September 18th.
I had planned to sleep late this morning, in order to make up for my lost sleep of last night.
But behold, at eight o'clock, three persons of the most singular appearance, led by M. Kangourou, present themselves with endless bows at the door of my cabin. They are dressed in long robes bedizened with dark patterns; they have the flowing locks, high foreheads and pallid countenances of persons too exclusively devoted to the fine arts; and, perched on the top of their chignons, they wear sailor hats of English shape stuck jauntily on one side. Under their arms, they carry portfolios filled
with sketches; in their hands, boxes of water-colors, pencils, and, tied together like fasces, a bundle of fine stylets the sharp points of which glitter ostensibly.
At the first glance, even in the bewilderment of waking, I gather from their appearance what their errand is, and guessing with what visitors I have to deal, I say:—"Come in, Messieurs the tattooers!"
These are the specialists most in renown in Nagasaki; I had engaged them two days ago, not knowing that we were about to leave, and since they are come I will not turn them away.
My friendly and intimate relations with primitive man, in Oceania and elsewhere, have imbued me with a deplorable taste for tattoo work; and I had wished to carry away on me, as a curiosity, an ornament, a specimen of the work of the Japanese tattooers, who have a delicacy of finish which is unequaled.
From their albums spread out upon my table I make my choice. There are some remarkably odd designs amongst them, appropriate to the different parts of the human body: emblems for the arms and legs, sprays of roses for the shoulders, great grinning faces for the middle of the back. There are even, to suit the taste of their clients who belong to foreign navies, trophies of arms, American and French flags entwined,
a "God Save the Queen" amid encircling stars, and figures of women taken from Grévin's sketches in the Journal Amusant.