Madame Chrysantheme by Pierre Loti

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There is even a little Shintoist altar, before which Madame Prune has
not been able to restrain her feelings, and before which she has
fallen down and chanted her prayers in her bleating old nanny-goat
voice:

"Wash me clean from all my impurity, oh Ama-Terace-Omi-Kami, as one
washes away uncleanness in the river of Kamo."

Alas for poor Ama-Terace-Omi-Kami to have to wash away the impurities
of Madame Prune! What a tedious and ungrateful task!!

Chrysantheme, who is a Buddhist, prays sometimes in the evening before
lying down; although overcome with sleep, she prays clapping her hands
before the largest of our gilded idols. But she smiles with a childish
disrespect for her Buddha, directly her prayer is ended. I know that
she has also a certain veneration for her _Ottokes_ (the Spirits of
her ancestors), whose rather sumptuous altar is set up at her
mother's, Madame Renoncule's. She asks for their blessings, for
fortune and wisdom.

Who can make out her ideas about the gods, or about death? Does she
possess a soul? Does she think she has one? Her religion is an obscure
chaos of theogonies as old as the world, treasured up out of respect
for ancient customs; and of more recent ideas about the blessed final
annihilation, imported from India at the epoch of our middle ages by
saintly Chinese missionaries. The bonzes themselves are puzzled; what
a muddle, therefore, must not all this become, when jumbled together
in the childish brain of a sleepy mousme?

Two very insignificant episodes have somewhat attached me to
her--(bonds of this kind seldom fail to draw closer in the end). The
first occasion was as follows:--

Madame Prune one day brought forth a relic of her gay youth, a
tortoiseshell comb of rare transparency, one of those combs that it is
good style to place on the summit of the head, lightly poised,
scarcely stuck at all in the air, with all the teeth showing. Taking
it out of a pretty little lacquered box, she held it up in the air and
blinked her eyes, looking through it at the sky--a bright summer
sky--as one does to examine the quality of a precious stone.

"Here is," she said, "an object of great value that you should offer
to your little wife."

My mousme, very much taken by it, admired the clearness of the comb
and its graceful shape.

The lacquered box, however, pleased me most. On the cover was a
wonderful painting in gold on gold, representing a field of rice, seen
very close, on a windy day: a tangle of ears and grass beaten down and
twisted by a terrible squall; here and there, between the distorted
stalks, the muddy earth of the rice-swamp was visible; there were even
little pools of water, produced by bits of the transparent lacquer on
which tiny particles of gold seemed to float about like chaff in a
thick liquid; two or three insects, which required a microscope to be
well seen, were clinging in a terrified manner to the rushes, and the
whole picture was no larger than a woman's hand.

As for Madame Prune's comb, I confess it left me indifferent, and I
turned a deaf ear, thinking it very insignificant and expensive. Then
Chrysantheme answered mournfully:

"No, thank you, I don't want it; take it away, dear Madame Prune."

And at the same time she heaved a deep sigh, full of meaning, which
plainly said:

"He is not so fond of me as all that.--Useless to bother him."

I immediately made the wished-for purchase.

Later on, when Chrysantheme will have become an old monkey like Madame
Prune, with her black teeth and long orisons, she, in her turn, will
retail that comb to some fine lady of a fresh generation.

On another occasion the sun had given me a headache; I lay on the
floor resting my head on my snake-skin pillow. My eyes were dim, and
everything appeared to turn round: the open verandah, the big expanse
of luminous evening sky, and a variety of kites hovering against its
background; I felt myself vibrating painfully to the rhythmical sound
of the cicalas which filled the atmosphere.

She, crouching down by my side, strove to relieve me by a Japanese
process, pressing with all her might on my temples with her little
thumbs and turning them rapidly round, as though she were boring a
hole with a gimlet. She had become quite hot and red over this hard
work, which procured me real comfort, something similar to the dreamy
intoxication of opium.

Then, anxious and fearful lest I should have an attack of fever, she
rolled into a pellet and thrust into my mouth a very efficacious
prayer written on rice-paper, which she carefully kept in the lining
of one of her sleeves.

Well, I swallowed that prayer without a smile, anxious not to hurt her
feelings or shake her funny little faith.

XLV.

To-day, Yves, my mousme and myself went to the best photographer in
Nagasaki, to be taken in a group together.

We shall send the photograph to France. Yves already smiles as he
thinks of his wife's astonishment when she sees Chrysantheme's little
face between us two, and he wonders what explanation he will give her.

