwithstanding an unctuousness of manner
thoroughly ecclesiastical, are very ready to laugh,--a simple,
pleased, childish laughter; plump, chubby, shaven and shorn, they
dearly love our French liqueurs and know how to take a joke.

We talk first of one thing and then another. To the tranquil music of
their little cascade, I launch out before them with phrases of the
most erudite Japanese, I try the effect of a few tenses of verbs:
_desideratives, concessives, hypothetics in ba_. Whilst they chat they
dispatch the affairs of the church, the order of services sealed with
complicated seals for inferior pagodas situated in the neighborhood;
or trace little prayers with a cunning paint-brush as medical remedies
to be swallowed as pills by invalids at a distance. With their white
and dimpled hands they play with a fan as cleverly as any woman, and
when we have tasted different native drinks flavored with essences of
flowers, they bring up as a finish a battle of _Benedictine_ or
_Chartreuse_, for they appreciate the liqueurs composed by their
Western colleagues.

When they come on board to return our visits, they by no means disdain
to fasten their great round spectacles on their flat noses in order to
inspect the profane drawings in our illustrated papers, the _Vie
Parisienne_ for instance. And it is even with a certain complacency
that they let their fingers linger upon the pictures which represent
the ladies.

The religious ceremonies in their great temple are magnificent, and to
one of these we are now invited. At the sound of the gong they make
their entrance before the idols with a stately ritual; twenty or
thirty priests officiate in gala costumes, with genuflections,
clapping of hands and movements to and fro, which look like the
figures of some mystic quadrille.

But for all that, let the sanctuary be ever so immense and imposing in
its somber gloom, the idols ever so superb, all seems in Japan but a
mere semblance of grandeur. A hopeless pettiness, an irresistible
feeling of the ludicrous, lies at the bottom of all things.

And then the congregation is not conducive to thoughtful
contemplation, for among it we generally discover some acquaintance:
my mother-in-law, or a cousin, or the woman from the china-shop who
sold us a vase only yesterday. Charming little mousmes,
monkeyish-looking old ladies enter with their smoking-boxes, their
gayly-daubed parasols, their curtsies, their little cries and
exclamations; prattling, complimenting each other, full of restless
movement, and having the greatest difficulty in maintaining a serious
demeanor.

XLI.

_September 3rd_.

Chrysantheme, for the first time, paid me a visit on board ship
to-day, chaperoned by Madame Prune, and followed by my youngest
sister-in-law, Mdlle. La Neige. These ladies had the tranquil manners
of the highest gentility.

In my cabin is a great Buddha on his throne, and before him a lacquer
tray, on which my faithful sailor servant places any small change he
may find lying loose in the pockets of my clothes. Madame Prune, whose
mind is much swayed by mysticism, at once supposed herself before a
regular altar; in the gravest manner possible she addressed a brief
prayer to the god; then, drawing out her purse (which, according to
custom, was attached to her sash behind her back, along with her
little pipe and tobacco-pouch), placed a pious offering in the tray,
while executing a low curtsey.

They remained on their best behavior all through the visit. But when
the moment of departure came, Chrysantheme, who would not go away
without seeing Yves, asked for him with a thinly-veiled persistency
which was remarkable. Yves, for whom I then sent, made himself
particularly charming to her, so much so, that this time I felt a
shade of more serious annoyance; I even asked myself whether the
laughably pitiable ending, which I had hitherto vaguely foreseen,
might not, after all, soon break upon us.

XLII.

_September 4th_.

I met yesterday, in an old and ruined quarter of the town, a perfectly
exquisite mousme, charmingly dressed; a fresh note of color against
the dark background of decayed buildings.

It was quite at the farthest end of Nagasaki, in the most ancient part
of the town. In this region are trees centuries old, ancient temples
of Buddha, of Amiddah, of Benten, or Kwanon, with steep and pompous
roofs; monsters carved in granite sit there in courtyards silent as
the grave, where the grass grows between the paving-stones. This
deserted quarter is traversed by a narrow torrent running in a deep
channel, across which are thrown little curved bridges with granite
balustrades eaten away by lichen. All the objects there wear the
strange grimace, the quaint arrangement familiar to us in the most
antique Japanese drawings.

I walked through it all at the burning hour of midday, and saw not a
soul, unless indeed, through the open windows of the bonze-houses, I
caught sight of some priests, guardians of tombs or sanctuaries,
taking their siesta under their dark-blue gauze nets.

All at once this little mousme appeared, a little above me, just at
the point of the arch of one of these bridges carpeted with gray moss;
she was in full light, in full sunshine, and stood out in brilliant
clearness, like a fairy vision, against the background of old black
temples and deep shadows. She was holding her dress together with one
hand, gathering it close round her ankles to give herself an air of
greater slimness. Over her quaint little head, her round umbrella with
its thousand ribs threw a great halo of blue and red, edged with
black, and an oleander full of flowers growing among the stones of the
bridge spread its glory beside her, bathed, like herself, in the
sunshine. Behind this youthful figure and this flowering shrub all was
blackness. Upon the pretty red and blue parasol great white letters
formed this inscription, much used among the mousmes, and which I
have learned to recognize: _Stop! clouds, to see her pass by_. And it
was really worth the trouble to stop and look at this exquisite little
person, of a type so ideally Japanese.

