their appearance from the
tranquil depths of their bonze-house. They are dressed in black crape
and their heads are shaved. Smiling, amiable, full of excuses, they
offer us their hands, and we follow, with our feet bare like theirs,
to the interior of their mysterious dwelling, through a series of
empty rooms spread with mats of the most unimpeachable whiteness.
The successive halls are separated one from the other only by bamboo
curtains of exquisite delicacy, caught back by tassels and cords of red
silk.

The whole wainscoting of the interior is of the same wood, of a pale
yellow shade made with extreme nicety, without the least ornament, the
least carving; everything seems new and unused, as if it had never been
touched by human hand. At distant intervals in this studied bareness,
costly little stools, marvellously inlaid, uphold some antique bronze
monster or a vase of flowers; on the walls hang a few masterly sketches,
vaguely tinted in Indian ink, drawn upon strips of gray paper most
accurately cut but without the slightest attempt at a frame. This is
all: not a seat, not a cushion, not a scrap of furniture. It is the very
acme of studied simplicity, of elegance made out of nothing, of the most
immaculate and incredible cleanliness. And while following the bonzes
through this long suite of empty halls, we are struck by their contrast
with the overflow of knickknacks scattered about our rooms in France,
and we take a sudden dislike to the profusion and crowding delighted in
at home.

The spot where this silent march of barefooted folk comes to an end,
the spot where we are to seat ourselves in the delightful coolness of a
semi-darkness, is an interior veranda opening upon an artificial site.
We might suppose it the bottom of a well; it is a miniature garden no
bigger than the opening of an oubliette, overhung on all sides by the
crushing height of the mountain and receiving from on high but the dim
light of dreamland. Nevertheless, here is simulated a great natural
ravine in all its wild grandeur: here are caverns, abrupt rocks, a
torrent, a cascade, islands. The trees, dwarfed by a Japanese process of
which we have not the secret, have tiny little leaves on their decrepit
and knotty branches. A pervading hue of the mossy green of antiquity
harmonizes all this medley, which is undoubtedly centuries old.

Families of goldfish swim round and round in the clear water, and tiny
tortoises (jumpers probably) sleep up