This is the National Fete day of France. In Nagasaki Harbor, all the ships are adorned2 with flags, and salutes3 are fired in our honor.
Alas4! All day long, I can not help thinking of that last fourteenth of July, spent in the deep calm and quiet of my old home, the door shut against all intruders, while the gay crowd roared outside; there I had remained till evening, seated on a bench, shaded by an arbor1 covered with honeysuckle, where, in the bygone days of my childhood’s summers, I used to settle myself with my copybooks and pretend to learn my lessons. Oh, those days when I was supposed to learn my lessons! How my thoughts used to rove — what voyages, what distant lands, what tropical forests did I not behold5 in my dreams! At that time, near the garden-bench, in some of the crevices6 in the stone wall, dwelt many a big, ugly, black spider always on the alert, peeping out of his nook ready to pounce7 upon any giddy fly or wandering centipede. One of my amusements consisted in tickling8 the spiders gently, very gently, with a blade of grass or a cherry-stalk in their webs. Mystified, they would rush out, fancying they had to deal with some sort of prey9, while I would rapidly draw back my hand in disgust. Well, last year, on that fourteenth of July, as I recalled my days of Latin themes and translations, now forever flown, and this game of boyish days, I actually recognized the very same spiders (or at least their daughters), lying in wait in the very same places. Gazing at them, and at the tufts of grass and moss10 around me, a thousand memories of those summers of my early life welled up within me, memories which for years past had lain slumbering11 under this old wall, sheltered by the ivy12 boughs13. While all that is ourselves perpetually changes and passes away, the constancy with which Nature repeats, always in the same manner, her most infinitesimal details, seems a wonderful mystery; the same peculiar14 species of moss grows afresh for centuries on precisely15 the same spot, and the same little insects each summer do the same thing in the same place.
I must admit that this episode of my childhood, and the spiders, have little to do with the story of Chrysanthème. But an incongruous interruption is quite in keeping with the taste of this country; everywhere it is practised, in conversation, in music, even in painting; a landscape painter, for instance, when he has finished a picture of mountains and crags, will not hesitate to draw, in the very middle of the sky, a circle, or a lozenge, or some kind of framework, within which he will represent anything incoherent and inappropriate: a bonze fanning himself, or a lady taking a cup of tea. Nothing is more thoroughly16 Japanese than such digressions, made without the slightest apropos17.
Moreover, if I roused my past memories, it was the better to force myself to notice the difference between that day of July last year, so peacefully spent amid surroundings familiar to me from my earliest infancy18, and my present animated19 life passed in the midst of such a novel world.
To-day, therefore, under the scorching20 midday sun, at two o’clock, three swift-footed djins dragged us at full speed — Yves, Chrysanthème, and myself — in Indian file, each in a little jolting21 cart, to the farther end of Nagasaki, and there deposited us at the foot of some gigantic steps that run straight up the mountain.
These are the granite22 steps leading to the great temple of Osueva, wide enough to give access to a whole regiment23; they are as grand and imposing24 as any work of Babylon or Nineveh, and in complete contrast with all the finical surroundings.
We climb up and up — Chrysanthème listlessly, affecting fatigue25, under her paper parasol painted with pink butterflies on a black ground. As we ascended26, we passed under enormous monastic porticoes27, also in granite of rude and primitive28 style. In truth, these steps and these temple porticoes are the only imposing works that this people has created, and they astonish, for they do not seem Japanese.
We climb still higher. At this sultry hour of the day, from top to bottom of the enormous gray steps, only we three are to be seen; on all that granite there are but the pink butterflies on Chrysanthème’s parasol to give a cheerful and brilliant touch.
We passed through the first temple yard, in which are two white china turrets29, bronze lanterns, and the statue of a large horse in jade30. Then, without pausing at the sanctuary31, we turned to the left, and entered a shady garden, which formed a terrace halfway32 up the hill, at the extremity33 of which was situated34 the Donko-Tchaya — in English, the Teahouse of the Toads35.
This was the place where Chrysanthème had wished to take us. We sat down at a table, under a black linen36 tent decorated with large white letters (of funereal37 aspect), and two laughing ‘mousmes’ hastened to wait upon us.
The word ‘mousme’ means a young girl, or very young woman. It is one of the prettiest words in the Nipponese language; it seems almost as if there were a little pout38 in the very sound — a pretty, taking little pout, such as they put on, and also as if a little pert physiognomy were described by it. I shall often make use of it, knowing none other in our own language that conveys the same meaning.
Some Japanese Watteau must have mapped out this Donko-Tchaya, for it has rather an affected39 air of rurality, though very pretty. It is well shaded, under a shelter of large trees with dense40 foliage41, and a miniature lake close by, the chosen residence of a few toads, has given it its attractive denomination42. Lucky toads, who crawl and croak43 on the finest of moss, in the midst of tiny artificial islets decked with gardenias44 in full bloom. From time to time, one of them informs us of his thoughts by a ‘Couac’, uttered in a deep bass45 croak, infinitely46 more hollow than that of our own toads.