"Well, I will just say it is one of your friends, that's all!"

There are, in Japan, photographers in the style of our own, with this
one difference, that they are Japanese, and inhabit Japanese houses.
The one we design to honor to-day carries on his profession in the
suburbs, in that ancient quarter of big trees and gloomy pagodas
where, the other day, I met the pretty little mousme. His signboard,
written in several languages, is stuck up against a wall on the edge
of the little torrent which, rushing down from the green mountain
above, is crossed by many a curved bridge of old granite and lined on
either side by light bamboos or oleanders in full bloom.

It is astonishing and puzzling to find a photographer perched there,
in the very heart of old Japan.

We have come at the wrong moment; there is a file of people at the
door. Long rows of djins' cars are stationed there, awaiting the
customers they have brought, who will all have their turn before us.
The runners, naked and tatooed, carefully combed in sleek bands and
shiny chignons, are chatting together, smoking little pipes, or
bathing their muscular legs in the fresh water of the torrent.

The courtyard is irreproachably Japanese, with its lanterns and dwarf
trees. But the studio where one sits might be in Paris or Pontoise;
the self-same chair in "old oak," the same faded "poufs," plaster
columns and pasteboard rocks.

The people who are being _taken_ at this moment are two ladies of
quality, evidently mother and daughter, who are sitting together for a
cabinet-sized portrait, with accessories of Louis XV. time. A strange
group this, the first great ladies of this country I have seen so
near, with their long aristocratic faces, dull, lifeless, almost gray
by dint of rice-powder, and their mouths painted heart-shape in vivid
carmine. Withal an undeniable look of good breeding that strongly
impresses us, notwithstanding the intrinsic differences of races and
acquired notions.

They scanned Chrysantheme with an obvious look of scorn, although her
costume was as ladylike as their own. For my part, I could not take my
eyes off these two creatures; they captivated me like incomprehensible
things that one had never seen before. Their fragile bodies,
outlandishly graceful in posture, are lost in stiff materials and
redundant sashes, of which the ends droop like tired wings. They make
me think, I know not why, of great rare insects; the extraordinary
patterns on their garments have something of the dark motley of
night-moths. Above all, the mystery of their tiny slits of eyes,
drawn back and up so far that the tight-drawn lids can scarcely open;
the mystery of their expression, which seems to denote inner thoughts
of a silly, vague, complacent absurdity, a world of ideas absolutely
closed to ourselves. And I think as I gaze at them: "How far we are
from this Japanese people! how utterly dissimilar are our races!"

Then we have to let several English sailors pass before us, decked out
in their white drill clothes, fresh, fat and pink like little sugar
figures, who attitudinize in a sheepish manner round the shafts of the
columns.

At last it is our turn; Chrysantheme slowly settles herself in a very
affected style, turning in the points of her toes as much as possible,
according to the fashion.

And on the negative we are shown we look like a supremely ridiculous
little family drawn up in a line by a common photographer at a fair.

XLVI.

_September 13th_.

This evening Yves is off duty three hours earlier than myself; from
time to time this is the case, according to the arrangement of the
watches. On those occasions he lands the first, and goes up to wait
for me at Diou-djen-dji.

From the deck I can see him through the glasses, climbing up the green
mountain path; he walks with a brisk, rapid step, almost running; what
a hurry he seems in to rejoin little Chrysantheme.

When I arrive, at about nine o'clock, I find him seated on the floor,
in the middle of my rooms, with naked torso (this is here a
sufficiently proper costume for private life, I admit). Around him are
grouped Chrysantheme, Oyouki, and Mdlle. Dede the maid, all eagerly
rubbing his back with little blue towels decorated with storks and
humorous subjects.

Good heavens, what can he have been doing to be so hot, and have put
himself in such a state?

He tells me that near our house, a little higher up the mountain, he
has discovered a fencing gallery: that till nightfall he had been
engaged in a fencing bout against Japanese, who fought with two-handed
swords, springing like cats, as is the custom of their country. With
his French method of fencing he had given them a thorough good
drubbing. Upon which, with many a low bow, they had shown him their
admiration by bringing him a quantity of nice little iced things to
drink. All this combined had thrown him into a fearful perspiration.

Ah, very well. Nevertheless this did not quite explain to me.

He is delighted with his evening; intends to go and amuse himself
every day by beating them; he even thinks of taking pupils.

