We sleep under a gauze mosquito-net of sombre greenish-blue, dark as the
shades of night, stretched out on an orange-colored ribbon. (These are
the traditional colors, and all respectable families of Nagasaki possess
a similar net.) It envelops us like a tent; the mosquitoes and the night-
moths whirl around it.

This sounds very pretty, and written down looks very well. In reality,
however, it is not so; something, I know not what, is lacking, and
everything is very paltry. In other lands, in the delightful isles of
Oceania, in the old, lifeless quarters of Stamboul, it seemed as if mere
words could never express all I felt, and I struggled vainly against my
own inability to render, in human language, the penetrating charm
surrounding me.

Here, on the contrary, words exact and truthful in themselves seem always
too thrilling, too great for the subject; seem to embellish it unduly.
I feel as if I were acting, for my own benefit, some wretchedly trivial
and third-rate comedy; and whenever I try to consider my home in a
serious spirit, the scoffing figure of M. Kangourou rises before me--
the matrimonial agent, to whom I am indebted for my happiness.




CHAPTER IX

MY PLAYTHING

July 12th