vibrating song of the cicalas that seems to have been stored away within it, in its parched-up fibers, during some hundreds of summers. It does not either convey the impression this place gives of being in a far-off suburb, perched aloft among trees, above the drollest of towns. No, all this cannot be drawn, cannot be expressed, but remains undemonstrable, undefinable.
Having sent out our invitations, we shall in spite of everything, give our tea-party this evening,—a parting tea, therefore, in which we will display as much pomp as possible. It is, moreover, rather my custom to wind up my exotic existences with a fête; in other countries I have done the same.
Besides our usual set, we shall have my mother-in-law, my relatives, and all the mousmés of the neighborhood. But, by an extra Japanese refinement, we shall not admit a single European friend,—not even the amazingly tall one. Yves alone shall be admitted, and even he shall be hidden away in a corner behind some flowers and works of art.
In the last glimmer of twilight, by the first twinkling star, the ladies, with many charming curtseys, make their appearance. Our house is soon full of the little crouching women, with their tiny slit eyes vaguely smiling; their beautifully dressed hair shining like polished ebony;
their fragile bodies lost in the many folds or the exaggerated wide garments, that gape as if ready to drop from their little tapering backs and reveal the exquisite napes of their little necks.
Chrysanthème, with somewhat a melancholy air; my mother-in-law Renoncule, with many affected graces, busy themselves in the midst of the different groups, where ere long the miniature pipes are lighted. Soon there arises a murmuring sound of discreet laughter, expressing nothing, but having a pretty exotic ring about it, and then begins a harmony of pan! pan! pan! sharp, rapid taps against the edges of the finely lacquered smoking-boxes. Pickled and spiced fruits are handed round on trays of quaint and varied shapes. Then transparent china tea-cups, no larger than half an egg-shell, make their appearance, and the ladies are offered a few drops of sugarless tea, poured out of toy kettles, or a sip of saki—(a spirit made from rice which it is the custom to serve hot, in elegantly shaped vases, long-necked like a heron's throat).
Several mousmés execute, one after the other, improvizations on the chamécen. Others sing in sharp high voices hopping about continually, like cicalas in delirium.
Madame Prune, no longer able to make a
mystery of the long-pent up feelings that agitate her, pays me the most marked and tender attentions, and begs my acceptance of a quantity of little souvenirs: an image, a little vase, a little porcelain goddess of the Moon in Satsuma ware, a marvelously grotesque ivory figure;—I tremblingly follow her into the dark corners whither she calls me to give me these presents in a tête-à-tête.
At about nine o'clock, with a silken rustling, arrive the three guéchas in vogue in Nagasaki: Mdlles. Pureté, Orange, and Printemps, whom I have hired at four dollars a head,—an enormous price in this country.