aden canopy confining us in this
unknown spot; it really seemed as though the complete absence of
perspective inclined one all the better to notice the details of this
tiny corner, muddy and wet, of homely Japan, now lying before our
eyes. The earth was very red. The grasses and wild flowers bordering
the pathway were strange to me;--nevertheless, the palings were
covered with convolvuli like our own, and I recognized in the gardens,
china asters, zinnias, and other familiar flowers. The atmosphere
seemed laden with a curiously complicated odor, something besides the
perfume of the plants and soil, arising no doubt from the human
dwelling-places,--a mingled smell, I fancied, of dried fish and
incense. Not a creature was to be seen; of the inhabitants, of their
homes and life, there was not a vestige, and I might have imagined
myself anywhere in the world.

My djin had fastened up his little cart under a tree, and together we
clambered the steep path on the slippery red soil.

"We are going to the _Garden of Flowers_, are we not?" I inquired,
anxious to ascertain if I had been understood.

"Yes, yes," replied the djin, "it is up there, and quite near."

The road turned, steep banks hemming it in and darkening it. On one
side, it skirted the mountain all covered with a tangle of wet ferns;
on the other appeared a large wooden house almost devoid of apertures
and of evil aspect; it was there that my djin halted.

What, that sinister-looking house was the _Garden of Flowers_? He
assured me that it was, and seemed very sure of the fact. We knocked
at a big door which opened immediately, slipping back in its groove.
Then two funny little women appeared, oldish-looking, but with evident
pretensions to youth: exact types of the figures painted on vases,
with their baby hands and feet.

On catching sight of me, they threw themselves on all fours, their
faces touching the floor. Good gracious! what can be the matter?
Nothing at all, it is only the ceremonious salute to which I am as yet
unaccustomed. They rise, and proceed to take off my boots (one never
keeps on one's shoes in a Japanese house), wiping the bottom of my
trousers and feeling my shoulders to see if I am wet.

What always strikes one on first entering a Japanese dwelling is the
extreme cleanliness, and white and chilling bareness of the rooms.

Over the most irreproachable mattings, without a crease, a line, or a
stain, I am led upstairs to the first story