Once his back dried, they all together, the three mousmes and himself,
play at Japanese "_pigeon vole_." Really I could not wish for anything
more innocent, or more correct in every respect.

Charles N---- and Madame Jonquille his wife, arrived unexpectedly at
about ten o'clock. (They were wandering about in the dark shrubberies
in our neighborhood, and, seeing our lights, came up to us.)

They intend to finish the evening at the tea-house "of the Toads," and
they try to induce us to go and drink some iced sherbets with them. It
is at least an hour's walk from here, on the other side of the town,
half way up the hill, in the gardens of the large pagoda dedicated to
Osueva; but they stick to their idea, pretending that in this clear
night and bright moonlight, we shall have a lovely view from the
terrace of the temple.

Lovely, I have no doubt, but we had intended going to bed. However,
be it so, let us go with them.

We hire five djins and five cars down below, in the principal street,
in front of Madame Tres-Propre's shop, who, for this late expedition,
chooses for us her largest round lanterns,--big, red balloons,
decorated with star-fish, seaweed, and green sharks.

It is nearly eleven o'clock when we make our start. In the central
quarters the virtuous Niponese are already closing their little
booths, putting out their lamps, shutting the wooden framework,
drawing their paper panels.

Further on, in the old-fashioned suburban streets, all is shut up long
ago, and our carts roll on through the black night. We cry out to our
djins: "Ayakou! ayakou!" ("Quick! quick!") and they run as hard as
they can, uttering little shrieks, like some merry animal full of wild
gayety. We rush like a whirlwind through the darkness, all five in
Indian file, dashing and jolting over the old uneven flagstones, dimly
lighted up by our red balloons fluttering at the end of their bamboo
stems. From time to time some Niponese, night-capped in his blue
kerchief, opens a window to see who these noisy madcaps can be,
dashing by so rapidly and so late. Or else some faint glimmer, thrown
by us on our passage, discovers the hideous smile of a large stone
animal seated at the gate of a pagoda.

At last we arrive at the foot of Osueva's temple, and, leaving our
djins with our little gigs, we clamber up the gigantic steps,
completely deserted at this hour of the night.

Chrysantheme, who always likes to play the part of a tired little
girl, of a spoilt and pouting child, ascends slowly between Yves and
myself, clinging to our arms.

Jonquille, on the contrary, skips up like a bird, amusing herself by
counting the endless steps:

"Hitots'! F'tats'! Mits'! Yots'!" ("One! two! three! four!") she
exclaims, springing up by a series of little light bounds.

"Itsoots! Mouts'! Nanats! Yats! Kokonots!" ("Five! six! seven! eight!
nine!")

She lays a great stress on the accentuations, as though to make the
numbers sound even more droll.

A little silver aigrette glitters in her beautiful black chignon; her
delicate and graceful figure seems strangely fantastic, and the
darkness that envelops us conceals the fact that her face is almost
ugly, and almost without eyes.

This evening Chrysantheme and Jonquille really look like little
fairies; at certain moments the most insignificant Japanese have this
appearance, by dint of whimsical elegance and ingenious arrangement.

The granite stairs, immense, deserted, uniformly gray under the
nocturnal sky, seem to vanish into the empty space above us, and when
we turn round, to disappear in the depths beneath, to fall with the
dizzy rapidity of a dream into the abyss below. On the sloping steps
the black shadows of the gateways through which we must pass stretch
out inordinately; and the shadows, which seem to be broken at each
projecting step, bear on all their extent the regular creases of a
fan. The porticos stand up separately, rising one above the other;
their wonderful shapes are at once remarkably simple and studiously
affected; their outlines stand out sharp and distinct, having
nevertheless the vague appearance of all very large objects in the
pale moonlight. The curved architraves rise up at each extremity like
two menacing horns, pointing upwards towards the far-off blue canopy
of sky bespangled with stars, as thought they would communicate to the
gods the knowledge they have acquired in the depths of their
foundations from the earth, full of sepulchers and death, which
surrounds them.

We are, indeed, a very small group, lost now in the immensity of the
colossal acclivity as we move onwards, lighted partly by the wan moon
on high, partly by the red lanterns we hold in our hands, ever
floating at the end of their long sticks.

A deep silence reigns in the precincts of the temple, the sound of the
insects even is hushed as we ascend higher. A sort of reverence, a
kind of religious fear steals over us, and, at the same moment, a
delicious coolness suddenly pervades the air, and passes over us.

