This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of thefile for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making anentire meal of them. D.W.]
By PIERRE LOTI
July 18th.
By this time, four officers of my ship are married like myself, andinhabiting the slopes of the same suburb. This arrangement is quite anordinary occurrence, and is brought about without difficulties, mystery,or danger, through the offices 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 littleCharles N——-'s wife; then Madame Jonquille, who is even merrier thanCampanule, like a young bird, and the daintiest fairy of them all; shehas married X——-, a fair northerner who adores her; they are a lover-like and inseparable pair, the only one that will probably weep when thehour of parting comes. Then Sikou-San with Doctor Y——-; and lastly themidshipman Z——— with the tiny Madame Touki-San, no taller than a boot:thirteen years old at the outside, and already a regular woman, full ofher own importance, a petulant little gossip. In my childhood I wassometimes taken to the Learned Animals Theatre, and I remember a certainMadame de Pompadour, a principal role, filled by a gayly dressed oldmonkey; Touki-San reminds me of her.
In the evening, all these folk usually come and fetch us for a longprocessional walk with lighted lanterns. My wife, more serious, moremelancholy, perhaps even more refined, and belonging, I fancy, to ahigher class, tries when these friends come to us to play the part of thelady of the house. It is comical to see the entry of these ill-matchedpairs, 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 set out, arm in arm, one behind another,and always carrying at the end of our short sticks little white or redpaper lanterns; it is a pretty custom.
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 theslippery slopes, stumble over all the stones, before we shall be able toget home, go to bed, and sleep. We make our descent in the darkness,under the branches, under the foliage, among dark gardens and venerablelittle houses that throw but a faint glimmer on the road; and when themoon is absent or clouded over, our lanterns are by no means unnecessary.
When at last we reach the bottom, suddenly, without transition, we findourselves in the very heart of Nagasaki and its busy throng in a longilluminated street, where vociferating djins hurry along and thousands ofpaper lanterns swing and gleam in the wind. It is life and animation,after the peace of our silent suburb.
Here, decorum requires that we should separate from our wives. All fivetake hold of each others' hands, like a batch of little girls outwalking. We follow them with an air of indifference. Seen from behind,our dolls are really very dainty, with their back hair so tidilyarranged, their tortoiseshell pins so coquettishly placed. They shufflealong, their high wooden clogs making an ugly sound, striving to walkwith their toes turned in, according to th