outside, in the quiet air of the warm and golden twilight. First she
plays slowly, a confused medley of fragments which she does not seem
to remember perfectly, of which one waits for the finish and waits in
vain; while the other girls giggle, inattentive, and regretful of
their interrupted dance. She herself is absent, sulky, as though she
were performing a duty only.

Then by degrees, little by little, it becomes more animated, and the
mousmés begin to listen. Now, tremblingly it grows into a feverish
rapidity, and her gaze has no longer the vacant stare of a doll. Then
the music changes again; in it there is the sighing of the wind, the
hideous laughter of ghouls; tears, heartrending plaints, and her
dilated pupils seem to be directed inwardly in settled gaze on some
indescribable _Japanesery_ within her own soul.

I listen, lying there with eyes half shut, looking out between my
drooping eyelids which are gradually lowering, in involuntary
heaviness, upon the enormous red sun dying away over Nagasaki. I have
a somewhat melancholy feeling that my past life and all other places
in the world are receding from my view and fading away. At this moment
of nightfall I feel almost at home in this corner of Japan, amidst the
gardens of this suburb; I have never had such an impression before.




L.

_September 16th_.