ear to
drag a little.

In default of exciting intrigues and tragic adventures, I would fain
have known 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 far-away
suburb. 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 verandah, 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
make-shift of attachment.

XVII.

Always, over, in, and through everything, rises day and night from
this Japanese landscape the song of the cicalas, ceaseless, strident,
and prodigious. It is everywhere, and never-ending, at no matter what
hour of the burning day, what hour of the cool and refreshing night.
In the midst of the roads, as we approached our anchorage, we had
heard it at the same time from the two shores, from both walls of
green mountains. It is wearisome and haunting; it seems to be the
manifestation, the noise expressive of the special 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 upwards, 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, "Han! han! han!" in a key of
sadness, which seems the extreme of painful astonishment. And the
mountains around re-echo their cry.

XVIII.

Yves, Chrysantheme, and little Oyouki have struck up a friendship so
great that it amuses me: I even think, that in my home life, this
intimacy is what affords me the g