On entering the courtyard above, we feel a little daunted. Here we
find the horse in jade, and the china turrets. The enclosing walls
make it the more gloomy, and our arrival seems to disturb I know not
what mysterious council held between the spirits of the air and the
visible symbols that are there, chimeras and monsters lit up by the
blue rays of the moon.

We turn to the left, and go through the terraced gardens, to reach the
tea-house "of the Toads," which this evening is our goal; we find it
shut up--expected as much--closed and dark, at this hour! We drum all
together on the door; in the most coaxing tones we call by name the
waiting-maids we know so well: Mdlle. Transparente, Mdlle. Etoile,
Mdlle. Roseematinale, and Mdlle. Marguerite-reine. Not an answer.
Goodbye perfumed sherbets and frosted beans!

In front of the little archery-house, our mousmes suddenly start on
one side, terrified, and declaring that there is a dead body on the
ground. Yes, indeed, someone is lying there. We cautiously examine the
place by the light of our red balloons, carefully held out at arm's
length for fear of this dead man; it is only the marksman, he who on
the 14th of July chose such magnificent arrows for Chrysantheme; and
he sleeps, good man, with his chignon somewhat dishevelled, a sound
sleep, which it would be cruel to disturb.

Let us go to the end of the terrace, contemplate the roadstead at our
feet, and then return home. To-night the harbor looks only like a dark
and sinister rent, which the moonbeams cannot fathom,--a yawning
crevasse opening into the very bowels of the earth, at the bottom of
which lie faint and small glimmers, an assembly of glow-worms in a
ditch--the lights of the different vessels lying at anchor.

XLVII.

It is the middle of the night, somewhere about two in the morning. Our
night-lamps are burning still, a little dimly, in front of our
peaceful idols. Chrysantheme wakes me suddenly, and I turn to look at
her: she has raised herself on one arm, and her face expresses the
most intense terror; she makes me a sign, without daring to speak,
that someone is near, or something, creeping up to us. What ill-timed
visit is this? A feeling of fear gains possession of me also. I have a
rapid impression of some immense unknown danger, in this isolated
spot, in this strange country of which I do not even yet comprehend
the inhabitants and the mysteries. It must be something very
frightful, to hold her there, rooted to the spot, half dead with
fright, she who _does_ comprehend all these things.

It would seem to be outside: it is coming from the garden; with
trembling hand she indicates to me that it will come through the
verandah, over Madame Prune's roof. Certainly, I can hear faint
noises, and they do approach nearer.

I suggest to her:

"_Neko-San?_" ("It is Messrs. the cats?")

"No!" she replies, still terrified and in an alarming tone.

"_Bakemono-Sama?_" ("Is it my lords the ghosts?") I have already the
Japanese habit of expressing myself with excessive politeness.

'No!!" _"Dorobo!!"_("Thieves!!") Thieves! Ah this is better; I much
prefer this to a visit such as I have just been, dreading in the
sudden awakening from sleep: from ghosts or spirits of the dead;
thieves, that is to say, worthy fellows very much alive, and having
undoubtedly, in as much as they are Japanese thieves, faces of the
most meritorious oddity. I am not in the least frightened, now that I
know precisely what to expect, and we will immediately set to work to
ascertain the truth, for something is decidedly moving on Madame
Prune's roof; some one is walking upon it.

I open one of our wooden panels and look out.

I can see only a vast expanse, calm, peaceful, and exquisite under the
full brilliancy of the moonlight; sleeping Japan lulled by the
sonorous song of the grasshoppers is charming indeed to-night, and the
free pure air is delicious to breathe.

Chrysantheme, half hidden behind my shoulder, listens tremblingly,
peering forward to examine the gardens and the roofs with dilated eyes
like a frightened cat. No, nothing! not a thing moves. Here and there
are a few strangely substantial shadows, which at the first glance
were not easy to explain, but which turn out to be real shadows,
thrown by bits of wall, by boughs of trees, and which preserve an
extremely reassuring stillness. Everything seems absolutely tranquil,
and profound silence reigns in the dreamy vagueness which moonlight
sheds over all.

Nothing; nothing to be seen anywhere. It was Messrs, the cats after
all, or perhaps my ladies the owls; sounds increase in volume in the
most amazing manner at night, in this house of ours.

Let us close the panel again carefully, as a measure of prudence, and
then light a lantern and go downstairs to see if there may be any one
hidden in corners, and if the doors are tightly shut: in short, to
reassure Chrysantheme we will go the round of the house.

