Lacking exciting intrigues and tragic adventures, I wish I knew how to infuse into it a little of the sweet perfumes of the gardens which surround me, something of the gentle warmth of the sunshine, of the shade of these graceful trees.  Love being wanting, I should like it to breathe of the restful tranquillity of this faraway spot.  Then, too, I should like it to reecho the sound of Chrysantheme’s guitar, in which I begin to find a certain charm, for want of something better, in the silence of the lovely summer evenings.

All through these moonlit nights of July, the weather has been calm, luminous, and magnificent.  Ah, what glorious clear nights!  What exquisite roseate tints beneath that wonderful moon, what mystery of blue shadows in the thick tangle of trees!  And, from the heights where stood our veranda, how prettily the town lay sleeping at our feet!

After all, I do not positively detest this little Chrysantheme, and when there is no repugnance on either side, habit turns into a makeshift of attachment.

CHAPTER XVII

THE SONG OF THE CICALA

Forever, throughout everything, rises day and night from the whole country the song of the cicalas, ceaseless, strident, and insistent.  It is everywhere, and never-ending, at no matter what hour of the burning day, or what hour of the refreshing night.  From the harbor, as we approached our anchorage, we had heard it at the same time from both shores, from both walls of green mountains.  It is wearisome and haunting; it seems to be the manifestation, the noise expressive of the kind of life peculiar to this region of the world.  It is the voice of summer in these islands; it is the song of unconscious rejoicing, always content with itself and always appearing to inflate, to rise, in a greater and greater exultation at the sheer happiness of living.

It is to me the noise characteristic of this country—­this, and the cry of the falcon, which had in like manner greeted our entry into Japan.  Over the valleys and the deep bay sail these birds, uttering, from time to time, their three cries, “Ha! ha! ha!” in a key of sadness that seems the extreme of painful astonishment.  And the mountains around reecho their cry.

CHAPTER XVIII

MY FRIEND AND MY DOLL

Chrysantheme, Yves, and little Oyouki have struck up a friendship so intimate that it amuses me.  I even think that in my home life this intimacy is what affords me the greatest entertainment.  They form a contrast which gives rise to the most absurd jokes, and unexpected situations.  He brings into this fragile little paper house his nautical freedom and ease of manner, and his Breton accent; and these tiny mousmes, with affected manners and bird-like voices, small as they are, rule the big fellow as they please; make him eat with chop-sticks; teach him Japanese pigeon-vole, cheat him, and quarrel, and almost die of laughter over it all.