hesitation, leaves his tub, holding in his hand his little towel
(invariably blue), to offer the caller a seat, and to exchange with
him some amiable remarks. Nevertheless, neither the mousmés nor the
old ladies gain anything by appearing in this primeval costume. A
Japanese woman, deprived of her long dress and her huge sash with its
pretentious bows, is nothing but a diminutive yellow being, with
crooked legs and flat, unshapely bust; she has no longer a remnant of
her artificial little charms, which have completely disappeared in
company with her costume.

There is yet another hour, at once joyous and melancholy, a little
later when twilight falls, when the sky seems one vast veil of yellow,
against which stand the clear-cut outlines of jagged mountains and
lofty, fantastic pagodas. It is the hour at which, in the labyrinth of
little gray streets down below, the sacred lamps begin to twinkle in
the ever-open houses, in front of the ancestors' altars and the
familiar Buddhas; while outside, darkness creeps over all, and the
thousand and one indentations and peaks of the old roofs are depicted,
as if in black festoons, on the clear golden sky. At this moment,
there suddenly passes over merry, laughing Japan a somber shadow,
strange, weird, a breath of antiquity, of savagery, of something
indefinable, which casts a gloom of sadness. And then the only gayety
that remains is the gayety of the population of young children, of
little mouskos and little mousmés, who spread themselves like a wave
through the streets filled with shadow, as they swarm out from schools
and workshops. On the dark background of all these wooden buildings,
the little blue and scarlet dresses stand out in startling
contrast,--drolly bedizened, drolly draped; and the fine loops of the
sashes, the flowers, the silver or gold top-knots stuck in these baby
chignons, add to the vivid effect.