However, it will not do to stop too long and be ensnared,--it would
only be another take-in. A doll like the rest, evidently, an ornament
for a china shelf, and nothing more. While I gaze at her, I say to
myself that Chrysantheme, appearing in this same place, with this
dress, this play of light, and this aureole of sunshine, would produce
just as delightful an effect.

For Chrysantheme is pretty, there can be no doubt about it. Yesterday
evening, in fact, I positively admired her. It was quite night; we
were returning with the usual escort of little married couples like
our own, from the inevitable tour of the tea-houses and bazaars. While
the other mousmes walked along hand in hand, adorned with new silver
top-knots which they had succeeded in having presented to them, and
amusing themselves with playthings, she, pleading fatigue, followed,
half reclining, in a djin carriage. We had placed beside her great
bunches of flowers destined to fill our vases, late iris and
long-stemmed lotus, the last of the season, already smelling of
autumn. And it was really very pretty to see this Japanese girl in her
little car, lying carelessly among all these water-flowers, lighted by
gleams of ever-changing colors, as they chanced from the lanterns we
met or passed. If, on the evening of my arrival in Japan, any one had
pointed her out to me, and said: "That shall be your mousme," there
cannot be a doubt I should have been charmed. In reality, however, no,
I am not charmed; it is only Chrysantheme, always Chrysantheme,
nothing but Chrysantheme: a mere plaything to laugh at, a little
creature of finical forms and thoughts, that the agency of M.
Kangourou has supplied me with.

XLIII.

In our house, the water used for drinking, making tea, and lesser
washing purposes, is kept in large white china tubs, decorated with
paintings representing blue fish borne along by a swift current
through distorted rushes. In order to keep them cool, the tubs are
placed out of doors on Madame Prune's roof, at a place where we can,
from the top of our projecting balcony, easily reach them by
stretching out the arm. A real godsend for all the thirsty cats in
the neighborhood on the fine summer nights is this corner of the roof
with our bedaubed tubs, and it proves a delightful trysting-place for
them, after all their caterwauling and long solitary rambles on the
top of the walls.

I had thought it my duty to warn Yves the first time he wished to
drink this water.

"Oh!" he replied, rather surprised, "cats do you say? they are not
dirty!"

On this point Chrysantheme and I agree with him: we do not consider
cats as unclean animals, and we do not object to drink after them.

Yves considers Chrysantheme much in the same light. "She is not dirty,
either," he says; and he willingly drinks after her, out of the same
cup, putting her in the same category with the cats.

Well, these china tubs are one of the daily preoccupations of our
household: in the evening, when we return from our walk, after the
clamber up which makes us thirsty, and Madame L'Heure's waffles, which
we have been eating to beguile the way, we always find them empty. It
seems impossible for Madame Prune, or Mdlle. Oyouki, or their young
servant Mdlle. Dede,[J] to have forethought enough to fill them while
it is still daylight. And when we are late in returning home, these
three ladies are asleep, so we are obliged to attend to the business
ourselves.

[Footnote J: _Dede-San_ means "Miss Young Girl," a very common name.]

We must therefore open all the closed doors, put on our boots, and go
down into the garden to draw water.

As Chrysantheme would die of fright all alone in the dark, in the
midst of the trees and buzzing of the insects, I am obliged to
accompany her to the well. For this expedition we require a light, and
must seek among the quantity of lanterns purchased at Madame
Tres-Propre's booth, which have been thrown night after night into the
bottom of one of our little paper closets; but alas, all the candles
are burnt down; I thought as much! Well, we must resolutely take the
first lantern to hand, and stick a fresh candle on the iron point at
the bottom; Chrysantheme puts forth all her strength, the candle
splits, breaks; the mousme pricks her fingers, pouts and whimpers.
Such is the inevitable scene that takes place every evening, and
delays our retiring to rest under the dark blue gauze net for a good
quarter of an hour; while the cicalas on the roof seem to mock us with
their ceaseless song.

All this, which I should find amusing in any one else,--any one I
loved--provokes me in her.

XLIV.

_September 11th_.

A week has passed by peacefully enough, during which I have written
down nothing.

Little by little I am becoming accustomed to my Japanese household, to
the strangeness of the language, costumes, and faces. For the last
three weeks, no letters have arrived from Europe; they have no doubt
miscarried, and their absence contributes, as is usually the case, to
throw a veil of oblivion over the past.

Every day, therefore, I faithfully climb up to my villa, sometimes by
beautiful star-lit nights, sometimes through stormy downpours of rain.
Every morning as the sound of Madame Prune's chanted prayer rises
through the reverberating air, I awake and go down towards the sea, by
the grassy pathways full of dew.

The chief occupation of this Japanese country, seems to be a perpetual
hunt after curios. We sit down on the mattings, in the
antique-sellers' little booths, take a cup of tea with the salesmen,
and rummage with our own hands in the cupboards and chests, where many
a fantastic piece of old rubbish is huddled away. The bargaining,
much discussed, is laughingly carried on for several days, as though
we were trying to play off some excellent little practical joke upon
each other.

I really make a sad abuse of the adjective _little_, I am quite aware
of it, but how can I do otherwise? In describing this country, the
temptation is great to use it ten times in every written line. Little,
finical, affected,--all Japan is contained, both physically and
morally, in these three words.

My purchases are accumulating up there, in my little wood and paper
house; but how much more Japanese it really was, in its bare
emptiness, such as M. Sucre and Madame Prune had conceived it. There
are now many lamps of a religious shape hanging from the ceiling; many
stools and many vases, as many gods and goddesses as in a pagoda.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12