ished simplicity of the white
woodwork. I am even losing my Western prejudices; all my preconceived
ideas are this evening evaporating and vanishing; crossing the garden
I have courteously saluted M. Sucre, who was watering his dwarf shrubs
and his deformed flowers; and Madame Prune appears to me a highly
respectable old lady, in whose past there is nothing to criticise.

We shall take no walk to-night; my only wish is to remain stretched
out where I am, listening to the music of my mousme's _chamecen_.

Till now, I have always used the word _guitar_, to avoid exotic terms,
for the abuse of which I have been so reproached. But neither the word
_guitar_ nor _mandolin_ suffices to designate this slender instrument
with its long neck, the high notes of which are shriller than the
voice of the grasshopper; henceforth, I will write _chamecen_.

I will also call my mousme _Kikou, Kikou-San_; this name suits her
better than Chrysantheme, which though translating the sense exactly,
does not preserve the strange-sounding euphony of the original.

I therefore say to Kikou, my wife:

"Play, play on for me; I shall remain here all the evening and listen
to you."

Astonished to find me in so amiable a mood, she requires pressing a
little, and with almost a bitter curve of triumph and disdain about
her lips, she seats herself in the attitude of an idol, raises her
long, dark-colored sleeves, and begins. The first hesitating notes are
murmured faintly and mingle with the music of the insects humming
outside, in the quiet air of the warm and golden twilight. First she
plays slowly, a confused medley of fragments which she does not seem
to remember perfectly, of which one waits for the finish and waits in
vain; while the other girls giggle, inattentive, and regretful of
their interrupted dance. She herself is absent, sulky, as though she
were performing a duty only.

Then by degrees, little by little, it becomes more animated, and the
mousmes begin to listen. Now, tremblingly it grows into a feverish
rapidity, and her gaze has no longer the vacant stare of a doll. Then
the music changes again; in it there is the sighing of the wind, the
hideous laughter of ghouls; tears, heartrending plaints, and her
dilated pupils seem to be directed inwardly in settled gaze on some
indescribable _Japanesery_ within her own soul.

I listen, lying there with eyes half shut, looking out between my
drooping eyelids which are gradually lowering, i