antique bronze monster or a vase of flowers; on the walls hang a few
masterly sketches, vaguely tinted in Indian ink, drawn upon strips of
gray paper most accurately cut but without the slightest attempt at a
frame; this is all: not a seat, not a cushion, not a scrap of
furniture. It is the very acme of studied simplicity, of elegance made
out of nothing, of the most immaculate and incredible cleanliness. And
while following the bonzes through this long suite of empty halls, we
are struck by their contrast with the overflow of knick-knacks
scattered about our rooms in France, and we take a sudden dislike to
the profusion and crowding delighted in at home.

The spot where this silent march of barefooted folk comes to an end,
the spot where we are to seat ourselves in the delightful coolness of
a semi-darkness, is an interior verandah opening upon an artificial
site; we might suppose it were the bottom of a well; it is a miniature
garden no bigger than the opening of an _oubliette_, overhung on all
sides by the crushing height of the mountain and receiving from on
high but the dim light of dream-land. Nevertheless here is simulated a
great natural ravine in all its wild grandeur: here are caverns,
abrupt rocks, a torrent, a cascade, islands. The trees, dwarfed by a
Japanese process of which we have not the secret, have tiny little
leaves on their decrepit and knotty branches. A pervading hue of the
mossy green of antiquity harmonizes all this medley, which is
undoubtedly centuries old.

Families of gold-fish swim round and round in the clear water, and
tiny tortoises (_jumpers_ probably) sleep upon the granite islands
which are of the same color as their own gray shell.

There are even blue dragon-flies which have ventured to descend,