Under the tent of this tea-house, we sit on a sort of balcony jutting47 out from the mountain-side, overhanging from on high the grayish town and its suburbs buried in greenery. Around, above, and beneath us cling and hang, on every possible point, clumps48 of trees and fresh green woods, with the delicate and varying foliage of the temperate49 zone. We can see, at our feet, the deep roadstead, foreshortened and slanting50, diminished in appearance till it looks like a sombre rent in the mass of large green mountains; and farther still, quite low on the black and stagnant51 waters, are the men-of-war, the steamboats and the junks, with flags flying from every mast. Against the dark green, which is the dominant52 shade everywhere, stand out these thousand scraps53 of bunting, emblems55 of the different nationalities, all displayed, all flying in honor of far-distant France. The colors most prevailing56 in this motley assemblage are the white flag with a red ball, emblem54 of the Empire of the Rising Sun, where we now are.
With the exception of three or four ‘mousmes’ at the farther end, who are practising with bows and arrows, we are today the only people in the garden, and the mountain round about is silent.
Having finished her cigarette and her cup of tea, Chrysanthème also wishes to exert her skill; for archery is still held in honor among the young women.
The old man who keeps the range picks out for her his best arrows tipped with white and red feathers — and she takes aim with a serious air. The mark is a circle, traced in the middle of a picture on which is painted, in flat, gray tones, terrifying chimera57 flying through the clouds.
Chrysanthème is certainly an adroit58 markswoman, and we admire her as much as she expected.
Then Yves, who is usually clever at all games of skill, wishes to try his luck, and fails. It is amusing to see her, with her mincing59 ways and smiles, arrange with the tips of her little fingers the sailor’s broad hands, placing them on the bow and the string in order to teach him the proper manner. Never have they seemed to get on so well together, Yves and my doll, and I might even feel anxious, were I less sure of my good brother, and if, moreover, it was not a matter of perfect indifference60 to me.
In the stillness of the garden, amid the balmy peacefulness of these mountains, a loud noise suddenly startles us; a unique, powerful, terrible sound, which is prolonged in infinite metallic61 vibrations62. It begins again, sounding more appalling64: ‘Boum!’ borne to us by the rising wind.
“Nippon Kane!” exclaims Chrysanthème — and she again takes up her brightly feathered arrows. “Nippon Kane (‘the Japanese brass65’); it is the Japanese brass that is sounding!” It is the monstrous66 gong of a monastery67, situated in a suburb beneath us. It is powerful indeed, “the Japanese brass”! When the strokes are ended, when it is no longer heard, a vibration63 seems to linger among the suspended foliage, and a prolonged quiver runs through the air.
I am obliged to admit that Chrysanthème looks very charming shooting her arrows, her figure well bent68 back the better to bend her bow; her loose-hanging sleeves caught up to her shoulders, showing the graceful69 bare arms polished like amber70 and very much the same color. Each arrow whistles by with the rustle71 of a bird’s wing — then a short, sharp little blow is heard, the target is hit, always.
At nightfall, when Chrysanthème has gone up to Diou-djen-dji, we cross, Yves and I, the European concession72, on our way to the ship, to take up our watch till the following day. The cosmopolitan73 quarter, exhaling74 an odor of absinthe, is dressed up with flags, and squibs are being fired off in honor of France. Long lines of djins pass by, dragging, as fast as their naked legs can carry them, the crew of the ‘Triomphante,’ who are shouting and fanning themselves. The Marseillaise is heard everywhere; English sailors are singing it, gutturally, with a dull and slow cadence75 like their own “God Save.” In all the American bars, grinding organs are hammering it with many an odious76 variation and flourish, in order to attract our men.
One amusing recollection comes back to me of that evening. On our return, we had by mistake turned into a street inhabited by a multitude of ladies of doubtful reputation. I can still see that big fellow Yves, struggling with a whole band of tiny little ‘mousmes’ of twelve or fifteen years of age, who barely reached up to his waist, and were pulling him by the sleeves, eager to lead him astray. Astonished and indignant, he repeated, as he extricated77 himself from their clutches, “Oh, this is too much!” so shocked was he at seeing such mere78 babies, so young, so tiny, already so brazen79 and shameless.
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1
arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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salutes
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| n.致敬，欢迎，敬礼( salute的名词复数 )v.欢迎，致敬( salute的第三人称单数 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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pounce
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| n.猛扑；v.猛扑，突然袭击，欣然同意 | |
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tickling
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| 反馈，回授，自旋挠痒法 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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porticoes
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| n.柱廊，（有圆柱的）门廊( portico的名词复数 ) | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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29
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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30
jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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31
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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toads
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆( toad的名词复数 ) | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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41
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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42
denomination
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| n.命名，取名，(度量衡、货币等的)单位 | |
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43
croak
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| vi.嘎嘎叫，发牢骚 | |
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gardenias
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| n.栀子属植物，栀子花( gardenia的名词复数 ) | |
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45
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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48
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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49
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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50
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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51
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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52
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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53
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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54
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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emblems
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| n.象征，标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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56
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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chimera
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| n.神话怪物；梦幻 | |
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adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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62
vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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63
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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64
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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exhaling
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的现在分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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75
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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