Behold us then, on tip-toe, searching together every hole and corner
of the house, which, to judge by its foundations, must be very
ancient, notwithstanding the fragile appearance of its panels of white
paper. It contains the blackest of cavities, little vaulted cellars
with worm-eaten beams; cupboards for rice which smell of mould and
decay; mysterious hollows where lies accumulated the dust of
centuries. In the middle of the night, and during a hunt for thieves,
this part of the house, as yet unknown to me, has an ugly look.

Noiselessly we step across the apartment of our landlord and landlady.
Chrysantheme drags me by the hand, and I allow myself to be led.
There they are, sleeping in a row under their blue gauze tent, lighted
by the night-lamps burning before the altars of their ancestors. Ha! I
observe that they are arranged in an order which might give rise to
gossip. First comes Mdlle. Oyouki, very taking in her attitude of
rest. Then Madame Prune, who sleeps with her mouth wide open, showing
her rows of blackened teeth; from her throat arises an intermittent
sound like the grunting of a sow. Oh! poor Madame Prune! how hideous
she is!! Next, M. Sucre, a mere mummy for the time being. And finally,
at his side, last of the row, is their servant, Mdlle. Dede!!!

The gauze hanging over them throws reflections as of the sea upon
them; one might suppose them victims drowned in an aquarium. And
withal the sacred lamps, the altar crowded with strange Shintoist
symbols, give a mock religious air to this family picture.

_Honi soit qui mal y pense_, but why is not that servant-girl rather
laid by the side of her mistresses? Now, when we on the floor above
offer our hospitality to Yves, we are careful to place ourselves under
our mosquito-net in a more correct style.

One corner, which as a last resort we inspect, inspires me with a
certain amount of apprehension. It is a low, mysterious loft, against
the door of which is stuck, as a thing no longer wanted, a very old
pious image: _Kwanon with the thousand arms, and Kwanon with the
horses' head_, seated among clouds and flames, and horrible both of
them to behold, with their spectral grin.

We open the door, and Chrysantheme starts back uttering a fearful cry.
I should have thought the robbers were there, had I not seen a little
grey creature, rapid and noiseless, rush by her and disappear; a young
rat that had been eating rice on the top of a shelf, and, in its
alarm, had dashed in her face.

XLVIII

_September 14th_.

Yves has dropped his silver whistle in the sea, the whistle so
absolutely indispensable for the maneuvers; and we search the town
through all day long, followed by Chrysantheme and Mdlles. La Neige
and La Lune, her sisters, in the endeavor to procure another.

It is, however, very difficult to find such a thing in Nagasaki; above
all, very difficult to explain in Japanese what is a sailor's whistle
of the traditional shape, curved and with a little ball at the end to
modulate the trills and the various sounds of official orders. For
three hours we are sent from shop to shop; at each one they pretend to
understand perfectly what is wanted and trace on tissue-paper, with a
paint-brush, the addresses of the shops where we shall without fail
meet with what we require,--away we go, full of hope, only to
encounter some fresh mystification, till our breathless djins get
quite bewildered.

They understand admirably that we want a thing that will make a noise,
music in short; thereupon they offer us instruments of every and the
most unexpected shape,--squeakers for Punch-and-Judy voices,
dog-whistles, trumpets. Each time it is something more and more
absurd, so that at last we are overcome with uncontrollable fits of
laughter. Last of all, an aged Japanese optician, who assumes a most
knowing air, a look of sublime wisdom, goes off to forage in his back
shop, and brings to light a steam fog-horn, a relic from some wrecked
steamer.

After dinner, the chief event of the evening is a deluge of rain which
takes us by surprise as we leave the tea-houses, on our return from
our fashionable stroll. It so happened that we were a large party,
having with us several mousme guests, and from the moment that the
rain began to fall from the skies, as if out of a watering-pot turned
upside down, the band became disorganized. The mousmes run off, with
birdlike cries, and take refuge under door-ways, in the shops, under
the hoods of the djins.

Then, before long,--when the shops shut up in haste, when the emptied
streets are flooded, and almost black, and the paper lanterns, piteous
objects, wet through and extinguished,--I find myself, I know not how
it happens, flattened against a wall, under the projecting eaves,
alone in the company of Mdlle. Fraise, my cousin, who is crying
bitterly because her fine dress is wet through. And in the noise of
the rain, which is still falling and splashing everything; with the
spouts and gutters, which in the darkness plaintively murmur like
running streams, the town appears to me suddenly an abode of the
gloomiest sadness.

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